The Administration Series

by Manna Francis
Mind Fuck....3 Unlucky Break....298 Friday....309 Pancakes....318 Surprises....355 Family....402 Mirror Mirror....446 Game, Set....459 As Long As It Lasted....540 Fuck of the Day....552 Wine, Women, and Cushions....556 Playing With Fire....570 All Work And No Play....605 Gee....636 Shopping & Fucking....645 Pool School....685 Without The Game....699 Control....705 Wait For It....794 Caged....823 Unaccustomed As I Am . . . 835 Helen....840 Shopping, No Fucking....853 Losing It....859 Quis Custodiet . . . 880 Gratuitous Kink....1018 Then And Now....1052 Friends In The Right Places....1061 Smoke & Cameras....1078 Sunday....1095 First Against The Wall....1098 Family Values....1399 Boy's Toys....1612 Make It A Surprise....1625

Mind Fuck
Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eightteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One

CHAPTER ONE
The interrogation room was brightly lit and relentlessly white, and had a disinfectant smell that Toreth no longer even noticed. The guards had already delivered the prisoner by the time he arrived; the man sat at the small square table, on a plain metal chair screwed securely to the floor. "Good afternoon." Toreth liked the little irony, although it wasn't often appreciated. The prisoner looked up from his contemplation of the tabletop. He looked very much as he had at their brief meeting earlier, which was to say sullen, angry, and frightened. Toreth stood, impassive, letting his height and the breadth of his shoulders kick off the process of intimidation. Toreth's investigators had reported that the prisoner had put up a good front during his arrest that morning, but to Toreth's practised eye he now looked not far from panic. The incidental tour of I&I's facilities that prisoners enjoyed during processing tended to do that. Like most of the idealist traitors who passed through Toreth's hands, the prisoner had apparently never imagined capture. Idiots, in Toreth's opinion, although it only made them easier to deal with. This one was an interrogation virgin never even been arrested before. It didn't take long before the prisoner looked away again. Toreth brushed a few errant afternooncoffeetime crumbs from his black uniform and sat down across the table from him. A little way away stood a more substantial chair fitted with restraints, and beside it a gurney surrounded by an impressive array of medical equipment. Shelves held racks of bottles and vials, and the narrow bench below them had an equally precise layout of instruments. However, for now they both sat at the table, a spurious equality that did nothing to disguise the dynamics of the relationship between them. That was how Toreth preferred to start things out, although he had a minority opinion on that score. He felt a chance for the prisoner to view the paraphernalia of interrogation neatly laid out was always salutary. Toreth liked to make it clear that a progression to unpleasantness was quite optional at this stage. Many prisoners couldn't bring themselves to make the denials that would send them that short distance across the room to the other chair. Toreth laid a hand screen on the table between them. "My name is Toreth. Senior Parainvestigator Val Toreth, in fact, although I don't particularly care what you call me. I've heard it all before anyway." He noted a flinch as the prisoner quickly understood the implication. Good. It was always easier to work with someone who possessed an imagination. "Now, we already have a quantity of information about your crime." Toreth paged through the documents on the screen, for effect rather than because he needed to read them."You passed on restricted information from the Department of External Security regarding operations to detain wanted resisters attempting to leave Administration territory. We have dates, files, when and how much you were paid. Your partner was most informative, although I'm afraid we will still need to hear everything he told us over again from you." "Go to hell." Unimaginative, and paper-thin bravado. "As it is, there is more than enough information here to see you tried and convicted. And, I may add, executed. However, the Administration prefers things to be tidy. All I wish you to do is confirm

what we have already learned. If you cooperate, execution will become re-education." Not, Toreth had always thought, much of an improvement. However, it got a reaction, a tilt of the head as the prisoner considered the proposal. "I can give you a guarantee of that in writing. I can have it authorised and in the hands of your Department of Justice representative within the hour. Well?" The prisoner shook his head, and Toreth knew it was because he didn't trust his own voice. "Ah, well. A pity." As usual, he meant it. A quick and easy capitulation with no damage to the prisoner always looked good. As Toreth stood up, he made a small bet with himself. "In that case " He gestured towards the chair with the restraints. And because Toreth was very good at his job, he, as usual, won his bet. The prisoner looked towards the chair, and then towards the door, where the two guards stood mutely watching. Then he crumpled in the chair, the remains of his facade of composure dropping away before Toreth's eyes. "What . . . where do you want me to start?" After the guards took the prisoner away, Toreth paged through the draft of the transcript on his screen and smiled. Even Tillotson would have to call this a success. Everything matched up beautifully. Investigation closed. There was still another prisoner from the case to interrogate, if Tillotson was willing to authorise the time, but Toreth knew she wouldn't have any extra information. One of his team could handle it if necessary. Checking his watch improved his mood even further. Only midafternoon. Once he'd told Sara to start processing the transcript for submission to the Justice Department, he could begin the formal case report, and still get to the gym for an hour before he went home. Better yet, now the case was closed he'd be able to finish everything off tomorrow morning and leave work at lunchtime to spend a couple of hours at an almost-relevant seminar he'd spotted. Then he could take the rest of the day off without booking holiday. Sweet, sweet success. He left the interrogation room whistling, cheerfully and persistently half a tone flat, and headed for the lift up to his office, nine floors above.

CHAPTER TWO
The next morning, mist still skulked in shaded hollows and below the trees as Toreth walked to work. Early October, and here and there the leaves were beginning to turn and fall. However, the blue of the sky deepened steadily as the sun climbed, and the day looked set to be beautiful. Before his secondment to the Mars colony, Toreth hadn't truly appreciated how good his life had been. To begin with, despite the fact that someone had felt the need to create a senior para-investigator post there, Mars base had no crime to speak of. Certainly not the political crimes that interested the Investigation and Interrogation Division. Six months of investigating petty anti-Administration comments, on a strictly dry base, amid perpetual safety drills and in the company of the dullest people he had ever met, had taught him to appreciate Earth. When his return shuttle had touched down and the doors opened to let in warm, humid air with a tang of shuttle fuel rather than sterile, recycled dome air he had vowed never to complain about anything again. Now he'd been back for nearly two months, the shine had rubbed off a little, but he still enjoyed the walk in. The Investigation and Interrogation Division Headquarters occupied part of a massive collection of buildings on the outskirts of New London. The Administration had built the entire complex ten years earlier, during the great reorganisation, when they moved various divisions under the umbrella of the new Department of Internal Security. With modern facilities and pleasantly landscaped areas between the buildings, Int-Sec London was noted as a plum posting within the European Administration. Vast as the complex looked, the visible portion was only a part of the whole, which extended below ground, beneath and between the white stone buildings. If you could find your way through the disorienting windowless corridors and if you had the security clearance it was allegedly possible to reach any part of the complex without venturing above ground. The most convenient access to I&I on Toreth's route in happened also to be the main entrance, where a large statue of Blindfold Justice kept watch over a pleasant grassy expanse. There was an early-morning busyness to reception as he worked his way over to the employee lifts and paused briefly for the security scan. Then the noise faded as the lift's door closed and it descended smoothly to the detention facility. Down in detention, the walls were a cool light grey, the hard plastic floor a darker grey. Doors opened and closed by remote control until he reached the vast control room for his habitual morning visit. He could've checked up on his prisoners from his office, but he liked to talk to the security officers on watch. There were always little things which never made it as far as the official logs, and attention to detail frequently paid dividends. Today there was nothing particularly unusual to hear. Six prisoners, relating to three cases, although none was scheduled for interrogation today. He checked the live cell feed on the monitor. His prisoner from yesterday lay curled up on the narrow bed, clearly awake. The records showed he hadn't slept at all well during the night. Probably regretting the deal he had made. Experimentally, Toreth thumbed the door control, letting the door open a few centimetres before he closed it again. On the monitor, the prisoner jerked upright and pressed his back against the wall, fighting for composure.

"Are you interrogating again today, Para?" the officer beside him asked. "You don't have a room booked." "No, just passing through. He's all done. Put him on the midmorning transport back to Justice." ~~~ When the lift up from the detention level stopped, Toreth almost stepped out before he registered the lemon-yellow walls. Only the third floor above ground level, and with no one ready to get in someone pressing all the buttons and taking another lift, no doubt. He stabbed impatiently at the control panel until the lift finally resumed its journey. He should have taken the stairs, except that meant dealing with security doors that were even more irritating. When the lift doors opened, they revealed a pale blue lobby area with wall screens giving directions to the various sections on the fifth-floor level. The new potted plants that Toreth had noticed on Friday were already beginning to droop sadly beneath the artificial lighting. More plants had been installed in the long corridor over to the General Criminal section. Predictably enough, several of the more attractive ones had gone missing already. No doubt there'd be a memo. Toreth's admin, Sara, shared a central open plan area with the admins of the other seniors whose offices opened off it, and for once she was there before him. Seeing him arrive, she waved cheerfully. When he reached her desk, he said, "'Morning." "And a good one." Sara spread her arms. "What do you think?" Trick question, because she was wearing the standard admin uniform of dark grey, with the I&I logo on the shoulder. He scanned her, letting his professional eye for detail pull out an answer. New hairstyle was a good first guess, but her black, glossy hair from the same part-Southeast Asian genes that supplied her dark eyes and the golden cast to her skin was cut in a shoulder-length bob. No change from the last few weeks. That left one other usual thing to try, so he checked her hands. The new ring stood out at once among the collection that adorned her slim hands. The three diamonds were large enough to classify it as an offensive weapon. Third finger of her left hand, too. "You're engaged again?" Her face darkened. "I wish you wouldn't say again like that." "Why not? We both know that finger's just a jumping-off point for one of the others. Have I met this new contributor to the pension plan?" "No, I don't think so. He's . . ." Rings sparkling, she sketched a vague suggestion of height. "It was a bit of a surprise, really. I've not known him that long. And the stones are synthetic. But it's a nice one, don't you think?" "Yeah, lovely." Toreth gave him a month, at the most. "Anything for me?" "Your lucky morning, too not a thing." She was right; in his office, Toreth found no messages, no irate notes, and no compulsory summonses to pointless meetings. Not even anything from his boss, who had an almost psychic ability to ruin his day with a well-targeted memo. It was unusual enough that he checked with Sara. She set to work on the comm, performing her

mysterious admin magic. The unofficial administrative assistant network promptly reported Tillotson as unexpectedly called away from the office for the day. However, after half an hour, he found his good mood evaporating anyway. When Toreth was out in the field, supervising active investigations, he longed for the regular hours and mod cons of the I&I building. Then, when the cases reached the interrogation stage, he missed the excitement and activity of the hunt. However, on balance, he had decided long ago that both phases generated equal amounts of boring paperwork. Fishing in a drawer, he found a packet of slightly furry sugar-free mints. He sucked one slowly as he flipped through the pages on the screen. They contained the verbatim reports of the interrogation. Toreth sighed around the mint. He'd forgotten how boring checking transcripts could be. Normally he didn't bother double-checking the transcripts Sara authorised for transmission to Justice. It wasn't that he didn't trust Sara to do this one right quite the reverse but it was very important that the investigation went well. It had been his first big case since his return to headquarters and he wanted to make sure he'd missed nothing. Still uninspiring stuff, though. Toreth decided he'd do the first half of the record, and then reward himself with an extra biscuit with his coffee. Half an hour passed before someone knocked on the door and opened it without giving him a chance to reply. It proved to be Chevril wearing his jacket indoors, Toreth noted. Probably still showing off the senior's badge now on his shoulder. "'Morning, Chev." "Busy?" Chevril asked. "Yes." Toreth frowned, and then smoothed the expression away. He wasn't actually averse to the interruption, but he'd left instructions with Sara that he wasn't to be disturbed. The diminutive senior strode across the office, brandishing a paper copy of the Journal of the Association of Para-Investigators like a passport. Chevril tended to stride it was the only way he could keep up with most people. "I brought this back. Thanks." He dropped the journal on the desk. "I'm afraid I spilled a bit of coffee on it." All his coffee, by the look of it. "No jobs you fancy?" "Absolutely damn-all interesting. Fits the rest of my life. How are you?" "Fine, actually." Toreth grinned. "Case cracked and on the way back to Justice. Still got a backup prisoner if I need any more details later." Maybe overt cheerfulness would encourage Chevril to go away. However, he didn't seem inclined to leave. Instead, he wandered over to the window, and peered into the enclosed courtyard five floors below. "Palm trees," he said, sounding surprised. "They put them in on Friday. Didn't you notice all the plants up here too?" "Huh. Sprucing the place up for Secretary Turnbull's visit. I bet they take 'em away again the minute she's gone." "Very probably. If there's a leaf left in the building by then." "Are they walking already?" Chevril snorted. "Bunch of bloody thieves there are in this place." There was a brief silence. "Nothing to do?" Toreth asked. He made a note on the interrogation transcript as a half-hearted

suggestion that he, himself, had plenty to do. Chevril, typically, ignored the hint. "Not really. I'm still waiting to get a full team assigned. What's the point of finally getting promoted to senior if I'm stuck doing the same crap as the bloody juniors? I bet you didn't have to wait for your team, did you? If you can remember that far back." Chevril's promotion had happened shortly after Toreth's return from Mars, and the Saga of the Team Assignment had been in progress since. Despite the generous sprinkling of silver in Chevril's dark hair, he was only a month or two older than Toreth they'd joined the Interrogation Division in the same year and later trained together as paras. The disparity between Toreth's notably early promotion and Chevril's much delayed one was yet another of Chevril's regular complaints. Not one that Toreth felt like going over again today. He looked for a diversion. "So what are you doing?" "Filling out request forms for an m-f. The prisoner isn't even here yet, so I don't know why I'm bothering." "Or not bothering, as the case might be." "Too bloody right." Chevril pulled a hand screen from his back pocket, expanded the screen and laid it flat on Toreth's desk. He paged disconsolately through the half-completed form. "I mean, just look at this. Estimated Value of Information Expected. I don't bloody know, do I? If I knew what information she had I wouldn't need to interrogate her, would I?" Toreth sighed. "Look, put 'high strategic value'. Works for me." "I've tried that. Mindfuck bounced the last one as insufficiently detailed." "Well, maybe you should call them Psychoprogramming it puts them in a better mood. Anyway, don't worry. It's a new quarter now, remember? They're always more relaxed at the start of a budget." "They'll bounce it anyway. They're just looking for excuses. They're booked solid with fast-track re-education for resisters, or at least that's what Ange claimed when I asked her. Even Tillotson's favourite blond, blue-eyed boy didn't get a place for his star turn, did he?" Toreth tried to recall the disciplinary penalty for punching a fellow senior para. He didn't know who'd started the rumour that he fucked Tillotson in order to get the best cases, but he'd given up bothering with denials. Like all the best rumours, the truth that Tillotson was chronically heterosexual had done nothing to dispel it. "I was ordered not to apply," Toreth said. "They wanted him on his feet and making sense for the trial. When the m-f screws up, it screws up big time." Toreth unwrapped another mint. They aren't the answer to everything, you know. They won't be putting Interrogation out of work for a long while yet." Stoic philosophy clearly wasn't what Chevril was looking for. "How can they expect us to do a decent job if they won't make the resources available?" he demanded. "M-fs are expensive bits of equipment, especially the new ones." Ostensible reasonableness would be sure to annoy Chevril even further. "And they need trained operators." "So they should train 'em. Instead of wasting their money on designing yet another bloody interdivision request form with yet another set of bloody boxes to fill in." "Write that down and put it in the suggestions file," Toreth said, adding a malicious smile. Chevril rolled his eyes. "Oh, good idea. And then there'd be a machine free tomorrow and I'd be

getting my mind fucked. No, thanks. I'd rather have the bloody paperwork. Just about." He snapped the screen closed and left, stealing a mint from Toreth's desk on the way. Toreth picked up the coffee-stained journal and flicked through it, delaying getting back to work. He was one of the few paras who paid the extra subscription for a paper copy of the JAPI, although he didn't usually read it. The technical articles weren't up to much, and he wasn't interested in the job adverts. Despite this, the adverts were the reason he subscribed. There were always discontented paras looking for a way out of I&I who didn't fancy laying their extradivisional interest open to management scrutiny by reading the JAPI on the system. The paper copy was anonymous, unless you were actually caught with it. As everyone knew that Toreth was there for life, it didn't matter if he had it around. Every week, as soon as the magazine arrived in his office, it was immediately borrowed and circulated until everyone who wanted to see it had done so. The more recent copies made an unread pile near his desk before they migrated to an unread pile by the window and were finally filed by Sara into the recycling system. So he knew, in a general way, which paras were happy and which were looking for something new. Which ones, like Chevril, were long-term whingers who were no more likely to leave than he was himself, and which had developed a new interest in life outside I&I. He had a word with people when they picked up the journal and another word when they brought it back, keeping his finger on the pulse of the division. Very occasionally, he even found things out before they reached Sara via the admin gossip network. In addition, a selection of paras from various sections owed him a low-grade favour, which was always useful. He ran his eye down the coffee-stained pages: I&I postings at sections across Europe, other branches of Int-Sec offering openings for retraining, an assortment of corporate positions of various kinds. Chevril went on endlessly about the joys of corporate contracts, although Toreth had never liked the idea. Nothing, in fact, appealed to him more than where he was right now, boring paperwork or not. Unable to delay any longer, he pushed the journal to one side and dutifully returned his attention to his screen. At least he had the afternoon off to look forward to.

CHAPTER THREE
Toreth leaned back in his chair and listened to the lecture with half-closed eyes. From his seat three-quarters of the way back in the spacious auditorium, he couldn't make out much detail of the speaker beyond dark hair and a smart dark suit. However, he could see most of the rest of the audience: computer scientists, games manufacturers, stock market speculators, and God knew what others, but certainly including he had no doubt people in his line of work. A cross-section of the Administration's New London elite: corporate, research, government, and military Service representatives. Of course, the speaker was one of the leading authorities on the breaking new techniques of fully immersive computer simulations; SimTech was a small corporation, but it was considered the best in the field. The technology was causing excitement in parts of Int-Sec Toreth had heard about the seminar from a colleague with an acquaintance in Psychoprogramming. Something to do with machines that might, among other things, end up putting the personnel in Interrogation out of business altogether. However, Toreth doubted it. Machines could never replace humans in some fields, not even highly sophisticated machines with full-sensorium, interactive sim programs that could convince even the most sceptical and paranoid prisoner of their reality. They'd still need people to run them the personal touch, you could call it. Plus, on a more practical level, he couldn't imagine the department coughing up the money for what would clearly be, for some time to come, staggeringly expensive technology. He had to admit, though it was interesting. Fascinating, even. He found he was a little sorry when the talk ended and the speaker began fielding questions from the audience about the practical applications of the new sim technology. Good voice, Toreth thought. Overarticulates. Sign of a control freak. He smiled. He enjoyed control freaks it gave him something to take away. Currently the man was evading a question from one of the more expensively-dressed audience members about the potential applications of sim machines in Administration leisure centres. The man had rephrased his question twice in the face of the speaker's polite references to confidentiality agreements with corporate partners in the leisure industry. Toreth checked the clock on the wall and wondered if the after-lecture buffet would be as terrible as they usually were. A new voice attracted Toreth's attention. "Are you aware of the recent review in the Journal of Re-education Research which discusses the potential applications of simulation in the field of psychoprogramming?" Toreth's eyes narrowed. Mentioning a restricted-circulation journal in public wasn't a clever move. He looked around for the speaker. There. A university type, earnest and obviously dangerously idealistic. The man continued, with the delightful addition of the academic's touch of distancing himself from a dangerous opinion. "I have heard it described as potentially the most effective tool of oppression since memory blocking." Toreth upgraded his assessment from 'idealism' to 'death wish'. He had far better things to do than report the man but, even in the sheltered university environment, there were doubtless others with both the time and the inclination. Keir Warrick paused to take a sip of water from the glass on the lectern.

"I am afraid that I have no helpful answer to give." He sounded disapproving, although Toreth couldn't tell whether of the question or the questioner. "I am aware of the paper referred to. All I can say is that it is not an area SimTech plans to exploit, but I have no more power over how the technology may be used in the more distant future than I do over the opinions of the questioner's acquaintances." Toreth could well imagine that Doctor Warrick had been over these arguments a hundred times before and was sick of them. The Administration had the power to compel the licensing of new developments to the appropriate departments the balancing factor was that the corporates as a block had the political clout to ensure that the Administration provided substantial compensation. In this case, Toreth could think of half a dozen highly useful applications without even trying; the interdepartmental fighting over budgets would be spectacular. "Do you not consider that there are ethical obligations inherent in the development of new technology?" the idealist asked. Persistent, if not bright. "Certainly," Warrick said evenly. "That is the reason that the university has provided us with the invaluable guidance of an ethics committee." That drew a scattered laugh from the academics present. "However, obligations cannot change commercial realities, as I'm sure you already know. And now " He moved his attention from the man's face, effectively silencing him. " I'm afraid I must bring the questions to a close. Thank you all for your attention today." Appreciative applause followed the lecturer off the stage. ~~~ The food was unexpectedly good excellent, in fact, suggesting it had been provided by SimTech, aiming to impress their guests. Toreth had just completed a sweep of the buffet table when a group beside him walked away and he caught sight of Doctor Warrick, standing only a few metres away, holding a glass of something colourless with ice in it but no plate of food. Attendees ebbed and flowed around them, but for the moment the corporate had no one monopolising his attention. Toreth hadn't had any particular plans to approach the man, but curiosity drew him over. "Excellent lecture, Doctor," Toreth said. The man turned his head. Impassive dark eyes looked at him out of a face dominated by high cheekbones, too much nose, and the most beautiful mouth Toreth had ever seen on a man. Warrick smiled just a little. "Thank you. And you are ?" Toreth hadn't worn the official nametag supplied, so he felt free to lie; the I&I name could be a handicap to casual conversation. "Marcus Toth. Pleased to meet you." "You have an interest in computer sim technology, then. What business are you in?" "Not business, Doctor. Government." Toreth gave the man a smile of his own. "Ah. Are you hoping to license from us, Mr. Toth? If you are, I'm afraid you'll have to make an official approach to SimTech. Or are you simply a civil servant out on a career development activity during his lunch hour?" "I'm neither. Just interested in the topic, that's all." "People are generally interested for a reason." "Of course. It has a bearing on what I do for a living. I fuck minds," Toreth said pleasantly.

"I see." Warrick took a sip of his drink, his expression calculating. "Neurosurgeon? No," he answered himself. "You didn't introduce yourself as Doctor Toth. Socioanalyst, perhaps, if you were more . . ." He thought for a moment, his fascinating smile flickering and dying again. "Arrogant," he said finally. Toreth's smile grew. Lack of arrogance wasn't something he'd been accused of before. Warrick looked Toreth up and down, obviously appraising him with care. "Para-investigator, maybe," Warrick said. Toreth laughed, delighted. "Not even close. I study brain biochemistry, at the Pharmacology Division of the Department of Medical Research. I saw the announcement of your lecture and decided to attend." Toreth leaned closer, glad he'd put in a little research before he came to the seminar. "I read your paper on preliminary computer sim in Neuromanipulation some years ago. Ground-breaking work, Doctor." Warrick tilted his head a fraction, considering. "That journal was not circulated to the general public." "No," said Toreth, giving him a just-enough-teeth smile. "It wasn't." "I see. You fuck minds," Warrick said evenly. He put his glass down on the buffet. Seeing the man with his eyes cast down, his hand stretched out to place the glass on the table, dark hair showing on his forearm where the cuff rode up, the impulse that had led Toreth to initiate the conversation crystallised into something sharper. "Doctor Warrick?" Toreth recognised the man who had introduced Warrick in the lecture a dark-skinned man with a deeply lined face and a dated suit which screamed academic, in contrast to Warrick's corporate smartness. As the two of them talked, Toreth took a step away and fitted his comm in his ear. "Sara," he said. She answered with her usual speed. "Yes, Toreth?" "Find me a room for tonight. Somewhere Marcus Toth would take a corporate." Toreth spoke under his breath the comm's throat microphone was sensitive enough to pick up subvocalized speech from the movement of muscles without any sound being generated. With Toreth turned away from him, even if Warrick looked over he'd have no idea of the conversation happening a couple of meters away. "How about the Renaissance Centre?" Sara asked. "Yeah, that's good." The hotel was one of his favourite fuck venues somewhere expensive enough to make a suitable impression on a minor corporate type, but not so expensive that the accounts department would reject the expenses claim out of hand. The tone of the place was indicated by the real live receptionist he could faintly hear talking to Sara. "They have rooms available," Sara relayed, with the ease of a woman used to handling multiple comm conversations. "And they're discounting, so I can squeeze one of their mid-price rooms through expenses. Shall I book it?" "I'll tell you in a minute." "You will excuse me, I'm sure," Warrick was saying to the academic as Toreth looked back. The

man nodded and withdrew into the crowd. As Warrick started to turn away, Toreth stepped closer and gripped his arm. Through the sleeve of the man's expensive suit, Toreth felt the muscles tense underneath his fingers, and he saw the flicker of surprise in his eyes. Toreth changed his smile to something more appropriately suggestive. "One moment, please." Releasing the doctor's arm, he produced a matte white card from his pocket, wrote the hotel name on it, and held it out. "I'd be interested in continuing our conversation later." Warrick's dark eyes didn't leave Toreth's nor did his face change as he took the card between the first and second fingers of his right hand. A couple of seconds' hesitation, and the card went into his pocket. Then a small nod and Warrick moved off into the milling crowd behind them. "Target acquired," Toreth said, lips barely moving. Sara laughed. "Room 212, west wing. Pick up the card at the desk as usual." Toreth smiled, still watching Warrick's retreating back. "You're a star." ~~~ Toreth had planned a lazy afternoon. However, outside the university building, he summoned a taxi, and in half an hour was back at his desk at I&I. He switched on his computer screen, ran the search on the Data Division security files, and glanced at the summary page: parents Leo and Kate father deceased; one younger sister and an older half-brother; Oxford graduate; first job with the Administration's Data Division; divorced from his wife Melissa seven years ago, with no officially registered relationship since. Toreth called through to Sara for a coffee, and then sat back to read Doctor Keir Warrick's security file. ~~~ Turning the card over in his hand, Warrick stared at the crisply written numerals on the back. It was indeed the number of the Renaissance Centre hotel; a quick call placed earlier in the afternoon had confirmed that a guest by the name of Marcus Toth was registered there. Warrick leaned back and rubbed his eyes. It was late; he'd had a long day, and he was tired. He had much better things to think about than strangers, however attractive. But his mind would not leave it alone. He knew the man had lied to him, though exactly what about he was not certain. Yet, his mind added. One corner of his mouth lifted briefly at the implication. Warrick felt sure that Toth was attracted to him that smooth line about fucking minds was a challenge and the card an obvious come-on. He didn't put much faith in instinct, but in this case every warning bell had been set ringing after only a couple of minutes of conversation. The man might as well have worn a screen from neck to ankles flashing 'Danger!'. Whatever he was, he wasn't a researcher at the Department of Medicine. Warrick smiled at the idea. If more researchers looked like that, or more particularly moved like that, the university wouldn't have so much trouble recruiting Cutting that line of thought dead, he turned his attention to his computer screen and accessed the Administration's civilian files with practised ease. Illegal, of course, but he'd done it often enough to feel safe. He entered 'Marcus Toth', along with a guess for his age, and waited. The computer threw up a complete background check for the man. Warrick scanned through it. Physical description, date and place of birth, parents' names and birthdates, schools attended, degree earned, employment history, credit report all the expected information kept on every citizen by the

Administration. He noted that Toth was thirty-one years old, had a good though not outstanding academic record, a solid work history and no current credit violations. Bland, Warrick thought, and much too ordinary. So probably his previous guess had been right. If he had a ready-to-access false identity at his disposal, Toth was indeed likely to be a para-investigator, or some other Int-Sec denizen. The bastard had laughed when Warrick guessed his real occupation. He'd been pleased. A game. Well, he wasn't the only one who could play games . . . Warrick leaned back in the chair and tried for precisely one minute to persuade himself to let it go. It had been a five-minute encounter with an ethically-challenged Administration minion who had nothing better to do with his afternoon than sniff out new ways of hurting people. And hand out his hotel number to strangers. Absently, he rubbed the place on his arm where Toth had held him. There was no point in doing anything about it. This was a dangerous kind of game to get involved in, particularly right now, when he had so much else to worry about. I want to see him again. He thought that thought exactly once, then put it firmly out of his mind. Then he picked the card up again and contacted the number.

CHAPTER FOUR
When Toreth checked for messages at hotel reception in the morning, he wasn't surprised to find one from Warrick. The content threw him slightly. Come and experience the future of mind fucking for yourself. Then the address of a building at the university, and a time, after lunch. Interesting approach. Toreth caught sight of the receptionist blushing, and imagined the cool voice dictating the message down the comm. Probably spelled out 'fucking' to her, just to make sure it didn't get lost in the transcribing. Toreth considered whether to go in to work. He had only two cases left now, both marked 'interrogation pending'. What that meant in practice was that the prisoners involved occupied valuable cell space while he waited for their Justice reps to pull their fingers out and process the damage waivers. If he went in to I&I, he'd have nothing to do but chase the waivers up through a maze of people who didn't give a damn. Sara could do that without him. This morning promised too much pleasurable anticipation to waste in a futile attempt to speed up the grinding wheels of the Department of Justice. He called Sara to tell her he would be out for the next day or two, but she should call him in if a paperwork miracle occurred or any of the prisoners decided to talk anyway. The latter happened considerably more often than the former; the para-investigators weren't the only ones who suffered under the pressure of bureaucratic delays. ~~~ Toreth spent the morning in the gym. Then he had a light lunch and reached the campus in plenty of time. The SimTech offices and laboratories occupied most of the Artificial Environments Research Centre, a brand-new building set a little apart from the Computing Sciences Department. Toreth looked at the clean, elegant design and the abstract sculptures in the granite-paved area outside, and read corporate money and Administration interest. Plenty of both, if he were any judge. The glass-fronted atrium proved to be as expensively decorated inside as he'd expected from the exterior. He sat in a chair comfortably upholstered in the SimTech grey and blue, whilst the receptionist called through to Warrick and authorised a security badge. With the potential in the sim technology outlined at the talk, the affluence was hardly surprising. I&I would be taking their place in a very long queue. Having a contact here certainly wouldn't hurt. Or at least, if Tillotson queried the expenses, that would make an adequate excuse for spending division money running down a reluctant one-night stand. And the man had been reluctant . . . but not entirely so. Toreth smiled. "Mr Toth? Excuse me, Mr Toth." The receptionist looked annoyed at having to repeat herself. "I'm so sorry." Reflexively, he melted her irritation with a smile. "Miles away." "Doctor Warrick is waiting for you. Security will show you up to the lab." Security proved to be large, professional and uncommunicative. The two of them rode in the lift up to the fifth floor in silence. When the doors opened, Warrick stood waiting. "Nice to see you, Toth." He shook hands, dismissed the guard with a peremptory wave, and

escorted Toreth along the corridor. The tour of the labs wasn't the perfunctory formality Toreth had thought it might be, and also proved rather enjoyable. One-to-one, Warrick was an even more engaging speaker than he had been at the lecture, adept at spotting which parts of the tour his guest found interesting and which to gloss over. However, it was purely business either Toreth had completely misjudged his target, or the man was too deeply in love with the sim to mix work and pleasure. He suspected the latter. Finally, Warrick showed him through a heavy door, with card-controlled access and an iris scanner, into a room containing the sim machines. The room held four chairs, or, more accurately, padded couches. There were indentations for body and limbs, presumably to position them appropriately for the sensors and nerve stimulators within. The rest of the room looked like a stereotypical laboratory, with yards of tangled cables and slot-in components lying on the benches. "I'm afraid I have something to do elsewhere," Warrick said. "It won't take long, and there are a few things for you to get through first here. I hope you won't find it too tedious." Then, with a smile, he left Toreth in the hands of a technician. The preparation took much longer than he expected. The technician explained what he was doing as they went along a body scan to create an accurate physical representation for the sim, neurological baseline measurements and other personal calibrations. Toreth nodded, made interested noises at intervals, and otherwise didn't pay much attention. Eventually, Warrick reappeared. "All done?" he asked the technician, who nodded and then left the room. "Excellent. Take a chair, please." Toreth picked one at random and sat down. "Settle your arms in. Get them comfortable." Toreth did so, and Warrick pulled padded restraints from the sides of the armrests and began to strap his arms down. He didn't pull them anywhere near as tight as Toreth would have done, but then he was dealing with a volunteer, something outside Toreth's expertise. "Why does it need the restraints?" Toreth asked. "I thought I explained all that at the seminar." "Explain it again." "The sim is a kind of dream, to put it very crudely. It feeds sensation in through normal sensory channels via the peripheral nervous system, and also by direct stimulation of the CNS, at the same time masking real-world inputs. Then, under the guidance of the computer, the brain interprets those signals as if they were real." Warrick moved down and began tightening straps across Toreth's legs. "The system should induce sleep paralysis for the duration of the sim, but that part, I'm afraid, still requires fine tuning. Sometimes the body mirrors the movements in the sim and it's possible to cause damage to oneself." "Or to the very expensive machine?" Warrick smiled. "Quite." "Why not just use a muscle relaxant?" Warrick paused, both hands resting lightly on Toreth's thigh. This time the smile was an odd half-curve of the lips, which didn't bring any warmth to his eyes. "System flexibility. We don't have the luxury of assuming potential users will be drugged." He stood and walked round behind Toreth. "Get your head comfortable."

Leaning back into the padded headrest, Toreth moved his neck until he could relax. "All right." Warrick fitted a restraining strap across his forehead. "You aren't at all claustrophobic, are you?" he enquired, and before he even finished the question he lowered the visor. Toreth wasn't claustrophobic, but for a few seconds he seriously considered it as an option. The visor was totally opaque, with heavy padding over his ears. His eyelashes barely brushed against some kind of components right in front of his eyes. The mask stretched down over his entire face, curving round to rest against his throat; he swallowed, feeling the padded edge against his larynx. There was a long moment of silence, then a humming in his ears as sounds returned. "Say 'yes' if you can hear me," Warrick instructed. The sound quality was so good Toreth could hardly believe it was coming over speakers. Then he realised it wasn't it had to be direct nerve induction. "Yes, I hear you," he said. He also heard a door open and close, and then footsteps as someone else entered the room. "Good," Warrick said. "Now, you're about ready so I'll get myself set up. Once we're in the sim you don't need to talk just subvocalize as if you were using any other throat microphone. If you speak out loud, you'll get a slightly strange echo effect in the sim. I'm sure you'll get the hang of it." Warrick's voice had grown softer, and then came back loudly again. The person Toreth had heard enter must have been strapping Warrick into one of the other chairs. "While we're waiting," Warrick said, "I'd like you to choose a word and say it out loud. Some people don't react well to the sim. If you start to feel dizzy, or sick, or if you want out for any reason at all, say the word and the computer will disconnect you automatically and immediately. I suggest you make it something you won't say accidentally." "Chevril," Toreth said clearly. "That was fine. If you do disconnect, you'll find it's possible to slip out of the straps without waiting for the technician to come back. Now, we'll be able to do about half an hour. Longer is perfectly safe, but a first time can have some disorienting side effects, so it's best to stick to thirty minutes or so. Are you ready?" "Yes." There was a long pause. "You have to open your eyes," Warrick said, a touch impatiently. Toreth did so. Then he blinked and a few seconds later realised his mouth was hanging open. Warrick looked thoroughly delighted by his reaction. The other man stood a few feet away from him, and Toreth simply couldn't believe he wasn't real. That everything around them wasn't real. He'd seen the pictures at Warrick's lecture but dismissed them at the time as creative exaggeration. Toreth was sitting in a low chair, in much the same attitude as the sim couch he had been in only moments before. Tentatively, he rose to his feet, the movement so natural that he felt convinced there had to be a trick involved. This couldn't be the sim. He looked round the small room: white walls and floor, no carpet, a few chairs scattered around a square table, a desk underneath a window. Through the window he could see the university campus, autumn sun shining. He been expecting something slightly disconnected, something obviously computer generated, but this was nothing like that. Wonderingly, he reached out and touched the back of a chair. Cool metal felt slick under his fingertips.

"Fucking hell," he said. Warrick grinned. "Not bad, is it? This is a simple test room a copy of a real room on this floor, in fact." He opened the door, revealing a familiar corridor. "If you went out there, you could walk back to the sim suite. But you've seen that already." He walked over to a console set into the desktop and pressed a few buttons. The scene around them blurred and then sharpened into a larger room, something like an old-fashioned private club room, with dark red walls and large comfortable-looking armchairs. Shelves of leather-bound books filled one wall, and there were carpets Toreth could scuff with his shoe, tables with glowing reading lamps, and an old library smell. Warrick stood by the controls, now set into a panel on the wall. Still reeling from the impossible reality of the sim, Toreth tried to think of something to say which sounded even vaguely intelligent. "Is that always there?" he asked, pointing at the control panel. "In a way, yes. But it doesn't have to be visible if it spoils the look of the thing." Warrick waved his hand over the panel and it faded away into the red wallpaper. He snapped his fingers and it returned. Spotting a mirror on the wall, Toreth went over. Half expecting some strange effect, he saw only himself, imperfectly reflected in the antique mottled glass: short blond hair waved back from his forehead, well-defined cheekbones, blue eyes he'd always thought of as one of his best features currently appearing rather wide narrowish chin, and lips he'd prefer to be a little fuller. The usual slight shock of realising that, despite studious use of moisturiser, he was thirty-two, not nineteen. He frowned at the reflection, trying to look a little less overawed by the sim. Warrick appeared behind him in the mirror. "It's just like me," Toreth said, then thought how stupid it sounded. Warrick, however, nodded seriously. "Indeed it is. I had them take a detailed scan. Of course, it's possible to look like anyone in the sim. And be mistaken for them, if one is a good enough mimic." His voice dipped, darkening. "I spend a good deal of time in other people's bodies." Then, as Toreth looked round, he smiled. "Please, take a seat." Toreth sat down carefully, feeling the springs give slightly beneath his weight, and ran his hands over the fabric of the arms. "I can't believe it," he said, almost involuntarily. Judging by the widening smile, his reaction was clearly everything Warrick could have wished. Obviously showing off, he clapped his hands, and a tray holding two glasses of something clear and fizzy appeared in the air beside him. He took the tray and set it down on a table. "Here, have a drink." He proffered a glass. Toreth took it, pausing to brush a finger down the side. Beaded condensation ran at his touch and he watched a drip splash onto his leg. Except, of course, it didn't. The sim had fed the tiny impact and small, spreading chill directly into the nerves. He touched the spot, acutely aware of the separate sensations making up the simple gesture. "Go on," Warrick said. When Toreth took a sip, he discovered it was gin and tonic the flavour was wonderfully real. He felt the cold liquid in his mouth and all the way down his throat. "That's amazing." Toreth was beginning to get annoyed with himself for sounding so

overwhelmed, but it was pretty fantastic. He took another mouthful, licking the drops from his lips, marvelling at the fizz on his tongue. Worth a trip here, even if the demo was all he got out of it. However, judging by the meditative way Warrick was watching him drink, it wouldn't be. Warrick took a taste from his own glass. "Won't get you drunk, either, which is good or bad depending on how you look at it. I want to put in a controlled ethanol release eventually, but unfortunately all the pharmaceutical add-ons are still in testing. Stand up." "Why?" "Because I'm going to shift the scene and it makes some people queasy if they start out seated and end up standing. It's an inner ear problem." Toreth stood and waited as Warrick returned to the controls. "Now, this one we're very proud of. Not my personal work, but . . ." The glasses vanished from their hands as the walls dissolved away completely to reveal a vast expanse of water meadow. They stood at the foot of a long gentle slope leading up to a distant treetopped ridge, dark against the vivid blue sky that arched over them. Elsewhere, the flat meadow stretched away until it finally shimmered into a summer heat-haze. "Jesus fucking Christ," Toreth said, giving up any attempt at intelligent comment. Warrick laughed. "Beautiful, isn't it?" "Is there anything you can't do?" "Not a great deal, although there is plenty we haven't done yet. This is one of our more ambitious rooms. Come on." They started to stroll through the meadow, following a faint path. "We have relatively few outdoor scenes so far. This, a beach I'm afraid I won't have time to show you, a few places around the city mostly on the campus because it's easy to take the measurements to create them. There is an experimental live shadowing program which covers a small area outside the AERC what you see there should be exactly what happens in the real world. Then there is a good deal of the inside of the AERC we're working on techniques for generating basic suites quickly from plans and photographs. And we have a number of more characterful indoor rooms, to keep the sponsors happy." Listening with half an ear to Warrick's dark, rich voice, Toreth took a deep breath, savouring the air. It was warm and heavy with the scent of sun-drenched flowers. Bees hummed lazily past them and a soft lapping of water sounded from the river-bank a few yards away. The illusion was perfect, and he said so. "Not quite. This room reaches the limits of the hardware it exists primarily to test techniques for pushing the boundaries without impairing the user experience." Warrick pointed up the slope. "Notice how the rippling of the grass blurs with distance? 'Over there', as it were, we're modelling sections of grass, not individual blades. Also, the trees at the top ought to move more irregularly. And the clouds just drift; they don't break up and reform. Tricks like that allow us to dedicate more processing power to making the physical interaction point look and feel real." Warrick knelt down and stroked a clump of sedge, as if it were a particularly beloved pet. "See? Alive and a little damp; authentic dampness is really quite difficult." Toreth knelt beside him and buried his hands in a thick, soft tangle of grass and flowers. Petals crumpled in his fist, then slowly uncreased themselves after he let go. Telling himself that they were purely an artefact of clever electronics made them feel not one whit less actual. He imagined taking prisoners into something this real. Everything that happened to them could

be an illusion and they would never know. There was nothing he wouldn't be able to do to them, over and over again. When he tuned in again, Warrick was still involved in his technical explanation. "And beyond that, the interactive tactile simulation is highly accurate. That's even more processor intensive, since it requires the computer to translate actions between objects it doesn't control. Let me show you." Warrick reached over and ran his virtual hand lightly down Toreth's back. "Didn't that feel real?" Toreth nodded. "And what about pain?" he asked. Warrick held his gaze for a moment, then stood up and turned back to the control panel, here hanging disconcertingly in mid-air. "Not in this program." "But it can be done?" "Yes, of course. Don't worry, you can report back that it would all be extremely useful for your purposes, if they could afford it." "My purposes?" "Interrogation." Flat voice, eyes intent on the console. "I'm a " "Para-investigator. That's what you told me." "No, I didn't." "Not quite in so many words, no. But you told me you rape minds." "I said, 'I fuck minds,' I think you'll find." Warrick shrugged. "It's all in the inflection, really." "So what do you think about my inflection?" The strange half-smile again, this time in flattering profile. "I think you probably can't tell the difference any more." He knew before he invited me here, Toreth thought. He's known all along and he's disgusted by the idea of what I do, but he's still interested. The realisation brought a sharp stab of excitement. He loved to see people wanting to do things they thought they shouldn't. He was about to speak when the meadow began to blur around him. "I think you might like this next one," Warrick said. "It's a special favourite of mine." The change from kneeling to standing, without conscious movement, did make him dizzy for a moment, but it passed before he felt any need to use the escape word. Toreth looked around the new room, noting how his vision adjusted instantly from the dazzling meadow to the now-dim light. It was a historical curiosity, a bedroom from centuries back, with dark wood-panelled walls and heavy wooden furniture. Uneven floorboards creaked a little under foot when he shifted his weight. Dominating the room was a vast four-poster bed, with tied-back curtains matching the rugs and tapestries. It was probably the largest bed Toreth had ever seen in his life. Very subtle. He examined the details of the room. Smoke-darkened pictures hung on the walls between the tapestries. On one wall, mullioned windows leaded with small, thick diamonds of glass showed only blackness beyond night-time, or perhaps simply nothingness, and he wondered briefly what the edge of the sim world would be like. An ornate golden clock over the fireplace struck Toreth as a little anachronistic, given the rest of

the decor. The low, crackling fire filled the air with the scent of wood smoke. There was another odd, almost sweet tang in the air, which probably came from the candles burning in various metal holders. Candelabras, he recalled from somewhere. He wondered if the smell was authentic and if so how the hell he smelt it, since to the best of his knowledge he'd never experienced anything like it. He asked Warrick. "Ah, you noticed? Observant of you. Yes, I can't guarantee the smell is precisely as you would personally perceive beeswax candles. But it's averaged from a number of real-life perceptions. We hope to improve the technique, but for the moment the system feeds it directly into your brain; we have to do that for all the more exotic experiences." There was a definite edge to that last comment, which Toreth chose to ignore for the moment. "So the sim affects brain function directly, not just through sensory input?" "Didn't I say so in the lecture? Perhaps I was a little overtechnical. It's so hard to judge how to pitch an open talk." The control panel still hung in mid-space. Warrick returned to it and started some more complicated piece of programming. "The brain can be controlled extensively, and quite safely. If you give me a moment, I'll show you. There. Lift your hand." Toreth struggled to do so and found he couldn't even move his fingers, never mind raise his arm. The rest of his body was equally immobile. All he could do was breathe, blink, and speak. "What the hell?" "That's a simple disconnect between input and output. Rather coarse, although the control can be finer." Suddenly Toreth could move his head again, although his body below the neck remained frozen. "The senses are open to fine control too, of course." More work on the controls, and the left hemisphere of Toreth's vision simply blanked out. A few seconds later his remaining vision switched into monochrome, inverted, and then the world returned to normal. If Warrick thought he was going to scare him into using the code word to get out of the sim, he was sadly mistaken. "Very impressive," Toreth said levelly. "Why, thank you." Warrick left the controls, which slowly faded away, and went to lean against the post at the foot of the bed. Toreth had to look round to follow him, because he was still rooted to the spot. Warrick had apparently decided to forget this, and Toreth was damned if he'd remind him. "In fact," Warrick continued, "a lot of the truly impressive work is done by the brain. Integrating the signals, smoothing out the imperfections. It's a remarkably flexible organ. And it works both ways. With practice it's possible to train the brain to maximally exploit the sim environment." "Yeah?" "Very much so. For example . . ." As far as he could see, the man didn't move a centimetre. But suddenly Toreth felt a hand trace a path down his chest from his collar-bone to his navel, the smooth palm brushing distinctly against naked skin. He looked down sharply, but he was still fully clothed. "How the hell did you do that?" "I imagined doing it." The hand returned and retraced the same path, more slowly. "The convention of moving the

physical representation within the sim is purely that a convention. With practice, intent alone is sufficient. Practice, and a little creative programming." Warrick's voice never wavered from his lecturing tones. A second hand now joined the first, stroking gently up the backs of Toreth's thighs. The experience was utterly real and bizarre beyond belief. The hands kept moving and once or twice he caught Warrick's own hands twitching in unison with their invisible representatives. Warrick's eyes were hot and intent, watching his face for every reaction. Toreth felt himself starting to shake, even though the tremors didn't affect his paralysed body. He looked away, trying to gain control of himself. This wasn't at all how things were supposed to happen. A third hand briefly cupped his face, turning his head back. Warrick was squinting slightly with concentration, and then the extra hand vanished. "Damn. I can never keep that going for long. An internal visualisation problem, I suspect." Warrick was overarticulating beautifully. "More hands would be so useful, don't you think?" Both remaining hands were now concentrating their attentions on his thighs and groin, making it very difficult to shape any kind of answer at all. "I think " What felt distinctly like a tongue ran teasingly down the join between leg and body. He tried for humour. "I think you'll need them to fight off interested corporates. Not to mention the Administration." "Mm." Warrick's face darkened and the sensations vanished. Quite without meaning to Toreth made a small sound of protest and Warrick's scowl slid back into the half-smile, which was more a mask than an expression of emotion. "Sorry. Lost the thread. Where was I?" Now he could feel illusory lips passing right through his equally illusory clothes. The mouth ghosted across his chest, drawing an involuntary gasp as a tongue lapped gently at his nipple. How the hell was it possible for the man to imagine doing something like that vividly enough to make it so real? Lots of practice, he'd said, and wasn't that a nice job? Hazily, he tried to send a thought in return, something to even up the score in the game between them, but if he could have managed it under normal conditions, he was defeated now. The mouth was everywhere, biting, kissing, and licking all over, everywhere except where he really wanted it. He had the feeling no, he was certain that Warrick wanted him to ask for it. His mind flashed back to the lecture and he thought: control freak. Oh, yes. However, Toreth wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. He gritted his teeth against the need and looked down at himself, trying to make it feel less real by showing his mind that there was no one there, that he was completely clothed, that there was nothing . . . A hand he couldn't see slid round his body and took hold of the base of his cock, which, in some weird reality, was erect and accessible. The endless, tormenting touch of the lips had stopped. He swallowed, waiting for what had to happen next, unable to hold back the moan when the mouth closed around him. The mouth and hand began a slow rhythm. He didn't look at Warrick, he didn't try to struggle against the paralysis; he didn't couldn't do anything except stand where he was and accept what was being done to him. Fuck it, Toreth decided. Hadn't he come to the lab expecting sex of some kind? Enjoy what was happening. Time passed, in slowly building ecstasy. He found himself panting, reaching for the orgasm,

wanting it and yet not wanting it and . . . then the mouth was gone. There was not even a feeling of withdrawal the exquisite sensations simply vanished. "Ah, no, don't stop, don't " He bit off the words, drew in a ragged breath. Warrick's mocking smile was still locked in place. For the past few minutes, Toreth had managed to forget that he was immobilised. Now he felt helpless again helpless and humiliated because he'd lost even the pretence of self-control. Then Warrick's mouth twitched slightly and the tongue came back, licking, teasing. He closed his eyes, gave up resisting. "Yes. Yes, please . . ." That was enough, because the mouth and hand returned in earnest, working quickly now. Invisible fingers gripped one hip tightly, which was pointless since he couldn't move, couldn't twist away, couldn't thrust, couldn't do anything except gasp out further humiliating pleas. After a minute, he opened his eyes again and saw Warrick still unmoving, still watching him with burning intensity. Fucking control freak indeed, but Toreth was far past caring. Their eyes locked and Warrick swallowed once, twice, and Toreth came really came into the virtual mouth. When his vision cleared, Warrick still hadn't shifted from his station against the bedpost. Toreth didn't want to ask, but he had to because Warrick looked like he was willing to wait until the end of the world. "Would you, please . . ." Warrick snapped his fingers and the console appeared again, this time moulding itself neatly onto the table beside the bed. He sat down on the edge of the mattress and made a few passes over the controls. Suddenly Toreth's body was back under his control mostly. He made it to the bed before his legs gave out. He flopped down flat on his back and, distantly, admired the realistic drape of the curtains above as they swayed and settled back. Endorphin high, he thought, annoyed by how good it felt. "You've got no fucking room to talk," he said after a moment. "About what?" "Not being able to tell the difference between rape and fucking." Warrick was still busy over the console. "Oh, no, I know the difference. That was fucking. If you thought otherwise you should have stopped it." "Stopped it? I couldn't move!" Warrick looked round, the smile reaching his eyes this time. "All you had to do was say the word." Toreth realised what he meant even before Warrick elaborated. "The code word." The code word. He'd completely forgotten . . . and yet he hadn't forgotten, not really, not for a minute. Game, set and fucking match. He lay there, unable, for one of the few times in his life, to think of anything to say. Then the clock on the mantelpiece began a soft, complicated chime. "Ah." Warrick stood. "Time's up." ~~~ Warrick escorted him out of the building; apparently security was only required for the way in. The first part of the walk passed in silence, but as the lift descended, Toreth began to feel a slow burn of anger building. No one did that to him. No one.

"Thank you for the demo," Toreth said as the lift door opened onto reception. He kept his voice light, casual. "My pleasure. Are you quite sure you wouldn't like to get a drink in the cafeteria? The coffee is tolerable." Toreth shook his head. "I need to get back to the hotel . . . and change, amongst other things." Warrick laughed. "Of course. Well, it was a most enjoyable afternoon and a welcome distraction from the mounds of paperwork in my office." They reached the outer door. "Goodbye." That had a very final ring to it. Toreth made it a rule to never do the chasing or at least for it never to look as if he were but he couldn't let this go. He'd comprehensively lost this round, and they both knew it. "I think I got rather more out of the experience than you did." "Not at all," Warrick demurred. "It provided some useful data." Data? He was not fucking data. "Let me buy you dinner. The Renaissance Centre, eight o'clock this evening?" Toreth saw him starting to form the refusal. "I'd like to pay you back," he added, and the edge in his voice wasn't entirely deliberate. Warrick stopped, his hand on the door, his lips still parted on the beginning of a 'no'. Got him, Toreth thought. Can't resist an open challenge. The sardonic mouth curved into a smile. "Why not?"

CHAPTER FIVE
Toreth took a long, hot shower, and then sat in his room wearing just a towel, bumping up his next expenses claim with the contents of the minibar. He poured a drink, noting absently how very convincing the gin in the sim had been. He could still be inside, and he would have no way of knowing. After a few minutes of trying to come up with a definitive test for reality, he decided to abandon incipient paranoia and work on more immediate problems. Dinner tonight all arranged and settled and already he was tempted to send a message cancelling the whole thing. Dinner had seemed like such a good idea at the time, when Warrick walked him to the door of the AERC, relishing his victory with every step and bland word. In fact, it had been tempting simply to punch him in the face right there and walk off. However, that would have been cheap and easy. Worse, it would only have increased the score in Warrick's favour. Revenge required more than that, and dinner was the first step to getting it. He would see Warrick again, and he would come up with some way of demonstrating to him exactly how experienced professionals played mind games. Something to wipe that smile off his face and teach the bastard a lesson he'd take to his grave. The only problem was that his experienced professional mind was drawing a complete blank on how. On the way back to the hotel, he had run through a very satisfying scenario involving drugs from work, a set of handcuffs and a prolonged and nasty rape. Or, given the mood he was in by the time he'd finished polishing the details, short and nasty. He'd elaborated upon it in the shower, then discarded the fantasy to concentrate on finding something practical. Warrick had the kind of prestigious position that made him an impossibly dangerous victim for anything overt. Apart from some fairly outrageous expenses claims (a semi-official perk for senior paras), Toreth didn't, by and large, do anything illegal. He saw the consequences every day at work. A bruised ego was hardly sufficient reason to risk prison or worse. More importantly, it was too unimaginative, almost pedestrian, after the experience in the sim. Worst of all, Warrick would win again. However much he screamed (and he would scream the part of Toreth's mind that didn't want to drop the fantasy added a gag to the list of props required), it wouldn't change that basic fact. Toreth would have resorted to force to get what Warrick had managed to enjoy without. So. What exactly had Warrick done? He'd humiliated Toreth completely. He'd made him lose every shred of self-control. He'd made him beg, and then keep begging for more after that. He'd stood at a safe distance and watched every detail on Toreth's face while it happened. For God's sake, he'd even told him what he planned to do in the message he'd left at the hotel. And he'd made sure Toreth had a way out for the entire time. Every second of the sim, a single word would have dropped him back into the real world. Two easy syllables, and Toreth hadn't said them, even though nothing had prevented him from it. As far as he could remember, he'd never been unable to speak; in fact, thinking back, Warrick had never even touched his mouth. Not with fingers or lips. Which meant, of course, that Toreth had gone along with it. He'd wanted it. That wasn't like him at all. He didn't play that kind of game. All his preferred positions were on

top, in charge and in control. He didn't get off at all on the idea of being tied up. Except that Warrick had done far worse than just tie him up and he had enjoyed it. He had to admit that to himself, much as it didn't mesh with his cherished self-image. Absent-mindedly, he topped up his glass, caught a spill that ran down the neck of the bottle and licked his thumb. Would sucking a disembodied finger feel real? Probably. Everything else had been very real. Kissing disembodied lips would be extremely peculiar, although it would solve the problem of noses getting in the way. Warrick's well-shaped mouth had been one of the first things Toreth had noticed about him, back at the buffet after the lecture. That and his extraordinary dark voice . . . Toreth realised that he had wandered rather a long way from the subject in hand. Specifically, revenge. He reviewed his options. Part of his mind still stood by the drug-him-and-rape-him fantasy-plan, impossible as it was. Another part suggested cancelling the meal and forgetting about the whole experience as quickly as possible. And he was horrified to discover that a treacherous but insistent little voice advocated turning on the charm over some expense-account wine, persuading Warrick to come up to his room, and then the two of them fucking like amphetamine-crazed mink until they both passed out cold. Of the three options, the last one sounded like by far the most fun, and that with a man who had as good as said that he despised him. He sighed, and opened a second miniature bottle of spirits. His self-image was having a wonderful day. Then the answer hit him. There was a simple, safe and logical response. Warrick had screwed with his self-image, so he would screw with Warrick's. Go to dinner and find out something about Warrick he could use. Something the man wanted without even knowing it, without daring to acknowledge it. Something dark and dirty. And then give it to him, gift-wrapped, for him to enjoy. ~~~ Half an hour after he had escorted his guest from the premises, Warrick lay at full stretch in the white marble bath. Blowing scraps of bubble-bath foam into the air from his hand, he admired the rainbow play of light as they floated back down. Another tricky simulation problem beautifully cracked. Set flush with the floor, the round bath almost a pool was large and deep enough to have a submerged ledge for sitting on all round the circumference. Warrick preferred to float, held in place and supported by invisible cushions. The rest of the expansive bathroom was silvery-grey marble, with fluted columns and niches holding oil lamps. Peaceful and good for thinking in, it was one of his favourite sim rooms. He heard a noise from a small cabinet by the side of the bath. Feeling too lazy to move, he concentrated on the catch, his fingers twitching slightly. The cabinet opened, and a dozen yellow plastic ducks in assorted sizes spilled out over the floor. The largest of them sprouted stubby legs and wings, righted itself, and waddled over to plop into the bath. It paddled busily through the foam, bumping into the smooth marble sides, and Warrick watched it with a slight frown. Someone had been at the artificial life programming suite again. Not that he minded in fact, he encouraged it but it had been careless to leave this installed. Corporate sponsors on a surprise visit might not be impressed by the abuse of their very expensive facilities. He caught the duck and turned it over. It quacked protestingly, and then stopped when he stroked its smooth belly. Nice touch. The legs were rather good as well. Letting the duck go, he watched as it

disappeared under a mound of bubbles. He must find out who'd created it, and apply a little carrot and stick. Not too much stick, though. That would require a fair dose of hypocrisy, considering that he had cancelled a fluid dynamics test this very afternoon in order to mind-fuck a stranger whose name he didn't even know. A scandalous waste of sim time and he would have been furious to catch any of the others doing it. Still, the fuck, mental or not, had worked out well. Not surprising, since the deck had been unfairly stacked in his favour, but that was the way he preferred to play any game. Especially with dangerous opponents. Accepting the invitation to dinner had been a silly mistake, but one easily corrected by a message left at the hotel. Time to call a halt while he had a decisive victory to his credit. The duck bumped into the edge of the bath, corrected its course, and circled for a while. Its collisions with the edges were now far less frequent, he noted. Not a bad little learning algorithm. He pushed a wave of water towards the duck, setting it spinning, and laughed. Hypocrisy aside, he'd had a good afternoon. To start with, he loved showing people round his sim. ('His sim'. In a formal sense, Warrick acknowledged the large team behind the project. But, in his heart, it was his alone.) God, he loved to see visitors' faces when they first looked round the meadow or the coral reef, and Toth had appreciated it. At least, he amended, Toth had appreciated it to begin with. Then he'd turned a coldly professional eye on it. Just a particularly unsavoury example from an endless procession of Administration vultures, picking over his creation for their sordid little purposes. Warrick fully intended to resist as long as possible, and to make them pay dearly. However, in the long term, they would no doubt take it away and cut corners, rip out features, and cripple it until all its beauty was gone and it became a cheap, mass-produced tool. A tool of oppression, as that suicidal idiot had said in the lecture. Warrick didn't object to the idea of the sim generating profit he hoped to profit extensively himself but he intensely disliked the idea of the uses the sim would be put to in somewhere like the Investigation and Interrogation Division. If Toth's reaction hadn't been so obvious, Warrick might not have gone through with his little scene in the bedroom. On reflection, he'd never done anything quite like that before. Oh, he'd shown personal guests round various sims, and he'd even abused the expensive facilities from time to time. Nothing, however, so deliberate and, well, cruel. Not, Warrick told himself, that he'd done anything wrong. Toth could have stopped the sim any time he wanted to. He hadn't, so he'd enjoyed it. But had he been frightened, too? Perhaps a little. A little afraid and a lot out of control. That was something in the sim reality Warrick couldn't duplicate for himself. He knew intimately how very safe it was. He'd designed it that way, and that was how he'd always liked it. Still, he felt an unexpected touch of envy at the unattainable experience. How had it felt to be so controlled? Held there, so absolutely in another's power. Old fantasies stirred, unexpectedly revived. It must have been . . . He stretched out in the warm water and thought about what he'd done, how he'd constructed the encounter. He'd enjoyed doing it, which was perhaps a little disconcerting. At the time he'd been concentrating too hard to appreciate it fully, but now, replaying the scene in his mind, it brought a flush of arousal the man's face had been so responsive. It would be good to see that again, to watch his eyes while he came.

Maybe he wouldn't cancel dinner after all. The thought startled him. What he had done in the sim was one thing; it had been under his control and, above all, perfectly safe. It would be stark raving insanity even to consider doing anything with Toth in the real world. The man, whoever he was, tortured people to death for a living. However, he had to admit that it had been a long time since he'd felt this intrigued by the idea of having someone outside the sim. Inside the sim, everything was so perfect, so pleasant, that he had lost interest in that aspect of the world outside. 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.

CHAPTER SIX
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. When Warrick took the first mouthful of meat, he closed his eyes, chewing carefully and thoroughly before swallowing. Opening his eyes, he saw Toreth watching him. He smiled, unperturbed to find himself observed. "It is good?" Toreth enquired. "Quite excellent. Would you like to try some?" Without waiting for a reply, he cut off a thin slice, picked it up with his fingers, dipped it into the Bearnaise sauce and offered it across the table. Toreth hesitated for a fraction of a second, wondering, 'mouth or fingers?', then took it in his mouth. Slick fingers brushed his lips and he caught a fingertip with his tongue before the brief contact withdrew. Warrick licked his finger and thumb, and then wiped them on the napkin. Toreth just about remembered to chew. The virtually raw flesh tasted sweet and salty. "It is good?" Warrick asked, exactly matching Toreth's earlier tone. "Yes, ah, excellent." Warrick nodded, and returned his attention to his plate. That certainly settled Toreth's lingering doubts about what Warrick wanted, in general terms. All he had to do now was convince him that he would be safe. Warrick decided against dessert, and Toreth didn't like sweet things anyway. They settled for

after-dinner drinks and coffees. As the waiter delivered the drinks, Warrick's napkin slipped from his lap. There was a tiny confusion as he bent down, and the waiter did the same. That was all it took for Toreth to reach across the table and drip a single drop from a vial into Warrick's glass. It was nothing very exotic. A little something to combine with the alcohol, which was a drug in any case, and spread a little happiness. An extra cushion of relaxation and acceptance. It was cheating, as Toreth readily acknowledged, but then Warrick himself had hardly played fair in the sim. The bill came to a respectable total. Accounts would give him hell about this. Toreth gave his room number and the waiter withdrew. Time to go for the question they had been hedging round all evening. "Would you like to come up to my room?" Toreth asked. Warrick laughed incredulously. "Excuse me for asking a rather obvious question, but do you think I'm insane?" Slightly taken aback by the directness of the answer, Toreth shook his head. "Ah, stupid, then. Neither of which, I'm afraid, is true." Warrick eyed him assessingly. "You are, what, half a head taller than me? And a good few kilos heavier, all of which is muscle." Toreth recognised the flattery slipped so casually into the conversation again, but, buoyed by half a bottle of wine plus extras, he enjoyed it anyway. "So insanity or stupidity would be required for me to place myself in a situation alone with you." Warrick took another sip of his drink, savoured the flavour for a moment. "And in any case, I don't sleep with torturers, Administration-approved or not." Toreth blinked. Pretty fucking comprehensive putdown. Warrick tipped his head back and drained the last drops from his glass. "At least, I try not to make a habit of it." Or not so comprehensive. Testing his reactions again, probably. Toreth said evenly, "I wasn't planning to hurt you." That got a sharp glance and Toreth had a sudden impulse to add, 'unless you'd like me to'. However, that would have been too much. Instead, he spread his hands. "It would be stupid of me to even think about it, wouldn't it? You know who I am." A meditative pause, pretending to come up with an idea he must have had long before. "I'll tell you what," Warrick said slowly. "If you do something for me, I shall reconsider the proposal." Reconsider, not agree to. "What?" "Tell me what you felt in the sim." "I already did." "You know what I mean." Toreth thought about it. What would Warrick want to hear? What would make him agree? What would he know to be a lie? He looked round the restaurant. "Here?" "We could adjourn to the bar, if you would prefer. There are some quiet corners." ~~~ They strolled to the bar, Warrick keeping a clear distance between them, and settled into an alcove, taking separate armchairs rather than one of the small sofas. Warrick crossed his legs, rested his elbows on the arms of the chair.

"Well?" "I enjoyed it." Start with honesty, but not too much. See where this was going. Somewhere interesting, he was sure Warrick had clearly put a lot of thought into the question. "And?" "And I enjoyed it. That's it. What else do you want to hear? A minute-by-minute account?" "Maybe. But you're lying, anyway. If that was all there was to it, you wouldn't have wanted to call it rape, or felt there was a need and I quote 'to pay me back'." Warrick checked his watch. "Well, it's been a nice evening, but . . . ." He started to stand up. Toreth knew this wasn't a bluff. "All right." Warrick scrutinised him, then sank back into the deep leather chair. Toreth kept his words low. "You know what I felt. Code word or not, you trapped me and you humiliated me." He shied away from the vivid memory of his own pleading voice from the sim. "You took away my control and you made me beg you to fuck me." Warrick's eyes were locked with his, flickering heat, and his lips had parted a fraction. That's what he wants, Toreth realised triumphantly. He wants what he did to me, or something very close to that. Now, how could he make Warrick ask for it? "You did exactly what you meant to," he continued. "It was the whole point of inviting me you said as much in the message. You know it worked. Why ask?" Warrick ignored the question and pulled himself back together. "So why invite me here?" "Because, like you said, I was angry enough to want some kind of payback for it." "And now?" It was like talking his way through a minefield. "Now I'm not so sure." "Mm. 'Not sure'." Warrick shook his head. "That doesn't strike me as a sound basis for spending time alone with you." "All right. I'll tell you how you can help me make up my mind." "Well?" Warrick was all attention now. He wants it, Toreth thought. Really wants it. All Toreth needed to do was ease the way to surrender, and give Warrick an illusion of safety he could believe in. "Apologise to me," Toreth said. Warrick stared at him, licked his lips once. "What?" "Apologise to me. It's not that difficult, is it?" Warrick shook his head, but apparently it was. "I'm sorry," he said at length. Toreth started to speak but Warrick held his hand up. "I am sorry. 'Familiarity breeds contempt', I think the saying is. Sometimes we forget that just because the sim is physically safe, it doesn't mean that it can't hurt. I went too far. If I distressed you, I apologise." Toreth thought it was the most beautifully unapologetic apology he had ever heard. "Apology accepted. Now . . ." he said, pulling the pause out, " . . . what can I do in return?" Silence, and Toreth smiled. His catch was hooked, and only barely still resisting the pull to the net. "Very well, in that case let me guess. Something like the sim, but not quite. Changing places. Losing control for a little while. And some danger just enough to give it an edge." His smile slipped into something almost predatory. "A different kind of game."

Warrick stared at him, as if hypnotised, then nodded slowly. "That's . . . a good guess." "I read people for a living," Toreth said casually, and relished the delightful contradiction of the grimace of distaste on Warrick's mouth and the sharpening of desire in his eyes. God, he loved being right. ~~~ Hypnotised was how Warrick felt, walking through the hotel corridors past people who had no idea of where they were going or what they were about to do. Not surprising, since neither did he, and for some reason that didn't make him as wary as he knew it ought. A feeling of unreality smothered the apprehension. Toreth walked beside him, humming out of key, not looking at him. They reached room 212, and stopped outside. Toreth swiped the keycard and held the door open, waiting for Warrick to go through first. Dimmed lights came up automatically as he stepped inside and the door closed behind them with a decisive click. An ordinary hotel room with the usual layout and fittings, details he didn't seem to be able to focus on. He still felt caught in a dream, senses dulled except for a sharp awareness of scents. He caught the smell of shampoo and aftershave, reinforced as Toreth walked past him to lean on the back of an armchair. Warrick waited, seconds passing in building anticipation. "Strip," Toreth ordered. Warrick did so, silently, shivering in the warm air. Toreth watched, making no move to undress. "Mmm." He walked round behind Warrick and moved to stand pressed up against him. Warrick felt fabric touching him from shoulder to ankle, and he wanted it to be skin. Toreth bent down and Warrick felt his lips right against his ear. "Pick a word," he murmured. Warrick blanked completely for a moment, and then said, "Plastic duck." Toreth laughed, and he felt it all down the length of his body. "All right. 'Plastic duck' it is." Toreth moved back, walking round to stand in front of Warrick. "Close your eyes." "Why?" Too fast for Warrick to react, Toreth slapped him across the face, rocking his head back and bringing a heat to his cheek that set off an echoing flash of warmth in his stomach. "Close your eyes," Toreth repeated calmly. Warrick obeyed. The handprint still glowed on his skin, each finger distinct. He felt himself hardening, the tell-tale response out of his control. "You liked that?" Toreth started to move round him again, touching, rough and gentle, pain and pleasure, oddly impersonal and intensely arousing. "What else do you like, I wonder? Do you want me to fuck you? Not that I care whether you want it I'm going to do it anyway. You were right to think twice about coming up here with me. Still think you made the right choice?" Every so often, the touching stopped, and Warrick heard him undressing. However, it never stopped for long, and the words not at all. By the time Toreth stepped away, Warrick had lost all sense of place or time. There was only himself, in the dark, breathing fast and shallow as his heart raced to keep up.

"Give me your hands." Instant obedience this time, and Toreth took Warrick's wrists in his hands, squeezing tightly to complete the circle. "You can open your eyes." When he did so, the first things he saw were his own hands, trapped by Toreth's, and he found he couldn't look away. The single point of contact between them captured his whole attention everything else seemed distant and insubstantial. His pulse tripped against Toreth's fingers, blood humming with alcohol and desire and . . . something else? Had Toreth slipped something into his drink after all? Did it matter, now? Then Toreth spoke and the thought was lost. "No handcuffs, I'm afraid," he said. "If you'd let me know what you liked, I'd have brought something from work." Warrick felt a fleeting rush of the real apprehension he'd experienced earlier in the evening. Then Toreth smiled. "But I don't need chains, anyway. Not for you." With that, Toreth pulled him forwards and wrestled him down onto the bed. Warrick fought back, for real at first because of the surprise. However, Toreth had professional experience of restraining the unwilling, so Warrick's resistance posed him no problem at all. They finished up with Warrick pinned face-up underneath, struggles limited to fruitless writhing which felt so good it quickly began to take the edge off the fantasy of force. "I don't need chains," Toreth repeated, "because you'll do what you're told anyway, won't you?" Warrick nodded, too breathless to speak. "Good." Then Toreth kissed him full on the mouth, not kindly, and in fact hard enough to bruise. Real bruises, Warrick thought distractedly. Something people would see at SimTech tomorrow. The idea of tomorrow, of sitting in his office with this as a memory to relive, was almost as exciting as the hard body on top of him. Toreth knelt up, straddling Warrick's thighs. "Turn over, then keep still." He lifted his hand again when Warrick hesitated. "Do it." The threat was thrill enough and Warrick turned obediently, shivering at the rubbing of skin against skin where their thighs touched. Toreth planted his knee firmly in the small of Warrick's back. It pressed him down into the bed as Toreth leaned over, knocking things over on the bedside table and swearing under his breath. Warrick felt a fleeting hint of annoyance at the brief interruption. In the sim, he could think anything he wanted directly to hand. In fact, in the sim, they wouldn't need lubricant at all. This was why the real world had lost The shock of the cold gel made him squirm away, even though he didn't want to. Toreth lay down again, half on him and half on the bed but still pinning him tight. His fingers tangled in Warrick's hair, pulled his head round. "Keep still, or I'll break your fucking neck," Toreth whispered right in his ear. Warrick did, clenching his hands on the sheet because, depending on how caught up in the fantasy Toreth had become, this might hurt. In fact, it was just a finger, and a not ungentle finger at that. That might have broken the spell except for the low stream of words hot against his ear, whispered threats and promises that squirmed down his spine. Two fingers, working into him harder, a little uncomfortable because he was out of practice at this in the real world years out of practice.

It was the discomfort, undeniably actual, that tore away the last of the cocooning sense of unreality, twisting his nerves to a higher pitch of arousal. He was really here, really alone with this dangerous, desirable man who knew how to hurt, how to kill, how to take whatever he wanted without hesitation or compassion. Now he was wriggling, wanting more, forgetting to fight. Then the fingers were gone and the rough voice said, "I want to hear you ask for it." Oh, God, yes. Warrick shook his head, as best he could. The hand in his hair tightened and he shivered. Toreth's other hand gripped his right wrist, strong fingers digging into his tendons. "Ask for it." "Bastard. Ah!" Toreth twisted his arm up behind his back, sending a flare of pain through him, shockingly arousing. He'd never thought "Ask." He wanted to keep it going longer, but he couldn't. It was too real. Too perfectly real to bear. "Yes. Please, yes." "Please yes, what? I want to hear it." "Fuck me." "Again." Barely forcing the words past the excitement threatening to choke him, Warrick gasped, "F fuck me." The weight shifted, pinning him more completely to the bed. Toreth untangled his fingers from his hair and slipped his hand round to cover his mouth. "Don't want you screaming," he murmured in a voice that made it clear that was exactly the opposite of what he did want. Warrick closed his eyes tightly, dizzied with desire and anticipation. Toreth's other hand held his hip as he pushed slowly, slowly into him. "Does it hurt?" Warrick shook his head emphatically. "Yes," he whimpered into the fingers pressed against his lips. "Good." He started to struggle again until Toreth took his hand away from his mouth and caught both his wrists, pinning them above his head. It was perfect, as perfect as anything in the sim and yet it wasn't, and the imperfections only made it better. His arms stretched out harder than he would have thought he wanted; a too-hard bite in his shoulder; the two of them moving perfectly together, then losing the rhythm for a few seconds and the sweet relief as they caught it again. All the distant details the sim would never have generated or would have smoothed away: footsteps in the corridor, vehicles passing outside. In the sim, his mind controlled the world around him; here, even his self-control was slipping helplessly away. Too much detail, too much sensation, leaving him shuddering with the intensity. For a weird, disconnected moment, a still-lucid part of his mind began to shape the idea into a project proposal. 'Imperfections in the sensory modalities as a technique for enhancing the experience of fucking . . . being fucked . . . being fucked ' Then Toreth thrust into him hard and froze, his fingers digging in painfully. Warrick gasped, half from pain, half from need.

"Don't stop!" Toreth laughed thickly. "Very " He cleared his throat and started again. "Very good. But I want something else." He began to rock his hips slowly, and Warrick couldn't stop a moan escaping. "What?" he managed. "Anything. Please." Toreth released his wrists, twining his fingers in his hair again. "Touch yourself. I want to watch you make yourself come." Warrick didn't move, not because he didn't want to but because for a moment he simply couldn't make his shaking body obey him. Toreth grabbed his hand, forced it down, and then briefly halted to rearrange their bodies. In the sim, they wouldn't need to, but before Warrick could begin to shape the thought, Toreth's hand closed over his, wrapping his fingers round his cock and making him gasp at his own touch. "Do it. Yes, that's right. I want to watch you." He forced Warrick's head around for another kiss. "I want to see your eyes." Toreth's fingers interleaved with his, urging him to make his strokes tighter and faster. As he did so Toreth started to thrust into him again, deliciously hard and deep and everything was too good, too imperfectly perfect, to last any longer. At the last moment he closed his eyes and turned his head away, screaming into the mattress as he came. ~~~ When he felt like paying attention to the world again, he found Toreth sitting cross-legged on the bed beside him. Warrick rolled over onto his back and looked up at him. Toreth smiled. "What do you think about my inflection now?" Warrick stared at him until his mind finally dredged up the reference. "Perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect. Emphasis on the fucking." "Good." He got up and went off to the bathroom, whistling. Warrick watched him walk across the room, muscles sharply defined under smooth skin. First thing tomorrow, he thought, I'm finding the gym at the university and signing up. Having an office job was clearly no excuse. Then the implications of the thought sickened him. Just like any other job. Except Toreth's job left him adept at knowing how far to push, how much pain to use and how to read the response to it. And, God, he'd loved it. Loved every minute of it, knowing who and what he was. What those hands did for a living. It's just a fantasy, he told himself. And it was just once. Just this once. Never again. Never, never again. ~~~ Toreth stood under the hot shower and decided it had gone remarkably well. He'd count it as a draw. Warrick was still probably ahead on points, but in this kind of game the score degraded quickly, and the last round was the one that really counted. Right about now Warrick would be thinking about what he had done, and who he had done it with. How much he'd liked it. Very enjoyable it had been, too. A little overcautious in places, but that was only to be expected with an obvious amateur. Unusually, he found he wouldn't mind doing it again. Eventually. Sometime in the future when Warrick had had plenty of time to think about wanting it. He'd wait until Warrick

contacted him. Watching the water run over his hands, he wondered if Warrick would be able to get them any more time in the sim. Toreth turned his face up to the spray and pondered the potential applications. Once back in the bedroom, he listened to the splashing water as Warrick showered, and tried to decide whether to pack up and go home or spend the night at the hotel. In the end, he decided to stay. Since he was paying for it or at least they were his euros until accounts reimbursed them he might as well enjoy it, even if the sheets were a bit of a mess. He could get a swim in before work and he loved hotel breakfasts. Warrick had taken his clothes into the bathroom and emerged fully dressed, if a little tousled. Toreth thought he was going to walk straight out which would have been fine with him but he stopped by the door. "Well, that was fun," Warrick said, his half-smile mask in place. Toreth matched the smile, decided to test out his victory. "Yes. See you again?" Warrick considered for a moment too long before he turned away without reply. The door closed behind him, and Toreth laughed.

CHAPTER SEVEN
Next morning, Sara was once more already at her screen when he arrived. Toreth stopped on the way into his office and sat on the edge of her desk. "In bright and early, I see." She nodded, absolutely serious. "It's because I love my job so much." "Incidentally, aren't the annual performance appraisals the week after next?" Sara grinned. "I'd completely forgotten. I'll get the forms ready for you." They both knew she had nothing to worry about. Although she had a somewhat idiosyncratic approach to timekeeping, she was a damn good admin and his main problem was fighting off attempts by other paras to poach her. Sara looked him up and down. "Good day off?" "Not bad." "Do anything fun?" she enquired, in a tone which effortlessly translated the question into 'anyone fun'? He grinned. "Weird and wonderful. I'll tell you all about it later. Have I got any messages?" "Just one important one. Tillotson wants to see you as soon as you're in. He didn't say what about but he didn't sound happy that you'd taken the time off without him seeing a holiday request." Toreth made a rude noise and opened his office door wide enough to throw his jacket onto his desk. "Get me a coffee, will you, Sara? With luck, I won't be too long." He hoped the summons wasn't just over his taking holiday without approval; unfortunately, his immediate superior was exactly the kind of bureaucratic obsessive who would kick up a fuss over something so petty. ~~~ When he arrived, Tillotson's door was wide open, and he could see the ginger-haired head of section watching the reception area. When he saw Toreth, he beckoned him in at once. Toreth waited to see how the opening of the meeting would go. When Tillotson decided to elicit confessions of illegitimate time off or expense account fiddling, he tended to go in for heavy-handed hints and verbal traps. A direct question meant his mind was on a different track. "You were supposed to be at a seminar the day before yesterday," Tillotson asked, after waving him irritably to take a seat. "Did you go?" A promising start. "Yes. Computer sim technology. Psychoprogramming are very keen on it, so I thought I'd take a look, see what the fuss is about." "Who was the speaker?" "A Doctor Keir Warrick." Tillotson nodded. "Did you understand the seminar?" "Some of it," he admitted cautiously. "It was very interesting." That clearly pleased Tillotson, so he added, "I got myself a guided tour of the lab yesterday."

"Good. Excellent, in fact. You've got a new case." Toreth relaxed. Tillotson obviously hadn't found out anything about the last couple of days. "I have prisoners " "Your team interrogators can deal with them. There was a death last night at this Doctor Warrick's corporation. Here." He held out a hand screen, and Toreth took it, as the seconds in which he should have declared a personal involvement came and went. He wanted to hear about the case and anyway, as far as he was concerned, two fucks one of which wasn't even real didn't constitute an involvement. Skimming the file, he went straight to the important part: the victim's political status. The girl had been a graduate student working in the AERC laboratories. No valuable discoveries to her credit, no history of involvement with dissidents, nothing at all to merit I&I attention. Last of all, he looked at the name and biographical details. Kelly Jarvis, which rang no bells. No important family connections, either. "Why are we interested?" Toreth asked. "Because of the other file on there." Toreth skipped to the next document, checking the name first this time. He whistled softly. Jon Teffera, co-owner of LiveCorp and its many subsidiaries. No need to look in the file for the reasons I&I were interested in him. A senior corporate, known for the number and variety of his Administration friends, was definitely more I&I's province than a lowly graduate student. Toreth recalled that Teffera's death had been reported in the news, with a bland, natural-causes explanation he'd wondered about at the time. What was the connection to SimTech? A glance at the file provided the answer, but also a puzzle. "Found dead in his sim couch? I didn't think they were for sale yet." "They aren't, except to corporate sponsors of the project and their close, influential friends." Tillotson checked on his screen. "The full list of who owns them should be in the file somewhere. I'd like you to make sure it's accurate, though." "Of course, good idea," Toreth said, even though that had been the first thing he'd thought of. Something else occurred to him, and he double-checked the date on the Teffera file. "Why has it taken so long to get to us?" Tillotson's sharp nose twitched, a sign of irritation. "The Justice Department has been sitting on it. They called Teffera's death corporate sabotage, and then changed their minds to natural causes. This morning, some European Legislature admin was at the . . . what is it?" "Artificial Environments Research Centre?" "Yes. He arrived for an early morning meeting just after the student's body was found. He knew about Teffera and he started pulling strings before Justice turned up." "Name of this good citizen?" "Keilholtz. He's a personal assistant to one of the Legislators it's all in the file." Tillotson's way of saying 'get out there and get on with it'. "I have authority?" "Yes. Justice are still on the scene. Kick them out, and be as rude as you like. Or maybe leave that until we have all their files. Take as many people as you think you need. I've sent out a priority for this to the whole department; if anyone doesn't cooperate with you, let me know. I want it dealt

with and closed quickly." Toreth left, grinning. A juicy case and a priority order on the resources to solve it. Chevril would be sick when he found out. Back in his office, he drank cooling coffee and gave Sara an outline of the case, running through lists of things to do and people to get hold of. Then, leaving the arrangements in her capable hands, Toreth left to stake out territory. ~~~ In the car on the way over to the AERC Toreth considered the best approach to the problem of wresting his investigation from Justice. The student's death was the less important part of the case, except for any potential connection to Teffera, a question on which Toreth was keeping an open mind for now. However, it was the fresher crime scene Teffera had been dead for a fortnight, and they would have to wade through the Justice investigation files before starting new enquiries. Despite Tillotson's assurance, he half expected Justice to put up a fight. They wouldn't want to lose the case, especially not to I&I. Investigation and Interrogation had been two separate divisions within the Department of Justice before the great reorganisation began. In the ensuing political turf war, they had been torn from their home and given to the newly created Int-Sec. The administrative problems caused by their separation from Justice were still a daily nuisance. In the old days, the division which became I&I had worked on a broad range of crimes, from major fraud, to murder, to fomenting dissent, to active resistance to the authority of the Administration anything, in fact, where the sentence might potentially be death or re-education. Now it concentrated on political or politically important crimes, leaving the more mundane investigations to the Department of Justice civilian police. Inevitably, some cases fell into the no man's land between them. Toreth's new case, with one important death and one unimportant, and only a tenuous connection between them, was as halfway as could be imagined. Though loath to take Tillotson's advice on anything, a firm approach seemed most likely to succeed. Get his own people in and get rid of Justice quickly, before they put down roots. When he reached the AERC, the half-dozen vehicles in dark blue Justice livery indicated the strength of the opposition. However, to his surprise, the first person he saw there was wearing the black I&I uniform. Harry Belqola, a recent acquisition for his investigation team, leaned against the wall in the hazy autumn sunlight, his eyes closed. Toreth approached silently, then coughed. Brown eyes opened wide in surprise, and the lean body jerked quickly upright. "Keeping busy, Belqola?" Toreth asked. The junior para-investigator's dark skin flushed a deeper shade. Looked good on him, although Toreth had a policy of not fucking inside his own team the complications were usually tedious. "I didn't hear you arrive, Para," Belqola said, tugging his jacket straight. "Obviously. What's going on?" "Sara called me and told me about the new Investigation in Progress, so I came straight here." Toreth calculated distances and times. "You weren't in work when she spoke to you." "No. Sorry, Para." Toreth smiled pleasantly. "Do you know how long a list of people I have applying for my team? I

could find half a dozen new juniors today, if I needed them. Maybe not with quite such impressive training grades, but I expect most of them could set an alarm." He waited to see if the man would produce some feeble excuse or even a good excuse, neither of which would interest him. Instead, he nodded and said, "Yes. I'm sorry, Para." "Don't be sorry, be punctual. Why are you out here?" "Justice wouldn't let me on the scene without a senior." Belqola waved to the assembled cars. "They look pretty well entrenched." Toreth took a deep breath of the crisp air, enjoying the anticipation. "Do they indeed." ~~~ After a short but bracing discussion with the Justice guard on the main door, Toreth found reception crawling with Justice officers, most of whom looked as if they had little to do. None of them challenged him, so he ignored them. On reception, he noticed the same woman who'd been there for his last visit. She looked understandably unsettled by events, although when he strolled over, she collected herself. "Can I help you?" "Very probably." He glanced at her nametag. Lillias Brinton. "My name is Senior Parainvestigator Toreth, from the Investigation and Interrogation Division." He paused, and a small frown creased her brows. Remembering Marcus Toth, no doubt. "You " she began. Then the frown smoothed away to blank politeness. "Yes, sir?" "We're taking over here. I'd like an announcement made throughout the building, please. By authority of the Investigation and Interrogation Division, all personnel are to stay in their offices until someone comes to speak to them. That shouldn't take more than an hour or two. More of my staff will be arriving soon someone will look after reception while you're interviewed. Until then, ask any external callers to try again tomorrow." She nodded. "Inspector Paris has already asked me to do those things for the Justice Department." "Did he? Good." Pleasantly surprising competence on the part of Justice. "In that case, just stay where you are until someone takes a statement. Do you know where Paris is?" "Right here." The voice from behind Toreth startled him, but he managed to turn slowly. One of the Justice officers in reception must have been on his comm. The man's pale blue eyes assessed Toreth, peering out of a heavily fleshed face. "Senior Parainvestigator Toreth?" "Yes." Paris's eyes narrowed at Toreth's failure to add the 'sir' the Inspector rated, but with Tillotson's encouragement to be rude, he didn't see any percentage in diplomacy. "I understand that you've come to see if I&I have any interest in this case?" Paris asked. "Then you understand wrongly. We have authority here. I'd like you to remove your staff from the building as soon as my team arrives." "If you'd consider making it a joint investigation, my men would be "

"I have sufficient staff for the investigation, thank you." Through the glass of the main entrance, Toreth caught sight of the first two black I&I cars arriving. First out were all four investigators on his personal team: Barret-Connor, Mistry, Wrenn and Lambrick. Sara was on form. Turning, he waved Belqola over. "Para-investigator Belqola will liaise with you regarding the handover of documents and everything else you might have." That would make a suitable punishment for tardiness. ~~~ Toreth waited in reception until he saw the last of the Justice officers off the premises. His own small team was reinforced by temporary assignees from the I&I investigation pool, and he dispatched them through the building to guard the corpse and surroundings until the forensics specialists appeared, to patrol corridors, and to begin taking statements from the more junior staff. The important corporates he'd handle in person. The Systems team also arrived to secure the SimTech security recordings and begin an assessment of what other computer systems they would need access to, though most of that would have to wait for warrants to overcome commercial confidentiality privileges. Brinton had already supplied him with a list of staff currently present in the building, along with times of arrival a perk of a murder (potential murder, he reminded himself) committed in a secure access building. Exactly how secure was one of the questions he'd need to address soon. Leaving Stephen Lambrick in reception to handle any new arrivals or unlikely rearguard actions by Justice, Toreth headed for the lift. He noticed, as he hadn't on his previous visit, that the lift appeared to be the only way into the rest of the building, and that the recessed lift entrance was panelled in matte black plastic detectors of some kind, or several kinds. He'd already sent his most senior investigator, Ainsley Barret-Connor, to speak to the head of corporate security as a priority. Whom to speak to first, Warrick or Keilholtz? Did the head of a minor corporation rate a visit before the personal admin of a Legislator? Too close to call, so he picked the nearest. Keilholtz was waiting for him in a small office on the first floor. As Toreth entered, he stood up. Ten years' experience had taught Toreth that many people who saw an I&I uniform approaching under these circumstances appeared at least a little apprehensive. However hard the Administration pushed the line that the Investigation and Interrogation Division was a virtuous force for ensuring the safety of citizens against terrorists and other criminals, for those caught up in an investigation the second 'I' tended to take on overwhelming significance. Keilholtz looked positively delighted to see him. "Senior Para-investigator . . . ?" "Val Toreth. You're Clemens Keilholtz?" The man nodded, and Toreth shook the offered hand. Keilholtz's grip was neutral, neither firm nor tentative, and his palm neither cool nor warm. It fitted the rest of him smart but not expensive suit, neat hair in a hard-to-define mid-brown, unremarkable face. He looked older than the thirty or so Toreth guessed him to be, but he would probably appear much the same in twenty years' time. A professional bureaucrat who would blend, chameleon-like, into any background. Toreth tried not to hold it against him. "Thank you for calling us. Very public-spirited of you." Keilholtz spread his hands, deflecting the dry compliment. "My primary motive was to act in the interests of the Legislator."

Toreth sat and placed a small camera on the table standard procedure for all interviews. He set it to record to his hand screen as well as transmit securely back to I&I, and checked the picture as Keilholtz sat opposite him. "And what is the Legislator's interest in SimTech?" "A professional one. The creation of virtual worlds also creates a requirement that new laws be drafted to regulate them. Legislator Nissim heads the Science and Technology Law Division." "She doesn't like the sim?" Toreth asked. "Ah, no. Far from it. She believes that this technology has great potential, both to provide something to prevent idle minds from entertaining unfortunate ideas, and to unite citizens across the regions of the Administration." "People who'll be able to afford the sim can buy an air ticket. Or probably a private jet." Keilholtz acknowledged the point with a polite smile. "In the short term, that is true, but Legislator Nissim prefers to take the long view. Eventually, the sim will be affordable for all. A question of time, or so the Legislator believes. You know what Dr Johnson said about patrons." Toreth didn't know, didn't much care, but felt obliged to ask. "Well?" "Someone who watches a drowning man struggle, then burdens him with help when he reaches land." A drowning Toreth swallowed, a faint ringing in his ears. He mustn't start to think about it. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, his voice sounding harsh even to himself. Keilholtz's eyebrow twitched at the tone, but he said, "That there's little point in taking a friendly interest in well-established technologies or large corporations. The Legislator prefers to give whatever help she can to those who need it the most." 'Whatever help she can'. Such a powerful supporter at the European Legislature was . . . well, if not more than money could buy, then far more than a fledgling corporation could afford. "Do you know the dead girl?" Keilholtz shook his head. "To tell the truth, I don't even know her name only that she was found dead in a sim couch. I've never visited the building before, so I know only the senior corporate figures here." "Can I ask what today's meeting was about?" "I, ah " Keilholtz frowned. "I suppose that under the circumstances, the Legislator would have no objection. I was supposed to have a demonstration of an upgraded version of the sim. The Legislator has two units installed in her home." Nice use of Administration resources. "Who did you speak to today?" "The receptionist I'm afraid I forget her name. I called the Legislator immediately. Shortly afterwards, Justice kindly escorted me in here." "You came to New London today?" "Yes. I flew in first thing this morning." Keilholtz looked at his watch. "I had arranged for the demonstration, and after that I had a meeting with the directors. I was due to fly back to Strasbourg this afternoon. I imagine that my return will now be delayed?" Toreth considered. Technically, he had every right to ask the man to stay in New London. On the other hand, inconveniencing the personal admins of legislators wasn't policy Tillotson's or his. "I think you can go back. If we have any further questions, we'll contact you there."

~~~ On his way to see Warrick, he detoured to have a look at the corpse in situ. Toreth had vaguely wondered if he'd met the girl during his tour of the lab, but when he peered in through the doorway, the body on the couch was unfamiliar. A plain girl, thin, with artificially blonde hair. And, most noticeably of all, very dead. It wasn't the room he'd used yesterday with Warrick; it was less cluttered and the sim setup itself appeared simpler. That could, of course, be his memory playing tricks. Over his career Toreth had learned not to rely on anyone's recollections, even his own; he had heard too many witnesses give honestly recounted but wildly inaccurate stories. The newly arrived I&I forensics team was in the process of negotiating the handover from their Justice opposite numbers. The atmosphere was friendly enough. Slightly insulated from the interdepartmental politics, the speciality services tended towards better relationships than did the management. Technically, management included, at the bottom end, Toreth himself, although he would never have classified himself as such. He coughed to attract attention, then asked, "What's the story, ah ?" The head of the Justice team stood up from beside the couch. "Muller, sir." Very polite, although addressing someone only a little over half his age as 'sir' clearly hadn't improved his day. "Call me Para. How, when all the usual." "Twenty-two hundred, give or take a little. How, you'll have to ask them." He gestured to the I&I team. "Although there are lots of things it wasn't. She hasn't been shot, stabbed, strangled, beaten to death, or poisoned with anything I can pick up here." "Give me a guess." The man looked pained. "I'm not psychic." "Come on you'll never have to see her again." The man smiled wryly. "There is that, Para. If you insist I'd say she stopped breathing. That's what it looks like to me. I know that's only a symptom. But I'm not going as far as a cause you know what's likely as well as I do." Drugs of some kind, he meant. Had there been anyone else in the other couch when it had happened? Sim sex with extra spice? Toreth wondered, in passing, whether Kelly used the same body in the sim as he was looking at now. No reason not to try something a little more attractive in a fantasy world. "Thanks." He turned to the leader of the I&I forensics team, hovering near the door. Backed up by Tillotson's priority order, Sara had found him the woman he'd wanted. Fifteen years older than Toreth, O'Reilly had worked with Toreth on his first case as a junior para-investigator and hers as a senior forensics specialist. That time, she'd stopped him from making at least three mistakes which would've fucked up the case beyond saving. A single brown curl peeked out from under the hood of her close-fitting protective suit, and Toreth reached out to tuck it away. She batted his hand away and smiled absently, as usual looking eager to get on with her job. "Have everything you need, O'Reilly?" he asked. She nodded, stepping back as the Justice team filed out. "Yes, Para. Luckily, there seems to be minimal disturbance after the body was found."

"Great. Send the preliminary results along as soon as you can. Just the basics, before you start work on the fancy version." Then, finally, on to Warrick.

CHAPTER EIGHT
Outside the director's office he found an I&I security officer watching three admins, a middleaged woman and two younger men. One of the men sat behind the largest desk, nearest the two doors at the back of the room, so Toreth addressed his question to him. "Is Doctor Warrick in his office?" The man nodded and pointed to the right-hand door. "He left instructions that he wasn't to be disturbed." Clearly he didn't expect the request to be honoured he was simply carrying out his job. Toreth nodded. "Don't bother calling through." He rather liked the idea of seeing Warrick's first, unprepared reaction to his arrival. Knocking on the door produced no response. Since the door was closed but not locked, he opened it and went in. The first thing he noticed was the surprising amount of mess in the large room. It was primarily composed of paper-copy files and printed journals, which had originally occupied the extensive shelving but had spilled over some time ago and were now arranged in piles around the room. In addition to that, pieces of hardware littered the place. Not how he'd imagined the territory of the man he'd met before. Warrick sat at his desk, eyes fixed on a large screen. Two more screens kept it company on the wide desk. He didn't look up at the intrusion. "I said I didn't want to be disturbed until those idiots have finished " Toreth closed the door. "Good morning, Warrick." Warrick's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. Then he took in the uniform and made the connection. His expression smoothed into wary politeness. "Ah. An official visit. Part of the general disruption to the Centre?" "Yes." "I thought I saw Justice Department uniforms in the building," Warrick said. "You did. We're taking over their investigation." "I see." Now Warrick's expression was as unreadable as it had been at any time during the game at dinner the night before. "May I ask what it's all about?" "There's been a death here." Warrick frowned. "Who?" "I'm afraid I can't tell you that, not just yet." The frown deepened and he could see Warrick beginning to run through the list of people he had seen this morning, trying to work out who might be missing. Despite the lack of an invitation, Toreth shifted a pile of hardware components from a chair and sat down. "We have to speak to everyone individually," Toreth added. "Before people start confusing each other with gossip. Of course." The explanation seemed to diminish his irritation slightly. "Hence why I was escorted straight to my office on arrival and politely ordered to stay inside." "It's standard procedure for I&I and Justice," Toreth replied, using his best nothing-I-can-do

voice. "So I merit the attentions of a senior para-investigator? Am I a suspect?" Warrick sounded more intrigued than concerned. "No, actually not." "Oh?" "You have a very good alibi." Warrick raised an eyebrow. "I don't think anyone has even asked me for one." "That's because the alibi is me. The girl died somewhere about ten o'clock, give or take a certain margin. That was about " "Coffee," Warrick finished for him. Actually, it hadn't been, but Toreth didn't feel like splitting hairs. Apart from anything else, the image of Warrick stripped and shivering wasn't conducive to professional concentration. For the first time, he noticed the faint bruises on Warrick's mouth. "The girl?" Warrick added after a moment. Toreth shook his head slightly, which Warrick misinterpreted as a negative rather than an attempt to clear his mind. "Of course, you can't tell me." Toreth weighed it up; he had to start somewhere. He set up the camera again, glancing at Warrick, who nodded, smiling slightly as he understood the implication. No mention of the night before. "Her name was Kelly Jarvis," Toreth said, watching for the reaction. "Kelly?" Genuine-looking shock, Toreth thought, perhaps a little more than news of the death of an employee usually provoked. "Did you know her well?" "Yes, I . . . she's . . . she's one of the students. University students. I " Warrick wiped his palms together, repeating the gesture as he spoke. "No. Not very well, I suppose. God." "When did you see her last?" "I, er . . ." Warrick swallowed, pulled together a semblance of composure. "Yesterday evening. Just before I left, in fact, which was around seven pm." So much for 'rushed over as soon as I could get away'. "I was due to review some of her work this morning," Warrick added. Lucky early hit, Toreth thought. "Did she say or do anything unusual?" "Nothing," Warrick said automatically, then, before Toreth could repeat the question, he held up his hand. "Sorry. Let me think about it." Toreth waited, content to give him the time. A helpful, cooperative witness was a rare enough find. "There was nothing that struck me at the time," Warrick said at length. A smile ghosted briefly across his face. "Although I must say that I was thinking about other things. She asked if we could postpone the meeting for a few days to give her a chance to do another experiment or two. I said yes." "That was all?"

"Yes. No, wait. I offered her a lift home." Toreth raised an eyebrow and Warrick looked at him sharply. "When I said 'lift home', that is precisely what I meant. A lift for her, to her home, where I would leave her. She lives off the campus, as you no doubt already know." Address in the file, presumably, although Toreth couldn't recall it without checking. "Sorry. Why did you offer?" "I was on my way out and I assumed she would be too. I don't encourage the students to stay late." "Why not?" "I measure people's effectiveness by results, not hours worked in my experience an expectation of long hours tends to encourage time-wasting. Commercial security is another reason predictable working patterns make it easier to spot aberrations. And the streets around the campus aren't the safest places for women or anyone to wander alone. Even the corporate-sponsored students at the AERC tend not to be able to afford accommodation in the more salubrious areas." A comprehensive selection of reasons. Toreth made a mental note to return to the topic later. "Did she accept the lift?" he asked. "No. She said . . ." He frowned. "She said she had something to do, but I don't remember what. Damn." "Don't force it," Toreth said. "Can anyone else confirm the details of this conversation?" The implication didn't produce even a flicker of emotion. "Probably not. Although I'd just left Marian's office. She may have heard us talking, but I doubt she would have been able to hear the exact words. Oh, yes, sorry. Dr Marian Tanit she's the senior psychologist here." "And you didn't see or speak to Jarvis after that?" "No." Warrick looked down at the desk, his palms stroking over each other again. Unconscious nervous habit, Toreth decided. "And won't, now." "Do you have any idea why anyone would select Kelly particularly as a corporate target?" Toreth asked. "Mm . . . no. I couldn't even venture a guess. Nothing she worked on was of great immediate commercial interest." "I have to ask a standard question nothing personal. Did you have any relationship with the victim, other than a professional one?" "Meaning?" He abandoned subtlety. "Have you ever had sex with her?" Warrick frowned slightly annoyance, was Toreth's first guess, but then he realised it was a genuine effort to remember. "Not that I recall," Warrick said at length, "but I'd have to check the logs to be sure. If you mean outside the sim, the answer is definitely no." The first sentence had riveted Toreth's attention to the extent that he barely heard the second. "The logs?" Warrick smiled again, a fleeting glimpse of teeth before his expression sobered. "SimTech is a corporation, albeit a small one, but we aim to become a great deal larger and for that we need products

 practical implementations of sim technology. Sex sells, Para-investigator. It is a historical truism than any technology that can be used for pornography or other applications in the sex industry will succeed." "So what are the logs?" "We test our hardware and software on as many volunteers as we can. Most of them are in-house, because of confidentiality issues. So it's possible that, during some test or piece of research, I might've had sex in the sim with Kelly. I don't think so, but I can't guarantee I would remember. However, everything is recorded, so it would be in the session logs." "You get to fuck enough twenty-two-year-old students that you can't remember?" Toreth's professional control deserted him. "Jesus fucking Christ. Nice work if you can get it." This time Warrick didn't smile. "It is not a free-for-all orgy. We're sensitive to the emotional dangers involved and the possibility of exploitation. All activities are covered by strict protocols and closely supervised. It is just a job, you might say." He tilted his head, eyes narrowing, making Toreth feel like a specimen under examination. "Tell me, Para-investigator, do you take pleasure in inflicting pain during interrogations?" "I " Toreth blinked. "Not in the way you mean, no. I like to do my work well, whatever it is." "Mm." Warrick flexed his right shoulder, rubbing the wrist on the same arm, the implication clear: last night you hurt me, and enjoyed it. When the hell did Warrick start running the interview, Toreth thought with a touch of irritation? Still, better that than hiding behind corporate lawyers. He was all in favour of interviewees who were willing to talk enough rope to hang themselves. Toreth nodded. "Point taken." "Is it?" Warrick shrugged. "Perhaps I forget how strange some aspects of SimTech must seem to outsiders. I apologise if I was a little sharp. I recommend talking to Doctor Tanit if you have any questions about the psychology of the situation here. That's her speciality." Attack and retreat the same game as last night. Toreth decided to change the subject. "You said you didn't encourage the students to stay late. What about other people?" Warrick grimaced. "Ideally the same rule would apply. However, I long ago surrendered to the impossibility of imposing order on creativity. Besides, as I am amongst the worst offenders it would be hypocritical in the extreme. Provided that the work is done, employees have as much latitude as is practical in how and when." "How much of the interior of the building is covered by cameras?" A question Barret-Connor would be discussing in detail with the head of security, but an idea would be helpful. "Reception," Warrick said, and then stopped. "And?" "That's it. Reception. It's corporate policy. Elsewhere we have security logs which record entry and exit of people from secure areas and use of equipment, but no visual surveillance." Toreth couldn't keep the dismay from his face, and Warrick smiled slightly. "Unfortunate, from your point of view, I realise. However, security of that kind is a risk in itself a greater risk than not having it, in our view. It's an easily transportable and saleable record of what goes on here. An open invitation to corporate espionage. We prefer to trust our staff, rather than spy on them." Toreth would have preferred a little of the more normal corporate paranoia. He'd visited places

that insisted on ID chip implants for their employees and monitored every inch of the buildings, right down to the toilets. "What about protecting the equipment?" "Access to all areas of the building is controlled by security doors. ID cards are the baseline security. More authentication is required in some areas. All equipment is tagged any attempt to take it out of the building will trigger the sensors you may have noticed on the way in." Which meant no helpful footage of Kelly dying in the sim or of any hypothetical murderer. "Kelly's body was found on a sim couch, with the straps and visor in place. No obvious cause of death." Warrick looked at him for a moment, uncomprehending, before a flash of emotion passed across his face. Before Toreth could decipher it, a stony mask replaced it. "You think the sim killed her?" Warrick asked. "It's a possibility." "No, it isn't." If certainty were euros, Warrick could have underwritten the Central Bank with those three words. "You might have wondered why I&I is here, investigating the death of a girl like Jarvis," Toreth said. "Not worthy of your attention, you mean?" The corner of Warrick's mouth lifted." The thought had occurred." Toreth didn't miss the sour edge, but he ignored it. "We're here because of a possible connection to the death of Jon Teffera." Warrick sat up. "Jon? What on earth does ah. "He leaned back slowly. "I see." "Jon Teffera " "Also died in his sim couch. Yes. I heard the details. In fact, I attended his funeral, as a representative of SimTech and as a personal friend." Warrick leaned forwards, speaking slowly and clearly. "Para-investigator, the sim had nothing to do with either death." Toreth looked at him curiously, trying to see even the faintest tinge of doubt on his face, and found nothing. "Thank you for your opinion," Toreth said. "However, I'm going to need access to data about the sim, to records of use by both Teffera and Jarvis. All the safety trials, and so on." For a moment, he thought Warrick would repeat his denial of the possibility. In the end, he merely nodded. "Of course. Anything you require, naturally. If you want the very oldest pre-SimTech data, you'll have to apply to the appropriate Administration research division. However, you'll be wasting your time you won't find anything." "I'm afraid I'll have to look anyway. And I must ask you not to discuss the details of this conversation with anyone else, inside or outside SimTech, until the initial interviews are finished particularly the circumstances of Jarvis's death." Warrick nodded, although a wry smile suggested he had been thinking about that very thing. "You have my word." "One more thing I'd like to know. Where were you on the evening of the twenty-seventh of September? "Let me check." Warrick consulted his screen, and then nodded. "At what time?" "The whole evening, please."

"Very well. I left here around half past six and went home. Then about a quarter to eight a little after, I think I set off for Asher Linton's flat. I must've arrived about half an hour later. I used one of the SimTech cars, so the records will be able to give you the exact times. I had dinner with Asher and her husband, and I left about twelve. Lew was there, too Lew Marcus." Teffera had died at nine-thirty, making a nice, tight alibi for all of the SimTech directors. It made him automatically suspicious, although senior corporates rarely did their own dirty work. Still, people planning a killing might prefer to have it occur when they themselves were definitely elsewhere. "Do you have dinner together often?" "Yes. The last Friday of every month, at least, and twice or three times a month in addition to that isn't uncommon. We've managed to remain friends, despite working together." "Do you remember anything unusual from the evening?" "Nothing particularly." Warrick considered a moment. "We talked about the current refinancing, primarily. We're due for a new round of sponsorship talks. Routine." Warrick looked down at his hands, palms stroking meditatively across each other again. "Or it was then. With Jon's death, and now Kelly's, I suppose it will no longer be the case." Toreth nodded. "If the sim turns out to be responsible for " "The sim didn't kill them." The confidence in his voice was still absolute. "Then what did?" "You're the para-investigator you find out." Warrick smiled, perhaps an attempt to take the sharpness from the words. "And if you do, please let me know." On that unpromising note, Toreth decided to leave it for the time being. ~~~ He found the second SimTech director also in his office, and in no better a mood than Warrick had been at his arrival. The first words he uttered were, "What the hell's going on?" Toreth didn't reply at once, instead studying the man before him older than Warrick, with short brown hair, thinning on top and receding at the temples. Thin, and, even when seated, obviously tall. He had a narrow, serious face, with deep-grooved lines and a beak of a nose that put Warrick's in the metaphorical shade. Probably literal, too, with sufficiently strong side lighting. Toreth kept up his scrutiny until the man looked briefly away. "Lucas Marcus?" Toreth asked. He nodded. "Lew Marcus. You are?" The sneer in his voice matched the curl of his thin lips. The attitude, unprofessionally, irritated him. "Is that a registered name change?" "It's a nickname. I don't like the one my parents saddled me with." "Then we'll stick to a legal name, shall we?" "If you like." While the exchange patently hadn't improved the man's temper, he did look at Toreth a little more carefully. "Sit down, please." "My name is Para-investigator Toreth," he said as he took the indicated seat. Lower than the director's own chair, he noticed, and he marked the man down as someone who needed props to manage his interactions. "I'm investigating a death here at SimTech." Marcus nodded. "Kelly Jarvis. Poor girl." He paused briefly, perhaps intending to convey distress, but actually making him look as if he were having trouble remembering who she was. "A loss to the corporation."

"How did you hear?" "I found her." Still no emotion. "In a manner of speaking. I like to do a morning tour of the various sim rooms, to make sure that everything is in place and functional. A habit, although I have better things to do with my time these days. I opened the door and saw her on the couch. I assumed that she was using the sim, and I left again." He shook his head. "I even noticed that the sim was switched off I thought she hadn't started yet. About half an hour later, around quarter to eight, I heard the fuss. One of the technicians had noticed she was dead. Anne Langford, I think." "Wait you saw Jarvis before anyone touched her?" "Yes . . . I suppose so." Another lucky break. "Was the mask in place? The straps?" Marcus's eyes narrowed. "I think so. The visor certainly, or I would have known something was wrong. The straps I could miss, I suppose." "What did you do when Langford found the body?" "I went to see what the noise was about. The girl was clearly dead, so there seemed no point in calling an ambulance. I told everyone to clear out of the room and put a security guard on the door. Then I called Warrick and Linton." A more typical corporate response. "Did you call Justice?" Marcus shook his head. "Do you know who did?" Toreth asked. "No idea. Don't you know?" The hint of contempt was back, and it made Toreth grit his teeth. "I'll have to check the records. Was it unusual for someone to be in the sim so early?" "Not really. The sim is closed between midnight and six, except for emergency repairs. Then the next two hours are reserved for maintenance, systems testing and psych evaluations. Official work bookings start at eight, but people try to squeeze in whenever they can. Between eight and ten in the evening is supposed to be for more maintenance and testing but, once again, it's usually overrun with people fitting in extra sessions." "What time did you leave the building last night?" Marcus frowned. "I'm not sure. It'll be on the security system, though." "Give me a rough time and I'll confirm it." "I, er " Marcus stared past him. "It must have been . . . half past nine? Quarter to ten?" "You tell me." "I'm afraid I don't know. It must have been around then. I think I made it home around ten o'clock or quarter past, but I'm not sure about that either." Toreth marked the point for later attention. "Did you have any relationship with Kelly Jarvis, beyond a professional one?" Unlike Warrick, Marcus caught his meaning at once. "No, I did not," he said firmly. "Not even in the sim?" Marcus shook his head. "I work on hardware, not software, so I don't need to go into the sim very often." "How about trials?"

The slight smile did nothing to soften his face. "I'm a married man, Para-investigator. I can assure you that my wife would have something to say about that." "Was your wife at the Lintons' with you on the twenty-seventh of September?" Marcus frowned, caught off guard by the change of track. "Was . . . no, she wasn't." "Are you sure?" "Yes. She rarely comes with me. It's shop talk, mostly, and the sim doesn't interest Lotte. Why the twenty-seventh?" "That was the evening that Jon Teffera died." "Jon Teffera?" For a moment, the name genuinely appeared to imply nothing to him, and then his face cleared. "Ah that's why you're here, is it?" The knowing tone suggested that reality had resumed normal service. "I can't imagine the Investigation and Interrogation Division bestirring themselves for Kelly Jarvis." Warrick had said more or less the same thing, but this time Toreth had to count to five before he could carry on calmly. "What time did you leave the Lintons'?" "Ah " He frowned again. "Let me see. I remember I arrived home at around midnight or . . . half past. No later than one, certainly. So I must have left the Lintons' about eleven-thirty at the earliest. Somewhere around then." Nothing interesting there, except that he was consistently bad with times. "Was there anything special about the couch Jarvis was found in?" "No. Very unspecialised, in fact. That's the current prototype production model, the one used for the mandated safety trials." That explained the relative simplicity of the design. "So, it would be very bad news if that particular version of the sim killed Jarvis?" "Killed her?" Marcus stared at him, nonplussed. "Who says that it killed her?" "It's one possibility." "A rather remote one." Not, interestingly, impossible. "Doctor Warrick said the same thing." "And a lot more, I should think, if you suggested that to him. Good God." Now the possibility was sinking in. "But after Teffera . . . the sponsors won't like that at all. Corporate sabotage?" "Another possibility." "A damn sight more likely than the sim killing users, that's for sure." His confidence in that had firmed up. "Did Jon Teffera own the same kind of sim that Kelly was found dead in?" Toreth asked. "No. Teffera's sim was specially adapted for him it's radically different to the basic design. He had serious spinal injuries I assume you know about that?" "Not in detail." Vague memories stirred. Toreth had absorbed the information at some point without consciously realising it he'd seen the man on some media broadcast, perhaps. An awareness of major corporate figures like Teffera was part of life. "Wasn't he partially paralysed?" "Quite seriously paralysed. The adaptations were expensive and time-consuming. Interesting, though technically very challenging. Direct feeds into the brain mimicking lost nerve inputs, complete restructuring of the output analysis system and contact feedback." For the first time in the

interview, Marcus became animated. "Ah, yes. It's a beautiful piece of equipment, if I do say so myself, although I don't know what we'll do with it when Justice finally return it. A pity there aren't enough people in his condition with his kind of money to justify devoting more energy to it." Back to money again. "Can you imagine any commercial reason for a corporation targeting Jarvis individually?" "No. Although I don't have a clear idea of what the girl was working on. She was something molecular, wasn't she?" He shrugged. "To be honest, the commercial side isn't my strong suit. Warrick and Linton handle it. I have some knowledge, obviously, but my main role is staff management and technical expertise the sim hardware and the biological interfacing, primarily." "So you trust your fellow directors to have your best interests at heart?" The answer came without hesitation. "Yes, I do. They are two of the most trustworthy people I have met in my life." Judging by the emphasis he put on it, two of the only trustworthy people. "SimTech means a lot to me," Marcus continued. "I'm not going to pretend I have the same sort of " He frowned, clearly looking for the right words. "I don't believe in it the way Warrick does, but it's as much my corporation as his or Linton's. And it's going to make me a rich man I've always wanted to be rich." "You think the sim will make money, then?" Marcus smiled genuinely, for the first time, a stretching of his thin lips that didn't reveal his teeth. "A great deal of money, Para-investigator. SimTech will be very big news indeed, I've always known that." "You've worked at SimTech since the beginning?" Toreth asked. "Since before that, as it were. I worked with Warrick at the Human Sciences Research Centre." "What was the original project?" "It " Marcus considered for a moment. "It was classified, medium security, but I suppose that doesn't apply here?" When Toreth nodded, he continued. "The Department of Security funded the research group within the Neuroscience Section. The project was called Indirect Neural Remodelling the primary application Warrick and I worked on was the correction of neural defects by using stimuli sent through the patient's peripheral nervous system. It's probably easiest to think of it as very quick psychotherapy." Toreth had a reasonable, if rather focused, understanding of psychology, particularly the practical applications. "Did it work?" "Difficult question. The technology didn't do what the project wanted, no. Eventually, the project was closed down after an unfavourable internal audit report." Marcus waved vaguely, the gesture suggesting unpleasantness beneath his notice. "There was a lot of internal politics after the big Department of Security reorganisation no one could agree who ought to pay for us. Or possibly someone in another department didn't like what we were doing. You know what it's like." Fucking departmental politics everywhere. Toreth always enjoyed hearing that other people suffered too. "So where did SimTech come in?" he asked. "Although the INR was a failure, the technology wasn't. The brain is resistant to rapid, permanent change via peripheral nerve stimulation, but it's very interested in interpreting incoming signals. Warrick and I thought it had potential, far beyond the original project proposals. Or, to be honest, Warrick did. I was offered a reassignment, but he talked me out of taking it he needed my

expertise. We bought the intellectual property from the Administration and founded the corporation." "Any trouble since? Corporate trouble?" "Some. You'd be better off talking to the others for that." The suggestion seemed honest, rather than an attempt at evasion, so Toreth dropped it. After taking Marcus on a second run though the events of the morning, Toreth moved on to the last of the SimTech directors. ~~~ This time the door was welcomingly open. When he knocked on the frame and entered, the woman behind the desk stood up to greet him. Around Toreth's own age, with short, neatly waved midbrown hair, she had a pleasant, if not especially attractive, face. There was, however, a confidence in her movements and a sharp intelligence in her eyes which belied the softness of her smile. "You're the investigator in charge," she said. "Senior Para-investigator Toreth." He offered his hand, watching her reaction to the title. She seemed neither surprised nor disturbed. "My name is Asher Linton as I'm sure you know." "I understand that you're the director most concerned with the financial aspects of SimTech?" When she nodded, he said, "This will be a short initial interview; a full set of financial disclosure warrants will be processed by tomorrow." "Keir asked me to cooperate fully, in any case, without waiting for the warrants." He must have looked surprised at her use of the familiar name, because she offered him a seat and said, "I've been a friend of Keir Warrick's for a long time since we were children. I met his sister Dillian at school; that's how I know him. Coffee?" "Please." He watched as she made the coffee. Now that she was out from behind the desk, he had a chance to get a better look at her clothes: a smart jacket and trousers in lightweight beige wool, the flattering cut and natural fabric as unobtrusively expensive as any high-level corporate he'd ever visited. SimTech euros or independent wealth? News of the death had obviously reached Linton already, and she'd clearly spoken to Warrick since his interview with Toreth. "Do you have any idea what happened to poor Kelly?" she said as she handed him his cup. "We're investigating a number of possibilities." He took a sip of the coffee decent coffee being a perk of corporate investigations and said, "Do you have any comments you'd like to make about the circumstances under which she was found?" She stared at him blankly, so Warrick had kept his word about not mentioning the details of the death scene. "She was found in the sim," he explained. "In the sim couch, rather." Linton's reaction mirrored Warrick's. A pause, while the significance registered, then quick calculation, ending up with dismay. "Like Teffera," she said, making it a statement, not a question. "What's the financial significance?" Toreth asked immediately. "We're in the process of gathering a new round of funding. Jon Teffera's death made many of the sponsors nervous. Not quite nervous enough to pull out, because Jon wasn't a well man and there isn't a shred of evidence to connect his death to the sim, but . . ."

"What happens if the funding fails?" "SimTech dies," she said simply. If the sim hadn't killed Teffera and Jarvis, then here was as clear an impetus for corporate sabotage as he could wish for. "What happens to the rights to the sim technology?" She frowned. "I'd have to check terms, but as far as I remember, they would revert to Administration ownership." "Not to one of the sponsors?" "No." Slight smile. "I'd hope we have better contract writers in the legal team than to do something like that." That was a disappointment. Far better that the rights would go to a sponsor, giving him a solid primary corporate suspect. However, once they were back in Administration hands, a corporation with the right friends would have no trouble retrieving them. Justice might have been on the right track after all. "If corporate sabotage was involved, who would you suspect?" "Me?" She frowned, and he waited for the usual hypocritical protests that she couldn't imagine any corporate she knew stooping to such appalling things. In the end, she surprised him. "There are various corporations. The first funding for SimTech was difficult to find, but when we released news of our initial successes with the technology, it became a quite different story. Competition to fund us was fierce, to put it mildly. There were a large number of disappointed corporations, any one of which could benefit from this. I'll arrange to have a list supplied to you. Do you want me to mark the most likely ones for you?" He found the honesty pleasantly refreshing. "Please. And should you receive an approach from anyone offering to help solve your funding problems, especially if it's in return for concessions and decreased control . . ." She smiled wryly. "I should shop our potential saviour to I&I?" He set his cup down. "I would consider it to be withholding evidence if you didn't," he said, letting just a touch of coolness into his voice. "I see." When pressed, her mask was almost as good as Warrick's. "Of course, I'll notify you of any such approach." "Or any approach at all." He held her gaze until she nodded. "While we're on the subject, can you give me any reason why Kelly Jarvis would be chosen as a corporate target?" Either she'd been thinking about it already, or the slight confrontation had disconcerted her, because she replied immediately, "None at all." "Did you have any personal relationship with her?" Linton shook her head. "I hardly knew her. To tell you the truth, I'm afraid that I had to look her up on the system before I could recall her face or project. I don't have much contact with the students." "What's the difference between employees and students?" Linton looked a little surprised. "All that information will be in the company files." "Tell me anyway, if it's not too much trouble." Toreth kept his tone even and polite, because it wasn't necessary to put an edge on the question. His uniform did that for him. She shrugged. "Of course. Employees are exactly that direct employees of SimTech. Some

university research groups occupy part of the AERC building. SimTech sponsors students postgraduates who work on the sim technology. Most of them subsequently join the company, but until they obtain their degrees they are registered as students at the university." "Are there any practical differences?" "Not a lot. Students have low clearance, and no access to sensitive areas outside their own research, but the same's true of many employees." Toreth finished his coffee, and shook his head when Linton offered a refill. "I'd like you to tell me a little about SimTech," Toreth said. "An introduction to the company." "Of course. We founded SimTech just over seven years ago, and we bought the rights to the technology from the Administration at the same time. I have a corporate background, and Warrick asked me to join to deal with the financial side of the business." "Because you were a friend?" "I should hope not." A touch of indignation, but at the same time she smiled obviously confident in her abilities. "Warrick issued the invitation on merit, I assure you, Para-investigator. SimTech is always his highest priority." A paragon of corporate virtue, in fact something that Toreth was beginning to find annoying. "Why was SimTech established here?" he asked. "We considered other sites across the Administration, but the university offered us a good deal the building, and plenty of research money which came without conditions attached. That nursed us through the first lean years, so that when we sought our initial round of corporate sponsorship, we had a solid foundation of work to show them. Ultimately, the production facilities will be located elsewhere." "How long before the sim units are commercially available?" "Provided that we secure funding, and assuming all the tests and safety trials run to schedule, the first production run is due in three years. The cost will limit it to the rich and to commercial owners, but we expect a very healthy demand." She clearly shared Marcus's confidence in the commercial prospects. From his own experience of the sim yesterday, he was willing to put more faith in that than most corporate pronouncements of future success. "Who owns SimTech?" he asked. "The directors. Warrick, Marcus and I own around twenty-five percent each eighty percent of the corporation between us. The university owns a further five percent, and the rest is split between various others. Mostly they're individuals who gave us money at critical early stages. Keir's sister Dillian, his mother, my parents, my husband Greg, a few other of the directors' friends. Jon Teffera was one a personal investment, separate to his corporate interests." "LiveCorp own shares?" "No. We have an investment arrangement with one of their subsidiaries, P-Leisure. In return for development capital, they have exclusive options on certain aspects of sim technology, at preferential licensing rates." "And are they happy with the deal?" Before the sim killed Jon Teffera, at least. She shrugged, her expression neutral. "As far as they have ever told us." They discussed a few more points and, as he'd expected, Linton confirmed Warrick's story of a

directors' dinner until twelve on the evening of Teffera's death. Finally, he asked, "Do you think it's possible that the sim killed the girl or Jon Teffera?" After a moment's consideration, she said, "What does Warrick think?" Warrick, not Marcus. "I asked for your opinion." "I don't have one. The technology isn't my speciality. But I'd happily stake my reputation on whatever Warrick says. I have before, many times." A ringing endorsement of her fellow director, and a lot more positive than most corporate opinions Toreth had heard over his career. ~~~ Outside Linton's office, he found Jasleen Mistry, one of the junior investigators, sitting at Linton's admin's desk. She was reading a screen and replaiting her long, black hair. When she heard Toreth close the office door behind him, she stood up at once. Mistry wouldn't be wasting time if she were hanging around, it was because she had something important to tell him. "What is it?" "We've found someone who saw Jarvis alive late last night, Para," she said, her fingers flicking through the last twists of the plait and snapping the band round the end. "Jin Li Yang." At his nod, she set off along the corridor. "What is he?" Toreth asked as they walked. "A software engineer. SimTech, not university." "When did he see her?" "Just after ten o'clock. He was in the sim with her, running some kind of trial, and when he left the sim room she was alive and well." "Or so he says." "Of course, Para." She skipped to keep up with him and he slowed his pace a little. "What's he like?" "Frightened, but genuinely upset about the victim. The dead woman," she corrected herself immediately, and Toreth smiled. "Up to talking to me?" he asked. It was a serious question, and she took her time answering. "I think so, Para." "Sit in, then." Mistry took him down a level, and into a small conference room where Yang was waiting for them. In here the decor was more grey than blue, reminding Toreth of I&I. Toreth introduced himself and sat down, deliberately relaxed and friendly. As they went through the introductions, he saw Mistry had, as usual, been dead on about the witness's state of mind. He was extremely nervous, which combined with his thin face to make him look even younger than he was thirty-three, according to his security file. He had short, spiked hair and casual clothes, although he described his position as a senior level programmer, in charge of a team of ten. "Did you know Kelly well?" Toreth asked as an icebreaker. The man shook his head. "Not very. Only from trials. I've seen her in the cafeteria. We didn't work together." The phrases had a random, disconnected air.

"You were with her last night?" "She was fine when I left her. She was absolutely fine." The statement wasn't an overt protestation of innocence more an expression of disbelief that someone he'd seen alive only yesterday could suddenly be gone. "Why were you there?" Toreth asked. "For a trial. For her work, not mine. I'm on the volunteer list the full list." "Meaning?" Yang stared at him, blinking rapidly. "What's the full list?" Toreth asked patiently. "Oh. There are " He stopped. "I'm sorry. I'm not usually it's shaken me up, that's all. It's poor Kelly. She was fine when I left. Absolutely fine. I can't believe " "Take your time. Tell me about the lists. "With any luck, talking about work would calm the man down a little. "Didn't you speak to Doctor Warrick?" "Yes. He didn't mention lists, but he said he wanted everyone to cooperate with the investigation." That produced a slight relaxation. "Oh, right. Okay full list. It means I'll do any kind of trial. There are different lists, depending on what kinds of trials people want to take part in. Whether you're prepared to participate in the sex-based research, basically. And what kinds of activities are acceptable, if you are." A glance down showed a gold band on his wedding finger. Thinking of Marcus, Toreth asked, "Doesn't your wife mind?" Yang almost smiled. "A bit, at first. But it's . . . well, it's completely voluntary, of course. No one has to do any trials at all. But you know how it is people who volunteer are doing more for SimTech than people who don't. Anya wants me to do well here, for both of us." Toreth nodded, knowing very well how that sort of thing worked. People always knew what was expected, what their superiors wanted to hear. All the sensitivity in the world to the possibility of exploitation couldn't stop those kinds of insidious pressures. "When is the selection done?" Toreth asked. "Oh, when the experiment is designed, usually. To give everyone a chance to arrange their schedules." He shrugged. "It's very tight, usually, because everyone's so busy. The selection program picks a randomised pool of volunteers from the appropriate list, depending on the experiment." Explaining a well-understood topic had had the desired effect, so Toreth decided to risk a more direct question. "How far ahead did you know you'd be there yesterday?" "Only in the afternoon. A slot came free on the sim and Kelly " He paused, blinking again, then pressed on determinedly. "Kelly was next on the list. She needed someone who could manage a two-hour time course. I think she tried a couple of people before she got to me." "Are the sessions recorded? In " It suddenly occurred to Toreth that he had no idea what a sim session would look like from outside the system. "I mean, is it possible to see what went on?" Yang nodded. "Everything's recorded, at least short term. It can be, er . . . put back together to make a kind of recording, as if there was a camera in the sim room itself. The hypothetical observer viewpoint, it's called."

Toreth nodded at Mistry, and she made a note on her hand screen for the data retrieval team. "You said 'short term'." He nodded. "Until the raw data is analysed up to a few days, usually. The volumes involved are huge. After analysis, the data is summarised and the important results are compressed." "Now, did you notice anything unusual about Kelly's behaviour yesterday?" Yang stared down at his hands, fingers twisting together in his lap, and eventually shook his head. "No. If she was ill, I couldn't tell. She looked fine in the real world, I mean. We arrived at the same time, and the session before overran by ten minutes, so we " He shook his head again." We stood outside and talked." "About?" Yang frowned. "I think . . . I think it was her report. Or was that what we talked about in the sim? She had a progress report coming up. She wanted to do a last experiment before it was due in, because she had the chance with the free sim slot. She'd okayed it with Doctor Warrick." "Did anyone come into the room while you were in the sim?" "Yes. Tara Scrivin, at least quite early on. She's another graduate student a friend of Kelly's." Another nod to Mistry. "She came, er . . . into the sim?" "No. But she spoke to Kelly over the link. She asked if Kelly wanted to go . . . oh, shopping, or something. Shopping for clothes, tomorrow lunchtime. Today lunchtime, I mean, of course. Sorry." "No problem. Take your time. Did she say anything else?" "Not that I heard. There could have been a private conversation, but I don't remember Kelly cutting out. Sorry I mean, she didn't take her attention away from me to talk to someone I couldn't hear." "Anyone else?" "Not that spoke to us. But the rooms are secure access, so there should be a record of anyone who came in later." "Thanks. How did Ms Jarvis seem to you, during the time you were together?" "She was . . . fine." "There was nothing at all about her behaviour in the sim that struck you as unusual?" "No. She was fine. When I left her she was fine." Toreth sighed, and gave up. "Why did she stay on in the sim?" "I don't know. It'll be on the booking system, though everything's booked. I think it was personal time. All the trial volunteers have some up to an hour every six months, depending on how much you do. If you can find a free slot, of course." "Can't carry it over?" Yang shook his head. "Against the rules. Use it or lose it. Before and after official hours are about the only times you get a chance." Toreth recalled the Justice forensic officer's suggestion. "Do you know if Ms Jarvis ever took drugs when she used the sim for personal time?" "Drugs? You mean, did she get sim sickness?"

The problem Warrick had mentioned yesterday. "No. Something recreational." His eyes widened. "Oh, no. I shouldn't think so. That's completely against the rules. A serious disciplinary offense. Anyone caught doing it would be banned from the sim at once. I would've reported even a suspicion anyone would." Toreth shook his head slightly. What a place to work fucking coworkers on billable time but getting bent out of shape over recreational pharmaceuticals. Toreth left Mistry to finish the interview with Yang, in case her famed gentle touch might pull something useful out of him. He didn't hold out much hope, though. As a suspect, Yang was already eliminated he'd left the building five minutes after the end of his sim session, while Jarvis was still an hour, give or take, away from death. Outside the room, he looked at the list of names on his hand screen long, and growing by the minute as his team picked out more key people to talk to. Already there were far too many to deal with personally today. He ran down the list, dividing up the names, until it became more manageable. He'd done the most immediate and important interviews now he could return to I&I and begin on the no doubt monstrous piles of paperwork that would have arrived by now, if Belqola had done his job.

CHAPTER NINE
Back at I&I, he decided to give Tillotson an update in person. The head of section liked to feel he was in touch with ongoing cases, even though, in Toreth's opinion, the only reason he'd been promoted so far was because he was an appalling investigator. He certainly wasn't para material there was a widespread and persistent rumour that he'd thrown up and fainted in the only high-level interrogation he'd ever witnessed. When he reached Tillotson's office someone was already in there with him, so Toreth had to wait. Raised voices came indistinctly from Tillotson's office. He couldn't make out the words, but the meeting sounded heated. Someone who'd forgotten to complete his timesheet in ten-minute increments, no doubt. After a couple of minutes, curiosity piqued, he changed seats to one closer to the closed door. Tillotson's admin, Jenny, studiously ignored his eavesdropping. From the little he could hear, it sounded as if Tillotson was getting the worst of it, for once. Unfortunately, before he'd had time to catch any detail, the voices died down to a low murmur of discussion. Toreth leaned on the arm of the chair, trying to hear, but got nothing. Go back to his office or wait? He pulled out his hand screen, deciding that he had enough work to occupy himself with here it wouldn't hurt to look keen to talk to Tillotson. Finally, twenty minutes later, the door opened. He leaned back in his seat quickly, staring at the ceiling, and then lowered his gaze to check out the exiting visitor. He needn't have bothered with the show of boredom, because the man didn't even glance at him. For a moment, he thought it was Tillotson himself the stranger shared his ginger hair and sharp features, although not quite Tillotson's infamous and apt resemblance to a weasel. However, he had a purposeful air quite at odds with Tillotson's habitual strategic defensiveness, and he was in his late twenties rather than early fifties. Surprisingly young, in fact, to have been giving Tillotson grief. If the man was an admin for an I&I higher-up, then Toreth didn't recognise him, and he had a good memory for faces. Could it be someone from Internal Investigations? If so, Toreth hoped fervently it had nothing to do with his new case. "Senior Para Toreth?" The admin's voice cut the speculation short. "The head of section will see you now." "What do you want?" Tillotson asked, before Toreth had even closed the door. Toreth didn't bother to sit down. "To let you know I've been to SimTech and chased Justice off. It's all ours they didn't put up much of a fight. And SimTech seem willing to cooperate." Tillotson nodded sharply. "Good, good." He pursed his lips, staring past Toreth at the door. "Sir?" Toreth prompted, after a moment. "What?" Tillotson actually startled, his left hand jumping to grip the edge of the desk. "Ah. Is there anything else?" "Not really. Just wanted to keep you informed." "Thank you. Put it all in the IIP." Toreth took the implicit dismissal, and left without further comment. First time he could ever

remember Tillotson not having some useless advice to give. In the outer office, he stopped to talk to Tillotson's admin. "Jenny, who was that in with Tillotson when I arrived?" "No idea." She sounded rather put out. "He called the head of section directly and made his own appointment. I had to reschedule everything." Toreth thanked her and left. Internal Investigations, he'd lay any money on it. In which case he could hardly blame Tillotson for getting sweaty over it. The appearance of the Int-Sec internal watchdogs with their sweeping powers to question and punish, and famous incorruptibility was about as welcome at I&I as the arrival of I&I was to citizens outside. ~~~ In his office, Asher Linton's list of potential threats to SimTech had already arrived, marked for his personal attention. His first thought was that, despite her apparent cooperation, the speedy arrival meant it would be a whitewash. Far from it. SimTech had clearly prepared the file previously, for closely guarded internal consumption. Either Linton was clinically paranoid, or SimTech had more potential enemies than a corporation of its size had any right to possess. Every name had a detailed threat assessment, and Toreth suspected there was a wealth of supporting information he hadn't been sent. Even so, he paged through the document with growing dismay even a cursory check into these names would require a fresh batch of investigators from the pool. A second file contained a similar evaluation on those corporations that had secured deals with SimTech and so were theoretically friends. No way could his team handle this efficiently. A call to Chean in Corporate Fraud and the collection of a favour owed secured him the loan of two finance specialists Tillotson could sort out the official paperwork later. Just as he'd finished a more detailed reading, Sara called through to say the specialists had arrived. When the door opened, he recognised Elizabeth Carey at once tall, heavily built, and with an uncontrolled tangle of unnaturally vivid red hair but not the slight, sallow young man lurking half hidden behind her. He had white-blond hair, his brows and lashes so pale as to be invisible. Toreth waved them in. "How're things going, Carey?" "Great. Got something good for me?" Her voice had a rich, rough edge that Toreth had forgotten. Sexy, he'd always thought, although she was no beauty. "You'll love it," he said. She took a seat and then, without looking round, she snapped, "Don't hover, Phil. Sit!" A dog-commanding tone of voice, and the pale shadow certainly jumped to obey. Toreth studied him with mild curiosity, wondering if he'd started out that nervous, or if it were due to Carey's soothing influence. Carey gestured in the man's general direction. "Phil Verstraeten." Verstraeten bobbed his head at Toreth and mumbled, "Pleased to meet you." "Just qualified," Carey continued. "I'm whipping him into shape." Toreth raised an eyebrow. "Literally?" Carey laughed. "They changed the rules since we were new graduates can't even use shock sticks on 'em now. But he's very good. Very good. To get the two of us, Chean must've owed you a chunk. So, what's the case?"

Toreth outlined what he knew so far. Not surprisingly, as a corporate finance specialist, Carey already knew about Teffera's death. "You think sabotage?" she said when he finished. She frowned, obviously doubtful. "LiveCorp play clean mostly, for a corporation their size but hard. I wouldn't tangle with them. Phil?" Visibly startled, Verstraeten glanced at his boss. "Clean but hard, yes," he muttered after a moment. "I'm not sure what it is," Toreth said. He offered Carey his hand screen. "I've got a list of suspects for a death at a second corporation, and I want to know if any of them have reason to go after LiveCorp." To his surprise, Carey glanced through the lists of SimTech's enemies and friends quickly, then handed the screen to Verstraeten and sat back, leaving him to study it. He took his time, the tip of his tongue peeping out from between his thin lips as he read. "Maybe," he said when he was done. He didn't look up from the screen. "Some LiveCorp rivals, but I don't remember any recent rumours of anything flaring up to killing levels. I'd need to check, though." Carey nodded. "My first thought too, but there's a lot to look at in there. If we need more help, which we will . . ." "Open budget. Tillotson's authorised anything you need." She grinned. "Now that's what I like to hear. We'll get right on to it." She stood up, and Verstraeten rose a lot more eagerly than he'd sat down. When they had gone, Toreth returned to the main interest of the case. The first thing he read was the information on Jon Teffera. The security file took him an hour; the medical file took almost as long. A skiing accident was responsible for his condition the kind of injury of the rich and famous that always gave Toreth a glow of satisfaction. Damage to Teffera's spine and haemorrhaging in his brain had crippled his motor function and repair had proved beyond even the most cutting-edge nerve regeneration, grafting and implants. After ploughing through details of Teffera's subsequent medical treatment Toreth hit the end point. After six years of near-continuous operations had restored only limited function, Teffera had rejected further attempts to improve his condition and settled down to live his life as best he could. Despite his underlying conviction that most corporates deserved whatever they got, Toreth found it uncomfortable reading. After his taster in the sim, it was too easy to imagine himself in the same position, his body taken out of his control. The helplessness he'd felt in the sim kept returning as he read. Ironic that, to Teffera, the sim must have been a godsend. Justice's information about the sim was scanty. Perhaps they hadn't tried, or perhaps corporate influence had defeated them. There was nothing at all noted about LiveCorp's connections to SimTech, or Teffera's personal interest in it. Of course, if Justice had been inclined to put the whole thing down to natural causes, that would explain the lapse in interest. Certainly the post-mortem had nothing attention-grabbing about it. No sign of injury, toxin, or any other unnatural cause of death. The report was infuriatingly noncommittal, assigning the death to 'respiratory failure', which didn't mean much at all. When using the sim, Teffera took muscle relaxant drugs; these were mentioned as a possible contributing factor to his death. However, the suggestion was tentative and the old injuries were

described as the probable ultimate cause of death. The body had been released back to the family bad practice, even for Justice. He'd have to hope that Jarvis's corpse would prove more interesting. Most irritatingly, although the man had enough personal medical monitoring equipment to equip a small hospital, most of it had been deactivated or removed from his body before he went into the sim, due to interference with the sim electronics. The sim itself had noticed his distress, and automatic alarms had called the resident medical staff. Efforts to revive Teffera were only abandoned six hours later, by which time his body was at an exclusive corporate hospital halfway across the city. Any amount of evidence could have been destroyed. Justice had, Toreth noticed sourly, begun the investigation four whole days later. Pity no one had contacted them at once, as they had in the SimTech death. The thought reminded him of something, and he checked through the Justice files for the name of whoever at SimTech had felt suspicious enough of Jarvis's death to call Justice rather than a medic. A woman called Marian Tanit the psychologist Warrick had mentioned in passing. He checked the interview lists, and sent BarretConnor a note to ask Tanit about it when he saw her. ~~~ Toreth left I&I not long before nine o'clock. He'd sent Sara home a couple of hours earlier and he hadn't really intended to stay so late so early in the investigation. There would be plenty of opportunity for lost sleep later. As he walked through the Int-Sec grounds, he considered the reasonably productive first day. The more he looked at the case, the more complicated he began to suspect it would be. The information from Justice alone reluctantly delivered late in the afternoon would take some untangling. Toreth had chased it up personally, after Belqola had proved unequal to the task, and the files were in the usual mess he'd learned to expect from Justice. The warrants to obtain disclosure of corporate information would hopefully arrive tomorrow, triggering another flood of files. He could only hope that Tillotson had meant what he said about freeing up as many resources as necessary. Since Toreth was off duty, he also considered Warrick. After the night before, he'd expected a different reaction from Warrick when he walked into his office. Toreth's extensive experience predicted defensiveness or embarrassment. He'd found neither just calm intelligence, a touch of arrogance and genuine distress at the news of the girl's death. That was telling in itself. Toreth had spoken to plenty of corporate types whose only interest in their employees was in terms of the bottom line. Of course, as corporations went, SimTech was barely a minnow, with more opportunity for the executives to know their junior staff. Warrick had also been confident. Death had disrupted the high-tech haven, but it hadn't significantly shaken his faith in his employees, his technology, or his own abilities. Was he confident enough to be someone who thought he could get away with murder? Toreth decided on balance that he thought not. His instincts all said 'no', and on a more practical basis, Warrick seemed to have the most to lose from the killings. The commercial disclosure warrants would enable Toreth to be more certain about that. In the meantime, with careful handling, Warrick could be useful even necessary. If the sim was responsible for the deaths, Toreth didn't have complete confidence in the ability of the I&I computer experts to find the answer without full SimTech cooperation, to which Warrick was clearly key.

CHAPTER TEN
The commercial disclosure warrants appeared early the next morning. Toreth took the time to check they were all in order, because he hated the embarrassment of having warrants bounced by corporate lawyers because someone has misspelled a name. For once, he found no obvious errors. Time to begin arranging specialists for dispatch to SimTech to take the corporation apart for his entertainment and education. That part he would entrust to Sara. On his way out to see her, Toreth paused with his office door open a little way, halted there by Belqola's voice, confidentially low. Sara's back was to the door, of course, but he could see Belqola's face in profile, and a glimpse beyond him of a figure with short blond hair probably Barret-Connor. "I wondered if he'd said anything," Belqola said. "About my being late yesterday." "Why on earth would he say anything to me?" Sara asked. Toreth eased the door open another crack, because he suspected Belqola was about to make a serious tactical mistake vis-a-vis life in Toreth's team. "Well " The junior shrugged. "You two are . . . aren't you?" "Are what?" Sara enquired in frosty tones. "Together. Seeing each other?" Her shoulders stiffened. B-C took a step back into plainer view, wincing in anticipation, and caught sight of Toreth. Toreth put his finger to his lips and B-C smiled. Sara stood up. Twenty centimetres shorter than Belqola, she nevertheless managed to leave no doubt about who was intimidating whom. "Are you suggesting I'd be so unprofessional as to screw my boss?" she asked, dangerously quiet. Toreth grinned. God, she had a lovely way of phrasing it. Yes or no were both disastrous, so Belqola won points for hitting on the only possible escape. "I'm sorry, really, I am." Then he blew it. "You're always going out with him in the evening, that's all, so I assumed " "Assumed?" Heads were starting to come up around the office. Toreth noticed one or two people making comm calls alerting absent friends to the show. "You just assumed, did you? Maybe I look like the type who has to screw around to get a decent posting?" "Well, I asked a couple of " "So you've been gossiping about me as well?" Coming from Sara, the accusation would've left anyone who knew her helpless with laughter. Belqola, poor bastard, merely spent a while working on his fish-out-of-water impersonation. Sara left him to squirm until the moment he started to say something, then she said, "For your information, Junior Para-investigator, I have never slept with anyone I work for, and I never will sleep with anyone I work for. And if I did, you'd know without talking behind my back, because I'd resign the next day." That was a lie, although Toreth wasn't sure if it was an intentional one. He and Sara had fucked, just once five years previously and a couple of years after she'd begun working for him. It had

happened at the end of a long and very drunken night, so drunken that Sara hadn't remembered anything in the morning, or at least had claimed not to. Between bruised pride and the worry that his indispensable admin might put in for a transfer, Toreth had never told her the truth. He'd always wondered, though, if she did remember. One day, he promised himself, he'd ask her. Just not today he had far too much to do without Sara resigning on principle. In the office, Sara was still in full flow, since Belqola kept trying to interrupt with what were either excuses or apologies. From past experience, Toreth knew that she could keep it up indefinitely, or at least until her victim surrendered unconditionally. Entertaining though it was, he did need to get on. He opened the door and coughed. Sara switched off in mid-rant, and turned to him at once, perfectly composed. "Yes, Toreth?" "Specialists for SimTech we've got all the warrants we need. Pick whoever you think is best, run the list past me if you have any questions." He looked over her shoulder. "Belqola, you're in charge of getting it all running smoothly over there." "Yes, Para." Belqola took the offered escape with obvious gratitude. When the junior was halfway across the office, Barret-Connor said in a low voice, "Do you want me to go along with him, Para?" To keep an eye on him, B-C meant. A surprising offer from the reticent junior investigator. "No, thanks. You've got better things to do than hold his hand." B-C took the hint. "And I'll go do them, Para." When they were alone not counting the rest of the attentive office there was a long silence, with Sara trying and failing to suppress a grin. Finally, Toreth shook his head, keeping his voice serious. "Belqola is a junior para, you know. You should show some respect." "Memo me," she said, unrepentant. "He deserved it. Oh, and I was about to call through to you when he slithered over you've got an appointment this afternoon with the first corpse's brother and sister. At LiveCorp." Good thing he'd put on a clean jacket this morning. Then something he hadn't done occurred to him. "Hell, I'll have to finish reading the LiveCorp files first. I thought they'd delay a day or two." Sara shrugged. "They didn't sound eager more like they were getting it over with. Oh, and they know all about Kelly Jarvis, don't ask me where from. Do you want to have coffee in your office, then?" "Yes. And keep everyone you can away while I do my homework." ~~~ He had barely settled down with the mug and the Teffera files when the preliminary post-mortem report for Kelly Jarvis arrived on his screen. Toreth read it through with growing dismay. On the plus side, it was the same cause of death as for Teffera. On the downside, it was no kind of cause of death at all. O'Reilly answered the comm in her office, brown curls free of the protective cap. "'Respiratory failure' is all you can tell me?" he asked. "I'm afraid so, Para." At least the woman looked embarrassed. "We're still looking, of course, but at the moment all I can tell you is that she stopped breathing." "No drugs at all?"

"Nothing yet, certainly nothing common or recreational. Something may show up on the detailed screens. And, of course, if it is corporate and if they put enough money into it, it could be something we won't pick up." She shrugged apologetically. "At least not without knowing what it is before we look, as it were. They know what we can screen for." He cast around for something. "No sign at all of mechanical suffocation?" On her face, he caught a flicker of the same irritation he felt when Tillotson asked bloody stupid questions that were already answered in a file they'd both read. "Nothing, Para," she said. "I am sorry." He nodded. "Well, let me know if you find anything else." Half an hour later, Sara announced a call from the security systems specialist, too urgent to be delayed or a message taken. It proved to be the second piece of bad news about the case, and as disappointing as the autopsy. Toreth listened to the explanation all the way through and then started the futile search for a solution. "Aren't there any backups?" "No, I'm sorry, Para. The fault was in the primary feed from the reception ID scanners. The backup system was recording nothing as well, from noon of the day the girl died." "Didn't SimTech security notice?" On the comm screen, the man shrugged. "Not that we've been able to establish. It's possible that the system didn't report an error, although it ought to have done." "Deliberate? Wiped afterwards and made to look like a fault?" "It's more than possible, Para. We're looking at it. The good news is that the rest of the building security is on separate systems, which includes the access records for the sim room. That seems to be all right, although we're going to go through it piece by piece to make sure." "Good." Annoying news but not, on reflection, as bad as he'd thought at first. There were other, although more painstaking, ways of establishing who had been in the building, and proof of sabotage of that kind would be almost as good as a murder weapon. Before he read the LiveCorp files, he set the I&I evidence analysis system to work on the witness statements taken at SimTech yesterday. It would cross-reference the statements to produce as definitive a list as possible of who had been in the building at the time of Jarvis's death. He called Mistry, who was back at SimTech for the morning, and told her to go through the list with any receptionists or security guards on duty at the appropriate times. Then, finally, he started on the files. To his amazement, he managed an uninterrupted run until he'd missed lunch. Then the comm chimed. "Toreth? Sorry to interrupt." Sara, with her 'there's a problem' voice. "What?" "There's a problem at SimTech. The new junior's been on the comm in a tizzy not that that means much. But the technical people want to speak to you as well, so there probably is something going on." 'The new junior'. For no good reason Toreth could determine, Sara had never liked Belqola, even before his faux pas this morning, and her attitude manifested in a refusal to use his name. Toreth looked at his watch and sighed. "I'll go over on my way to LiveCorp."

~~~ They both turned towards Toreth as he opened the door. Warrick looked angry but under rigid self-control. Belqola looked frankly baffled by someone who simply refused to be intimidated by the I&I aura. "What's going on?" Toreth asked. Instead of answering, Warrick walked away to his office window, leaving Belqola to explain. "The systems team say that he's refusing to hand the code over, Para," Belqola said. If Warrick hadn't been present, Toreth would have asked why the hell the junior couldn't handle this on his own. "What do you mean, 'hand it over'? They don't need his permission tell them to just take it." Belqola glanced at Warrick, who didn't react. "According to the team, it's not that simple, Para. Apparently it's hidden somewhere, or protected they can't get at it without his cooperation." "Okay. Go and find the team lead and tell him to come up here and wait outside. When you've done that, check how the security team are getting on. They should've written a list of recommendations for places in the building to install I&I surveillance. Deal with that." It was an excuse to take over handling Warrick, and Belqola clearly knew that it was. However, even though it was the second rescue of the day, he didn't make any kind of protest; he simply looked delighted to hand the difficulty over. It was enough to make Toreth wonder if the man had bought those impressive training grades. Toreth joined Warrick by the window. "I have authority to demand the code. You've read the warrant; it's all in order. I don't want to start making threats, because we both know what I can do if I have to. Just do it." "Not a chance." Despite his pale, set expression, Warrick didn't sound angry, only immovable. If Belqola had been hearing this all morning, Toreth could appreciate why he'd been so keen to leave. He spent a moment considering the most profitable approach. "Why not?" he asked eventually. Warrick smiled his unfriendly half-smile. "Do you know, I've been talking to your colleague for what seems like hours and he never once asked that?" "Belqola doesn't care. Neither do I, actually, because you'll have to do it in the end, but I am curious." Warrick turned away again and considered the question for a minute, looking out of the window at the gathering clouds. Then he sighed. "Sit down." Not gracious, but Toreth accepted it as the concession it was. Warrick remained standing, pacing as he talked. "There are two reasons SimTech is still an independent enterprise. The first is that our sponsors know that ultimately they stand to make phenomenal amounts of money from the work we do here. We had sponsors cutting each other's throats rumours suggest literally in one or two cases to be the ones who gave us development capital. As a result, we were able to negotiate contracts which don't infringe on our control of the company." Warrick paused. "That is the first reason. The second is that I control the source code." "Control it?"

"Physically control it. Only I have access to it. There is no way that another company can get at it, or force me to give it to them." Warrick's corporate saintliness was getting harder to believe. "And the rest of the directors are happy with this?" "It's in all our best interests to keep SimTech safe from corporate predation." "And that's enough to keep it safe?" "No." Warrick resumed his pacing. "It's part of a suite of measures to preserve our control. We use various techniques short contracts, specialisation, modular design which make it difficult to hire the knowledge away from us. I designed the system architecture and wrote the core systems, and literally no one else knows precisely how they work. But it is the most basic and fundamental measure, yes." "What happens if you're killed?" Warrick smiled. "An excellent question. Briefly, I have a very long and detailed will, which is absolutely lawyer-proof. It releases all the sim technology into the public domain in the event of my death." Toreth blinked. "What?" "If I were to experience a corporate accident, then the company would be a far less valuable acquisition. I make it a policy to be worth more alive than dead. The release is automatic and timecontrolled; there is no way of stopping it. The arrangement isn't widely known, but I've made sure that it's understood in the right places." Warrick leaned against the windowsill, folding his arms. "I'm sure you can appreciate that after going to all that trouble I cannot allow poorly paid 'experts' from your department to simply walk out of here with the heart of the company. The answer is no." Toreth considered courses of action. He could force Warrick to cooperate and he could make that force as physical as necessary. However, permission to interrogate witnesses was difficult and tedious to obtain, and he was sure Warrick was more than capable of doing something dramatic to thwart the plan destroying the code would be his guess. There had to be another way. Toreth spread his hands, smiled disarmingly. "Okay, say that I do appreciate it. Now, if you could consider my point of view for a minute. I have two bodies, and the sim might've killed them." "No way in hell." The same, unshakable confidence came without hesitation. "If you want to prove that to me, I have to let the systems team see that code. That's the only way to clear the sim's reputation. So what do you suggest?" Finally, he caught Warrick off balance. "What?" "There must be some kind of compromise. Tell me what it is and I'll discuss it with the systems team leader." "Mm." Warrick nodded to the door. "You could ask him to come in." Toreth had completely forgotten about Belqola's errand. A glance into the corridor revealed a patiently waiting man, slight and sandy-haired. As soon as he crossed the threshold, his face lit up. "Doctor Warrick?" Warrick smiled politely. "Yes." This was obviously a regular occurrence. "I'm Carl Knethen." Knethen brushed past Toreth and went to shake hands. "It's an honour to

meet you. I'm terribly sorry about the circumstances. I've kept up to date with SimTech's progress amazing stuff, really fascinating. I'm looking forward to seeing the system very much. We all are." Warrick's smile turned sour and Toreth ground his teeth. This was exactly the reason that he normally went to great lengths to keep experts of any flavour away from the public. He coughed. "Excuse me?" "I'm sorry?" Knethen turned, remembering Toreth's presence. "Oh, yes, of course. What did you want? Para," he added belatedly. Toreth explained the situation to Knethen, who seemed remarkably sanguine considering that essentially Warrick had characterised his entire team as potential thieves. "I thought we had " Knethen began. "A warrant, yes. But forget that for the moment." Toreth turned back to Warrick. "So, tell me what will allow us to do this the easy way." Warrick looked between them, then shrugged. "Very well. Firstly, none of the code leaves the building. It stays here, and your experts work on it here and nowhere else, in a secure room designated by us." Knethen nodded. "Fine." He grinned. "The coffee'll be better, anyway." Warrick didn't smile. "They take nothing out of here that isn't vetted by our systems security people. If anything capable of storing information leaves the room they work in, we see it first." "No." Toreth didn't wait for Knethen's answer. "I can't expose I&I information to outsiders." "Then don't have them bring any with them. Any special cases we can discuss later, but as a basic principle, I cannot let people walk out carrying anything which might contain this code. Not negotiable. No offence intended," he added to Knethen. Knethen ignored the apology and stood, rubbing his chin, eyes downcast. "We can work with that," he said eventually. "If we have to." "There must be no comms," Warrick said. "Personal or otherwise I'll arrange an admin to handle messages." Another glance at the systems specialist, and Toreth nodded. Finally, Warrick smiled slightly. "Then, reserving the right to make minor modifications as necessary, I think I can see my way clear to allowing an inspection of the code." 'Allowing' the arrogant fuck. Still, Toreth had to admit that the arrogance was justified in this case, since Warrick had just extracted major concessions from an I&I investigation. On the other hand, if it made Toreth's own life easier, why the hell should he care? Leaving the two of them to sort out the details, Toreth headed off for his next appointment. ~~~ LiveCorp occupied a classic corporate headquarters in the heart of the New London corporate district. Not a brand-new building, but all the more impressive for its air of old money. Toreth managed to be ten minutes early for his appointment, which he considered the perfect amount early enough to look respectful but not enough to seem pushy. While he waited, he watched the respectable corporates to-ing and fro-ing, and considered his approach. Corporate sabotage was neither legal nor, always, subtle. Murders of high-level executives lay on the far end of a spectrum that began with disgruntled employees taking a few euros to steal information or delay a project. Relatively few corporations would take something as far as killing,

because the unofficial corporate code dictated tit for tat action, response carefully balanced to each attack. In Toreth's opinion, there were far too many game theorists in the corporate world. While he might hope that the surviving Tefferas would cooperate fully with the enquiry, it was more likely that they planned to deal with any threat to the corporation by themselves. If they'd wanted a serious investigation by outsiders, they would've pressed for an I&I involvement from the beginning. Part of I&I's function was to enforce Administration law and (far more nebulously defined) Administration will over the corporations. At the same time, they were expected to ensure that the corporations, and most particularly the senior corporate figures, were allowed to go about their productive lives unmolested by resisters, criminals or excessive corporate roughhousing. Defining 'excessive' was one part of the problem. The customary flexibility in the law where the rich were concerned labelled 'corporate privilege' by resisters was a murky area. Still, once corporate sabotage escalated to killing, the Administration preferred to step in and put a stop to it. Except in the instances where they didn't. Generally, Toreth was adept at finding out which cases to pursue and which to close quietly, unsolved. Here there would doubtless be the usual mess of competing factors, and he'd have to poke around on the edges until he found a solid suspect, or until he received a clear cease and desist from higher up. When his wait was up, an immaculate admin showed him into a lift, which rose so smoothly he couldn't feel the motion. The woman escorted him to a door which was flanked by a matched pair of two of the largest bodyguards Toreth had seen in his life. Unusually, they didn't seem to be simply for show the inspection they gave the visitors was thoroughly professional, including a check on the ID of the admin accompanying him. They were also armed. Legal enough for corporate security, but the sight always irritated Toreth, because signing weapons out at I&I was such a tedious process. The admin pushed open the door and waved him through. The room looked to be the antechamber to a main office beyond. Simple, pale colours were the current fashion in corporate design. This office, though obviously newly decorated, had dark, patterned wallpaper and carpets. An interesting statement, for a company that pursued the cutting edge in entertainment technology. The beautiful furniture was also old, or rather antique old was his own sofa at home. A man and woman waited for him in chairs set around a small conference table. He recognised them from their security files and from their resemblance to one of his problematical corpses. Their files had given their ages as fifty-four for her, and fifty-two for him, which made Jon Teffera the baby of the family at forty. Very young for a death in corporate circles, or at least for a natural death. Ordinarily, he would have spoken to them separately, but they had refused the suggestion. As Justice had already conducted all their interviews with brother and sister in the same room, he didn't see the point in antagonising them over the question. "Mr Teffera, Ms Teffera, my name is Senior Para-investigator Val Toreth." The man nodded, and stood to shake Toreth's hand. "I'm Marc Teffera. This is my sister, Caprice. She is the official CEO of LiveCorp, as well as head of the legal department." Toreth shook her hand too, resisting the urge to make any comments about counting his fingers

afterwards. "This is an informal interview." The woman offered him a seat. "And we are here as Jon's relatives." You're just choosing to do it here, where I won't forget what else you are. "Excellent. Well, I'll try not to take up too much of your valuable time, because I already have your previous interviews with Justice. First of all, then, is there anything you wish to add to your Justice statements, anything you've thought of since?" "No," Caprice Teffera said with finality. Toreth looked between them, meeting a united front of non-cooperation. "In that case," he said, "I have a few questions. One thing it didn't mention in the file was why you became interested in SimTech in the first place." "I assume that you've seen Jon's medical file?" His nod seemed to annoy her. "Involvement in the sim was Jon's idea," she said. "It gave him back parts of his life he thought he had lost forever. However, he didn't spend corporate money recklessly all the investments were reviewed by the finance division here and approved by the board." Marc Teffera nodded. "Jon insisted on that. We I at least would have been happy to support SimTech for personal reasons." "So would I," Caprice agreed. "But it wasn't necessary. LiveCorp has interests in all areas of the leisure industry it's the core of our business, the foundation on which our mother built the corporation. We have contracts with Administration leisure centres across Europe as well as extensive private sector business." And lots of powerful friends, she didn't need to add. "P-Leisure is our largest representative in the sexual leisure market. "No flicker of emotion as she said it. "It's one of our most profitable subsidiaries, and SimTech is a natural partner for them." The kind of person who'd say adult-themed entertainment when she meant porn. "You've been satisfied by the results?" Toreth asked. "More than satisfied," Marc said without hesitation. "They have delivered ahead of schedule and fulfilled their side of the contract admirably." "So you'll be reinvesting?" Marc opened his mouth to reply, but his sister cut in. "That will depend, of course, on the formal financial assessment of P-Leisure's partnership with SimTech, which has yet to be completed." "So there are problems?" Caprice smiled coolly. "The question was already under routine review. With Jon's death we'll be reconsidering several of our associations." Marc Teffera nodded, adding silent support to her statement. Toreth decided to try something blunter. "And if the sim were proved to have killed him, then you'd pull out?" "The situation is under review," she repeated. "Do you think Jon's death was sabotage?" Toreth asked. Now Caprice leaned across and, without making the least attempt to hide it, whispered something to her brother, who nodded. There was no point, Toreth knew, in asking what she'd said.

"We are taking steps of our own to investigate that," Caprice said blandly. Clean, but hard, Liz Carey's junior had called them. "In any particular directions?" "We're being guided by our security division." Caprice folded her hands on the table in front of her. "And, naturally, they will do all in their power that is both legal and proper." Naturally. In fact, LiveCorp would already be devoting far more resources to discovering who might be behind Teffera's death than Tillotson would ever authorize. No doubt they'd take steps to deal with any culprits too. Toreth closed his eyes briefly, opening them again before the vision of a spiralling corporate vendetta in the middle of his investigation became too disturbingly clear. "Para-investigator," Marc said. "If I may ask something?" "Of course." "Do you have any evidence that this . . ." Marc glanced at his sister. "Kelly Jarvis," Caprice supplied. "Yes, of course. Do you have any evidence for a link between her death and Jon's?" "We're investigating a number of possibilities." He clearly took that as a negative. "But is there any reason to suspect her death was caused by the sim?" The interest in Kelly was hardly surprising. The only real question was whether the Tefferas were more concerned about their brother's death, or the health of their investment in the sim. Caprice was watching him intently, waiting for his answer. He decided to try a direct approach. "Why do you want to know?" Another whispered exchange, then Caprice said, "Internal security arrangements." Of course he'd missed the third possibility. "If any sabotage is aimed at SimTech rather than LiveCorp, you'll both be sleeping better than you have for the last few weeks?" She inclined her head. A likely enough reason. "There's no reason at all to blame the sim, as yet," Toreth said. "Beyond her body being discovered in the couch, with no other easily attributable cause of death." "And do you expect to find anything more definitive?" Marc asked. Let me check my crystal fucking ball. "I really couldn't say." Caprice nodded, her expression closing again obviously exactly the answer she'd expected, if maybe not what she'd hoped for. "If anything is resolved in that respect, we'd like to know at the earliest opportunity." Toreth had an urge to ask why the hell she thought he ought to go out of his way to help them, when they were doing their damndest to shut him out. "I'll keep you informed, of course. As far as is legal and proper." That drew a sharp glance from Caprice, and Toreth mentally put even money on getting a memo later from Tillotson about upsetting corporates. Fuck him. "Do you think that your brother's death was caused by the sim?" he asked. "I'm a lawyer, not a doctor," she snapped. Then, as Marc Teffera shifted in his seat, her face softened very slightly. "I wouldn't blame the sim without some better evidence. We've known for years that there would be a limit on Jon's time with us. As I'm sure you read, he decided against

further treatment, which was . . . perhaps not what the rest of the family wanted. But there was never any arguing with Jon when he made up his mind." "He wanted quality, not quantity," Marc added. "In life and " He tapped his fingers on the table. "In life and the corporation. And " He stopped, his voice hoarse, and Caprice reached over and laid her hand on his arm, squeezing gently. Unostentatious and, as far as Toreth's could tell, perfectly sincere grief and sympathy. However, when she turned back to him, her expression was unreadable and her voice cool again. "Do you have any more questions, Para-investigator?" Dismissed from the audience. "I'd like to speak to some of the LiveCorp staff, especially at PLeisure," Toreth said. "Primarily the people who handled the contract with SimTech." "Of course," Caprice said. "We'll help in any way we can." The woman could give lessons in polite insincerity. He was wasting his time here, time he could have spent doing something more useful. Perhaps if he'd been here two weeks ago he might've been able to pull something out, but they'd had too long to pick their positions and dig in to defend. To get anything now, he'd need the kind of damage waiver not normally available for people like the Tefferas. Trying to hide his irritation, Toreth went through the ritual of goodbyes and empty promises to call him if anything occurred, and went back to I&I. Maybe things would look brighter after the weekend.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
Four days later, Toreth sat in the coffee room and pondered the unfairness of life. A juicy corporate sabotage case involving a major corporation would be a perfect addition to his CV. Right now, Warrick's protestations notwithstanding, he'd put his money on a malfunction of new technology and thus not I&I's concern. The investigation would be passed over to the Department of Finance and Corporate Affairs for an enquiry that would stretch out for months, even years; by the time they reached a conclusion, SimTech would be long bankrupt. Toreth stared into his mug and sighed. The end of another long day spent wading through files Justice files, corporate reports, medical reports, interviews from SimTech and LiveCorp, technical files and for all the progress he'd made he might as well have stayed in bed. He'd found no clue as to who, how or why. Normally, Toreth preferred method over motive any day. Right now, he would have accepted the slenderest hint of either with profound gratitude. "It's unnatural, that's what it is," Toreth told his coffee. Chevril looked up from his borrowed copy of the JAPI. "Must be something bloody odd if you think so." From his vantage point of long years of faithful marriage, he vocally disapproved of Toreth's lifestyle. "No one can be as nice a guy as Jon Teffera and manage a successful corporation," Toreth elaborated. "It's not natural." "Oh, right. Your case." He looked slightly relieved. "Figurehead?" "Something like that." Toreth dipped a biscuit in his coffee and nibbled thoughtfully. "Except not quite. He didn't do the day-to-day stuff, but he was definitely involved. All the staff knew him, and they all, without exception, loved him. Not a bad word to say about the bastard. There's a brother and sister Teffera at LiveCorp, and they're harder, no doubt, but they're still nicer than your average corporates." That didn't impress Chevril. "So are scorpions." "Point. They liked him, though, and it seemed genuine enough. No rivalry that I noticed, and the staff all said the same thing." "Christ, you're right. It's not natural." Chevril laid the journal down on his knee. "Doesn't mean it's not corporate, mind." "That's what the brother and sister think they were fucking delighted to hear the sabotage might be aimed at SimTech. Right now they've got gun-toting security lurking everywhere in case they're next on the list. Mind you, if LiveCorp is the target then they're probably right to worry, because Jon Teffera's death isn't going to hurt LiveCorp that much." Toreth picked a bit of biscuit out from between his teeth while he thought about his interview with the Tefferas. "If it were me, I'd kill the sister. She's the smart one mummy made CEO." "How'd he die?" Chevril asked after a moment. "No fucking clue." He swallowed a mouthful of coffee, then shrugged. "Could even be natural causes. He'd got a medical file thick enough to beat him to death with." Chevril eyed him, obviously perplexed. "So why the hell are you wasting your time with it?" "I'm beginning to wonder the same thing." Toreth sighed. "I've spent five days digging for dirt on

Teffera or LiveCorp, and I haven't got enough to fill a coffee mug. They're so clean there almost has to be something wrong somewhere." "So what does that leave? Someone couldn't put up with his charming smile? Or how about an affair with someone's wife that's usually a good one." "Or husband," Toreth said, just to provoke the grimace of distaste from Chevril. He duly obliged, nose wrinkling. "I suppose so. So was he?" "Not in the real world. Paraplegic." "Let me guess not at all bitter about it?" "You're getting the hang of it. You can add bravery and a helping of noble suffering to the allround sugary niceness." "I can feel my teeth rotting." Chevril stared at the ceiling as he considered. "Um, how about . . . good-looking nurse in the picture? He was about to marry her okay, okay, or him and disinherit the family?" "No." Toreth gave the idea a moment's more consideration, then dismissed it. "And, you know, I don't think they'd mind if he did." "Okay, I give up. So what have you got?" "Fuck all. No, tell a lie a tonne of files and a fuck-load of waspy little memos from Tillotson. Buzzing in every five minutes. I think he's got a nest of the fucking things in his office. Half of them are telling me to get a move on, half of them are telling me not to piss off any corporates while I'm doing it." Chevril nodded, looking almost sympathetic. "I get Kel to deal with those." "I told Sara this afternoon that if I see another one, I'm going to hard-copy the lot, take them to Tillotson's office and ram them down whatever bodily orifice I find first." Chevril snorted. "Let me know if you do, so I can sell tickets. What about your other corpse?" Toreth had to think for a moment. "The girl from SimTech? No cause of death there either. Could easily have nothing to do with Teffera." Chevril nodded. "Right. LiveCorp's got to be the target, hasn't it? Killing Teffera would be a hell of way to get at a small corporation like SimTech." Toreth thought the same thing, but habit made him argue Chevril's point. "It'll get the sponsor's attention, though. People like the Tefferas live with the threat of sabotage, but the key is risk versus reward. Right now, they can see either there's an active sabotage campaign in progress or the sim's a lousy fucking investment anyway because it's killing users. Either way, the Tefferas might not be the only ones deciding to play it safe by not reinvesting." Chevril nodded thoughtfully, and Toreth had to admit it didn't sound bad. Damn near convincing, in fact. "At least the girl's fresh," Chevril said. "Fresher. I'd try her and see if you can get something from that. Actually, I'd kick the whole thing back to Justice and let them chase their tails over it." Chevril stood up. The journal slithered to the floor and he stooped to pick it up. "See you later," he said as he straightened. "Oh, listen to this first, though my prisoner finally turned up. And guess what?" "She's your long-lost sister?" Chevril rolled his eyes. "No, of course not. After all that bloody fuss over the m-f, days of filling

in forms and Tillotson sticking his pointy nose in, the silly bitch went and confessed, first session. I didn't even unwrap an injector. I could kill her." Toreth grinned. "Is she annexed?" "No, they want her alive for the trial." Chevril slapped his palm with the rolled-up JAPI. "I tell you, between the bloody prisoners and the bloody management, as soon as I find a decent job, I'm out of here." ~~~ As soon as he reached the office the next morning, Toreth read through the interviews with SimTech investors. Prior to Teffera's death, the sponsors and the personal friends of the directors all sounded highly satisfied with the corporation's performance. Now, however, there was a sharp division. The confidence of the personal friends in the corporation remained unshaken. The only sign of concern came from Warrick's sister Dillian, currently off-world on Mars. Judging by the transcript, she had spent most of the interview quizzing Barret-Connor about how serious the trouble at SimTech was, and whether her brother needed her to cut short her stay and catch a shuttle back immediately. Touching fraternal devotion, or whatever the hell the sisterly equivalent was. The corporates were, predictably, showing less loyalty. There was a definite edge of wariness. Half of them had refused even an initial interview without sheaves of commercial confidentiality warrants. The rest had issued standard boilerplate stating that their relations with SimTech were commercially unexceptionable, and that they had no knowledge of the current situation that might be of the slightest interest to I&I. If Teffera's death was designed to make investors nervous, it was working. Or perhaps the killer was selecting sim users genuinely at random, in which case the investigation was probably fucked from the start. Or the sim was killing users. Or one or both deaths were due to natural causes. Too many possibilities. Much as it galled him to admit it, Chevril had been right. It had been a mistake to concentrate on the important name. Teffera's death had happened days ago and the sloppy Justice interview techniques had contaminated the witnesses. So now, hopefully not too late, it was time to look more closely at Kelly and pray there was a connection to Teffera. For some reason someone had singled her out to die. With luck, there would be a link, some evidence leading back Teffera's killer. Warrick seemed like a good place to start his new angle of enquiry. Toreth hadn't seen the director since the resolution of the code problem, or even had a message from him, which meant that the systems experts weren't making too much of a nuisance of themselves. This in turn probably meant they weren't getting anywhere. More bad news. He called SimTech and made an appointment to see Warrick. It wasn't strictly necessary, but it was tactful. Slightly to his surprise, Warrick's admin made the appointment without any fuss for eleven-thirty. Next Toreth pulled up the hypothetical observer record of the sim session and went through Kelly Jarvis's last hours in more detail. For fuck research, it was very dull. For two hours, Yang sat absolutely still at a table in a bare room that reminded Toreth of the interrogation rooms at I&I. Kelly sat opposite him, stroking the backs of his hands. Twenty strokes in each run, left and right mixed up at random, and then they would

pause for five minutes, chatting about work, home and friends. Then Yang would draw his breath in sharply, and tell Kelly the sequence of strokes. After another pause, they would repeat the process. It wouldn't make much money as commercial porn, or even adult-themed entertainment. Toreth skipped through the recording, watching the few sections marked for his attention, although they were nothing more exciting than office gossip. Finally, Yang vanished from the recording, and the room changed. Beautiful white sand stretched endlessly, sandwiched between tall palm trees fringing the beach and a glittering blue lagoon. Kelly's clothes transmuted into a skimpy bikini, which in Toreth's opinion rather unflatteringly emphasised her flat chest. She used the control panel to install a large beach towel and a low table with a selection of drinks. After a quick swim, she spent most of the rest of the hour building, with some assistance from an assortment of self-powering buckets and spades, a vast and impressive model of a castle in sand, complete with outer walls and a deep moat. Castle completed, she sat on the towel for a while, drinking the still cold-looking fruit juice and admiring her creation. Eventually she glanced at her watch, called up the control panel again and did something that was presumably the cause of the huge waves that, improbably, swelled up in the lagoon shortly afterwards. Toreth watched, a little uneasily, as they rolled fatly up the beach to break against the ramparts of the castle. A dozen or so, and the castle was obliterated, the sand wiped clean as if it had never been. Kelly smiled, stood up, and the screen went blank. Toreth sighed. He had a recording of the whole series of events leading up to Kelly's death, and there was nothing to find. Frustratingly, the death must have occurred almost immediately after the end of the recording, if the visor and restraints had never been removed. And, during those few seconds, the access system suggested that no one else could have entered the room. Despite Warrick's protestations to the contrary, it looked like a sim-generated accident rather than murder. The only evidence that argued against it was the fault in the reception area security system. However, technical specialists had refused to commit themselves to a conclusion of sabotage the most they were willing to say was that it was possible. Two deaths and a security failure couldn't be coincidental. Could they? ~~~ "Give me a moment, I'll just tidy up," Warrick said. "Thanks for seeing me," Toreth said as Warrick attempted to clear space amidst the mess. Warrick waved a folder, dismissing the thanks. "I left instructions that you were to be accommodated at any time. Annoying as it is to have every aspect of the corporation disrupted, I do realise that assisting you is in my and all our best interests." "Thank you for your cooperation." Reflexive investigator response as he watched Warrick moving round the room. He'd forgotten over the last few days how attractive the man was. Not classically handsome, but compelling in a way Toreth couldn't define. Was it his confidence? Or maybe it was the contrast between his current self-assurance and the still vivid memory of Warrick asking begging to be fucked. How does it feel, Toreth wanted to ask, to look at me and remember how much you wanted it? Wanted someone you despise? However it felt, it apparently wasn't enough to ruffle Warrick's composure now. He appeared utterly at ease, secure in his kingdom. In control. Toreth never fucked suspects not during the investigation anyway but the temptation tugged at him now, unexpectedly strong. Not lust so much

as a desire to crack through Warrick's defenses. To see him for just a moment as he'd been in the room at the Renaissance Centre. His cock certainly approved of the idea, waking and stretching. "I'm not offering a general invitation, by the way," Warrick continued. "I don't want your less proficient subordinates eating up my time with inane questions." Pausing in his tidying, he gave Toreth a slight smile which didn't match his acid tone. "You, however, are always welcome." He didn't give himself any more time to think about it, nor did he want to. As Warrick turned away again, Toreth took hold of him, pushing him back against the desk, stifling a surprised protest with a firm kiss. After couple of minutes, Warrick pulled back, breathing raggedly. "Door. We should the door. Lock it," he said, with flattering incoherence. Toreth shook his head, not wanting to break the contact or give himself time to consider what he was doing. His hand slid between them, fumbling for fastenings. "We'll just have to be quick." "I doubt " Warrick's head went back and he gasped as Toreth's hand closed round his cock. " that's going to be a problem," he finished in a rush, already reaching for Toreth in return. It was fast, frantic and unexpectedly satisfying. Afterwards, as more calculating thought returned, Toreth watched Warrick wiping his fingers clean with a tissue and refastening his clothes, and wondered what the fuck he'd just done. It was one thing to fuck a witness a witness who was technically also a suspect before the investigation started. It was still against regulations not to have declared a personal involvement in the case. However, it wasn't a major disciplinary offence, so long as the investigation went well and Tillotson didn't have any other reasons to start hunting for ammunition. This was different. It was, in fact, insane. If Warrick gave any hint of the fuck to anyone . . . Toreth was still trying to come up with a request for discretion without too much desperation in it, when Warrick spoke. "I take it," he said meditatively, "that lies somewhat outside standard interview techniques." Toreth nodded, trying to keep his voice steady. "Somewhat." "Then I shall be sure not to mention it to anybody." Warrick flashed a brilliant smile. "Although perhaps you should suggest it to your superiors. It certainly puts me in a very helpful mood." "Thanks," Toreth said, covering both the offer and the compliment. That had been unexpectedly easy. He wondered where and when the payback would come. Warrick moved round the desk and dropped rather heavily into his chair. "What did you want to ask me about?" "What? Oh, yes." He took a seat opposite Warrick and set up the camera while he adjusted from pleasure back to business. "Whatever the dead girl was working on." "Kelly," Warrick said, with a flicker of irritation. "Yes, of course. Kelly. Tell me about her work." He knew a little about the technical bare bones of Kelly's research from the files but it was always useful to hear what other people considered to be the important points. If the sudden and somewhat belated interest surprised Warrick, he didn't show it. He paused, considering the admittedly broad request, then began. "Her research was funded largely by P-Leisure. They're a subsidiary of LiveCorp, as I expect you know." Interesting that, from the sound of it, neither of the Tefferas had called Warrick to tell him about

their interview with I&I. "Did she know Jon Teffera? Had she met him?" "Kelly? I doubt it. Jon very rarely visited the building as a courtesy we always went to him." Toreth nodded. "The project go on." "As you might guess from the name, P-Leisure are largely concerned with the sexual leisure market. You may be familiar with some of their products." Warrick smiled, without looking at him. "So I'm sure you can see that the sim tech is something in which they're very interested. They're one of our largest sponsors, in fact, and they also fund several studentships. Kelly's project was originally titled, ah, Changes in human neural cells following exposure to sense-memory stacking, if I recall correctly. Unfortunate, really." "Unfortunate?" "Yes. There didn't seem to be any startling changes that she could find, compared to other types of sim experience. Unfortunate for her project, lucky for us. We're hoping to market SMS in due course, provided that we can eliminate all the safety concerns." Safety concerns sounded interesting. "So what went wrong with the project? Why did the title change?" "After the preliminary investigations showed essentially no effect, her university supervisor suggested a change of thesis title, and the sponsors agreed. The new one was Molecular mechanisms of memory integration after SMS experiences. More scope for positive results. One of the staff scientists finished off the original project. Kelly was beginning to get some interesting data, although she'd only been on the new project for six months before she . . ." His voice trailed off and he made a helpless gesture. "Before she died." Something nagged at Toreth's memory, then crystallised into a question. "Six months? There's a disciplinary note on her file from around then. What happened?" "Ah, yes." Warrick sighed. "That was the other reason for the project change." "Why didn't you mention it?" "I didn't think it was important. And it seemed . . . inappropriate. The poor woman's dead, and it was all over and done with months ago." "Warrick " Toreth was about to launch into one of his practised and mildly intimidating speeches regarding who decided what was and wasn't relevant, when something stopped him. Perhaps the oh-so-satisfying encounter on the desk only a few minutes ago, or the memory of the previous fucks. Or just the sound of his own voice saying Warrick's name Toreth was fairly sure he'd said it earlier too, as he came. He shook his head. This was getting ridiculous. "Just tell me. Anything might be relevant." Warrick didn't need to be intimidated the point was valid, so Toreth guessed Warrick would accept it. Which he promptly did. "Of course. My apologies. Kelly carried out the original project, along with a girl called Tara Scrivin. Kelly is was a neurobiologist. Tara is primarily a biochemist. A good combination for the research." Tara Scrivin the woman Yang claimed had spoken to Jarvis in the sim. "So what happened?" "Tara became ill. Mentally ill. Dr Tanit maintains it was an adverse reaction to the sim. Excessive immersion, as she styles it. She and I differ on the validity of her interpretation of the episode." Toreth knew enough to spot academic knives out when he saw them, and that Warrick's

statement roughly translated to 'I think she's talking shit'. "What's she like?" "Dr Tanit?" Warrick thought about the question for a few moments, longer than he'd had to think about other things. "She's highly professional." Toreth smiled. "You don't like her?" "We don't pay her to be likeable. We pay her to be an excellent psychologist, which she is." He smiled slightly. "However, as a matter of fact, I don't dislike her personally. We have some areas of disagreement, that's all." Toreth thought back to his original question. "Why was Kelly disciplined?" "Ah, yes. There are rules about sim access how often and for how long people may use it, and so forth. Tara had legitimate reasons to use the sim for her work, but Kelly helped her to get extra time. Rather a lot of extra time." He hesitated, then continued. "There was an unofficial system in which people traded time, giving their allocation for one month to someone else in exchange for time at a later date, or for another favour. Senior staff, myself included, allowed the system to operate. It no longer does so." "Because of Tara?" "Because of the measures Dr Tanit put into place with the directors' and sponsors' approval. I have to stress that there is no evidence that excessive sim use caused Tara's illness; the causation might just as easily flow in the other direction." "What, exactly, happened?" Clearly uncomfortable with the question, Warrick hesitated. "Perhaps it would be better to ask Dr Tanit for the medical details. However, the practical consequences were that Tara was apprehended fortunately on the way to her ex-boyfriend's flat with a couple of large bottles of solvents, a box of matches and a note explaining that they had decided to die together." None of this had been in the personnel files Toreth had seen. "The young man concerned very kindly agreed not to take the matter further," Warrick continued. "SimTech naturally paid for Tara's treatment, until she was fit to return to work." "You let her come back?" "Of course." Warrick sounded mildly offended. "Once her treatment was completed and Dr Tanit was prepared to declare her fit there was no reason not to. We arranged a more theoretical project analysis and modelling which doesn't require sim usage. We don't abandon our employees or students." "A kindler, gentler corporation?" Toreth let the disbelief leak through into his voice, drawing a sharp look from Warrick. "It's not our policy to throw fragile children onto the streets with a record which would render them virtually unemployable, no," he said precisely. "And she is a talented and hard-working scientist. The situation was unfortunate, and not her fault." One word caught his attention. "Children?" "Sorry. It's hard to think of her as a woman. Or rather . . . you haven't met Tara, have you? Someone once said to me that she made them think of fairytales about changelings." Toreth had never read any kid's stories, and had no intention of starting now. "What do you mean?"

"Well, she when you meet her, you'll see what I mean." Warrick sat up suddenly. "You're going to ask her about this, aren't you?" "Yes. She has a link to Kelly and possibly some reason to hold a grudge against her. She's tried to kill before " "That's ridiculous!" "No, it isn't." Actually, it probably was. A desperate murder-and-suicide was a far cry from two carefully premeditated, passionless killings. However, Toreth was willing to follow any lead that offered itself. "It's my job." Warrick looked at him expressionlessly, and then nodded. "Well, I can't stop you." No, you can't, Toreth thought with an odd satisfaction, but there was no need to antagonise Warrick more than required. "I'll try not to frighten her. Tell me more about this . . . what did you call it? Her project." "Sense-memory stacking? It's one of the fringe developments of the sex side of the sim programme. P-Leisure have been very generous with funding for projects with a lower predicted success." "So what's wrong with it?" Warrick frowned. "Nothing. It's simply a highly technical application. It requires a greater degree of direct manipulation of the brain." "Is it dangerous?" "Not in my opinion. No more than any other part of the sim, which is to say that while it's in the development stage, rigorous safety precautions are perforce associated with it." Sometimes Warrick sounded exactly like the corporate he was. "But you mentioned safety concerns?" Warrick shook his head. "Nothing that could kill a user, if that's what you're thinking. Marian Dr Tanit has raised concerns in the past regarding addictive properties, that's all." "How does it work?" "The SMS?" Warrick frowned again, thoughtful rather than annoyed this time. "I'll add an outline to the technical summary for you. But " He checked the screen. "The problem is time and space on the sim . . . ah." He looked back with a hint of challenge in his voice and in his slight smile. "Perhaps it would be easier to show you than to explain. If you'd be willing to take part in a scheduled test, I could arrange a demonstration for the day after tomorrow Friday afternoon." Toreth weighed it up. He'd been in the sim before, of course, but that was before he knew about its tendency to produce dead bodies. "I'll be in the sim with you," Warrick said. "I assure you that it's perfectly safe. No need to be afraid." Which I can see you are, he didn't need to add. Toreth sighed silently. One day, he was going to get himself into trouble. Maybe this was the day. "What time?" he asked. ~~~ Outside Tanit's office, Toreth read her statement through, and in the process found another

reference to Tara Scrivin she and Tanit alibied each other. On the day of Kelly Jarvis's murder, Dr Tanit had left the building at seven-forty, confirmed by both Tara Scrivin and the receptionist a slightly later than average departure time, according to the security logs. She and Tara had gone to Tara's room on campus and Dr Tanit had left there at tenthirty. Consequently, the interview with her had been brief, and information about Tanit in the case file was sketchy. The main point in the interview was that Tanit had called Justice about Kelly's death. She'd told Barret-Connor she'd had no special reason for making the call it had simply seemed like the right thing to do, which was no kind of reason at all. Apparently she hadn't felt the need to consult with the directors first. At the bottom of the interview Barret-Connor had added, Don't let her ask you about your mother. Toreth had told B-C before that if he absolutely had to put jokes in case files, he could at least make them funny. Finally the door to the office opened. He didn't know the woman who left a SimTech employee, presumably but the tall, spare woman who stayed in the doorway he recognised at once from her security file. She had light auburn hair, greying slightly, and pale blue eyes that now examined him thoroughly. He'd thought 'arrogant' when he'd seen the picture, and he thought it again now as she studied him, taking her time, before she nodded him into the office. She took a seat behind her desk, sitting stiffly. The firm set of her mouth reminded him of Warrick easy to imagine sparks flying between them. "I understand you have some questions about one of SimTech's employees?" she said as he sat down. "Yes. Or rather, students. I want to know the details of Tara Scrivin's illness what caused it, exactly what happened, her treatment, her current mental state. I need a copy of her corporate medical file, and any additional information or opinions you have that would be relevant." Tanit shook her head. "That is medically confidential information." "We both know I can have a disclosure warrant issued right now, if I want it." "Then get it." Tanit checked her screen. "You'll be glad to know that I have no more appointments today I'm leaving an open door for anyone who wishes to discuss any personal difficulties, or concerns about the sim, following Kelly's death. Come back when you have the warrant. Otherwise, don't waste your time or mine." "Dr Tanit, this isn't a game." She stood up. "Patient confidentiality isn't a game, either, Para-investigator. I'm sure that you take your job seriously. Please do me the courtesy of believing I do the same." Knowing a hopeless fight when he saw one, Toreth stood too. "Can you at least tell me if we're going to get two sentences into the interview and come up against a commercial confidentiality problem I'll need another warrant for?" Tanit smiled slightly. "There is nothing commercially sensitive regarding Tara's treatment. Unless, that is, you count her excessive immersion reaction." "And do you?" She spread her hands. "How can I, when my contract says otherwise?"

He decided to wait until later to find out what that meant. ~~~ Sara promised to get him the warrant within the next hour, a time lag that might have been designed to annoy. Too short to make a trip back to I&I worthwhile, too long to wait and do nothing. There was no point interviewing Tara until he had the information from Tanit. Toreth called I&I, asked Mistry to meet him at SimTech, and then filled the time by talking to the systems team. He found them locked away in a stuffy room crammed with screens. A SimTech guard on the door politely requested that he surrender his hand screen and comm earpiece before entering, which grated even though Toreth had agreed to the conditions. The news from the team that they had nothing yet to link the sims to the deaths, and no immediate prospect of progress didn't improve his mood by the time the warrant arrived. Tempted to walk straight into the psychologist's office, he opted for the politer route of knocking. No need to antagonise her unnecessarily. And, to be fair to her, with the warrant in order she made no further protest. The story she recounted was simply a more detailed version of the information obtained from Warrick and the released medical files, with the difference that Tanit placed the blame for the incident firmly on the sim. As she spoke, he let his gaze take in her office quite the opposite of Warrick's, with her desk clear and the few paper files neatly shelved. Personal touches too, which had been missing from Warrick's office. Professional credentials on the wall, fresh flowers in an ugly vase that had the look of an impossible-to-refuse handmade gift. Probably a childhood present from her son or daughter. Their photographs sat on the table under the window both now postgraduate students elsewhere in the Administration if he recalled Tanit's file accurately. It was unusual for a woman without a registered partner to be granted permission to conceive by the Department of Population. No doubt a psychologist would find it easier to pass the more stringent psych evaluation for solo applicants. "Doctor Warrick mentioned that you thought the SMS might be addictive," Toreth said when she finished speaking. "Indeed, although the SMS is only a more serious manifestation of a problem with the sim as a whole." Finally, someone willing to admit the sim might be less than perfect. "Problem?" "The sim is very . . ." Her eyes narrowed. "Seductive might be a good general term, although too close a focus on the sexual element is counterproductive. It gives access to a world that can be absolutely controlled. Somewhere there is no danger, no risk, no chance of failure. All wishes can be gratified, without consequences. To vulnerable personality types it can be powerfully attractive." Perfect place for a control freak like Warrick, too. "So what happened?" "In her personal sim time, Tara created a room her boyfriend's flat. It included a simple representation of the boyfriend himself, which required a restricted technology she shouldn't have had access to. With those, she played out certain fantasies destructive impulses directed towards herself and to him. She obtained more sim time than she was entitled to, and eventually her understanding of the distinction between her experiences in the sim and the real world broke down. I've written an unpublished case study about it. Dissociative disorder in a young woman triggered by immersion in an artificial reality."

"Unpublished? SimTech suppressed it?" She shook her head. "Your word, not mine, Para-investigator. Its publication is not considered commercially appropriate." "How would you characterise Tara's current mental state?" "She responded well to treatment and I don't see any reason to expect a relapse now, although the stress placed upon her by current events is unfortunate. We've begun what you might call sim rehabilitation sessions supervised reintroduction to the sim. She requested it. She wants to resume her work. I may have to rethink it now, however." "How did she feel about Kelly Jarvis?" "She was devastated, of course." "I meant before that. Did she blame Kelly for what happened six months ago?" Tanit looked at him sharply. "If you are fishing for suspects, Para-investigator, then I won't supply them." Toreth adjusted the camera slightly, a reminder if the official nature of the interview. "Answer the question, please." "Very well." Tanit spoke directly to the camera. "Tara did not in any way blame Kelly for what happened. If anything, she blamed herself for persuading Kelly to help her obtain access to the sim and to the restricted code she used. Kelly was disciplined for her part in it and Tara felt guilty about that." "Doctor Warrick mentioned that. And also that you suggested new measures to improve safety, which the sponsors approved." "Indeed. They don't listen to my concerns very often hardly ever, in fact. However, a psychotic episode finally caught their attention. "She smiled sourly." After I hammered the point home for some time. Perhaps they were worried about the mental health of their expensive investments. They twisted the directors' arms and persuaded them to make some concessions and give me more supervisory powers." "What can you do?" "I can interview any heavy sim user at any time, and suspend them from work in the sim if I find it appropriate. The standard interval is four weeks. I would have preferred to make it shorter, but the authority to insist on the sessions didn't come with a budget for the extra assistants required to make that possible. I interview and re-evaluate users of the off-site machines as well, at the same intervals. I try to speak to new recruits once every week at least, until I feel they are unlikely to be at risk. To compensate for this, the more experienced senior staff often slip to meetings every six weeks, or even longer." "How often do you ban people?" No hesitation in her reply. "Oh, there are usually two or three suspensions a month." He blinked. "That many?" "I prefer to operate on a precautionary basis. Most early signs of dependency or excessive immersion resolve spontaneously after a few days' or occasionally weeks' withdrawal from the sim. Easily manageable when I can control access to all the machines in the world." Sparks flying from that grinding axe. "And is it enough? Could what happened to Tara happen again?"

"I freely admit the safeguards are adequate if rigorously enforced to prevent a repetition of the events." She smiled slightly. "Something I've learned here from working with programmers, Parainvestigator do you know why most estimates for project completion dates are underestimates?" He considered. "Because people say what their bosses want to hear?" That produced the first real smile of the interview. "Indeed. But apart from that excellent observation?" The answer was obvious from the context. "Because only the time needed to solve the known problems can be included in the estimate. But there are always a host of unknown ones." "Exactly. As with estimates, so with safety precautions." Tanit hesitated. "May I be present while you question Tara?" "No." She nodded, clearly expecting the answer. The very fact that she accepted it without protest made him add, "I'll be as careful as I can." "Thank you." That over, he decided to pursue the question of the sim's safety with the one person who seemed willing to consider it. "What do you think of Doctor Warrick?" Tanit hesitated not as long as Warrick had, but long enough. "He's a very intelligent man, and he makes an excellent corporate. Many technical people don't." "No flaws at all?" Another silence before she replied, "If he has a flaw, I would say it was overattachment to his own work. But that's a failing we all suffer from, to some degree." "Do you think the sim is killing people?" Tanit took a deep breath, held it, and let it out on a long sigh. "Do you know that there is a clause in our contracts with SimTech that prohibits us from discussing the sim, the principles behind it, the hardware, software, or, in fact, anything about it at all? Also from revealing, by direct description or implication or inference, the functionality of the technology or " her voice slowed deliberately, " any problems with it?" Toreth nodded. Standard corporation contract terms. Calling up something on her screen presumably the contract she turned the screen towards him. "The financial penalties are quite severe, and include unlimited liability for any damage to the corporation." He didn't bother to read the screen, although it was interesting that she'd had it ready to hand. "That doesn't apply during an investigation." Tanit turned the screen back towards her and leaned back in her chair. "I would be interested to see the legal basis for that statement, Para-investigator." "I " Toreth stopped. He'd said those words so many times, with such confidence, but never in quite these circumstances. I&I cases didn't normally involve questions of product safety. There had to be a legal instrument that put I&I over corporate contracts. Didn't there? He'd have to tell Sara to check it out. Tanit continued, unsmiling. "So, you may find people unhelpful over that question." "What do you think?"

"I think " She glanced at the camera, but he didn't move to turn it off. "I think that, while we have made tremendous progress in understanding the functions of the brain and nervous system, there is still a great deal we don't know." "You think it killed them?" "I don't believe that all the safety aspects of the sim are being investigated as rigorously as they might be." "But do you think it killed them?" Toreth repeated. Her expression didn't flicker. "If that was your ultimate conclusion, it wouldn't surprise me." Toreth shook his head. "They'll get you on inference, you know." "Possibly." Tanit sighed again, and for a moment she looked older tired and depressed. If Toreth's job had that effect on him, he'd have started seriously scrutinising the JAPI long ago. "Why are you still working here, if you think the thing's dangerous?" That produced another hesitation, although a brief one. "Would it be good for SimTech if all its employees thought the sim was infallible?" "I suppose not." She shrugged. "I do what I can to promote the cause of safety. After all, it is in the long-term interests of the corporation for the sim to be safe. If it is to make a successful product." "You think the sim will be successful?" "Of course." She looked past him for a moment, as if contemplating the distant future. "It's a remarkable piece of technology, with a multitude of applications, and a multitude of corporations ready to exploit them. How could it not succeed?" Looking back at him, she smiled again. "Do you have any more questions?" "No, not at the moment." Hands braced on the arms of the chair, Toreth paused and said, "Not going to ask me about my mother?" Tanit looked at him blankly, and then laughed honest amusement that almost startled him. "Ah, yes, of course. Your charming young investigator. He seemed to be expecting something appropriately psychological and I hated to disappoint him. Well?" "Nothing to tell." Toreth stood up. "Haven't spoken to her for years." Her thoughtful silence seemed to follow him out of the room. ~~~ Mistry met him outside Tanit's office and once more led the way to an office commandeered as an interview room. The camera was already in place, and Mistry left him there while she went to collect Tara. As soon as Tara entered the room, Toreth understood Warrick's reference to her as a child. She was tiny, less than one metre fifty tall, and lightly built. She had pale, almost translucent skin, scattered with freckles. Overall, she looked incredibly delicate and oddly alien there was something otherworldly about her. And she was terrified. Toreth saw a lot of frightened people in the course of his work, and he could judge the tenor of fear finely. His first assessment was that this wasn't guilt she was simply afraid of him. It wasn't an uncommon reaction to the black uniform of I&I employees. Sometimes it was useful. Sometimes, like

now, it was a major inconvenience. "Sit down, please," he said, putting as much reassurance into his voice as he could. "My name is Val Toreth and this is Jas Mistry." "Tara," she whispered in response. "Tara Scrivin." After a moment she sat down, perching on the very edge of the chair, as though poised to flee. "I know. And we have a few questions we'd like to ask you." Toreth found his voice slipping automatically into the mode he'd use for interrogating children. This is a smart adult, he reminded himself. Smart enough to win a prestigious studentship here, so treat her as such. "One of my officers already took your statement, but there are a few points we'd like to clarify. It won't take long." The extra reassurance didn't seem to be helping. Then it hit him. She was almost certainly afraid he was going to do exactly what he was here to do ask her about the breakdown. Something she had avoided completely in the interview he'd read. On balance, it would be better to go straight for it, rather than prolonging the anticipation. "In your statement, you didn't mention your work with Kelly, or the reason you're having counselling from Dr Tanit. Your previous illness." Tara stared at him, her light brown eyes wide. "Who told you?" Interesting question. "I've spoken to both Doctor Warrick and Doctor Tanit." As he said the second name, she relaxed almost imperceptibly, shoulders loosening. "What do you want to know about it?" Toreth waved Mistry forwards and took a seat further away from Tara. She watched him intently, openly relieved by the increase in distance between them. Mistry sat down opposite Tara. "How long have you been back at work?" "Two months, full time," Tara said after a moment, her voice back to a whisper. "I came in before for a day or two a week." "And before that?" "I was at home, with my parents. And before that . . ." Her gaze slid away. "I was in the hospital." "How long were you there?" "A month." Mistry nodded. "Did you like it?" Following the string of questions with known answers, all meant to soothe Tara with simple factual answers, Toreth thought it was a bloody odd question, and not one he would have asked. On the other hand, that was why he'd asked Mistry to do this interview, because Tara very nearly smiled. "Actually, yes. I know it probably sounds strange, but after the first few days, when I didn't really " she waved vaguely, " didn't know quite what was going on after that it was an okay place. Everyone was very kind. SimTech paid for it. There's a good corporate medical scheme, and it covers the students." She fell silent, but Mistry simply sat and waited. After a while, Tara nodded. "It was a good place. I had a lot of problems in my life. It could all . . . it could have ended very badly, but it didn't. It's in the past now." She glanced at Toreth and then back to Mistry. "Before . . . I can't explain it. I can't even remember it that well, honestly. Everything was so mixed up, but very, very clear at the same time. I don't feel like that now. Ask Dr Tanit, she'll tell you the same thing. I don't blame Kelly for anything

that happened." Her voice strengthened. "And I wouldn't hurt her, or anyone else. That's what you want to know, isn't it?" Mistry leaned forwards. "We just want to understand things a little bit better. How would you describe your relationship with Kelly?" "We were friends. I used to share a flat with her." "But not recently?" "No." She edged back a little in the chair, sitting on her hands. "I live on campus now. Since I was ill. Dr Tanit thought it would be better if we didn't see so much of each other." "Did you mind?" "Dr Tanit thought it would be better," she repeated, as though that ought to be enough. "And what did you think?" "I'd " She shrugged her narrow shoulders. "I liked living with Kelly and she said it was okay for me to stay. But it was one of the conditions of keeping my studentship." "What were the others?" "Counselling with Dr Tanit, changing the project, not going in the sim." Now her voice was almost normal quiet, but calm. Either Mistry's magic touch, Toreth thought, or she wasn't hearing the questions she'd feared. "So, did you mind having to leave Kelly's flat?" Mistry asked again. "A bit. But " She took a deep breath. "I'm grateful they let me stay. They didn't have to, and I wouldn't really have blamed them if they had kicked me out. I caused everyone a lot of trouble." "What about the university?" "Oh, them." She grimaced, freckled nose wrinkling. "They weren't so keen. But Dr Warrick and Dr Tanit talked to them and sorted it all out for me." Toreth fought to keep the frown off his face. The amount of sheer bloody niceness in this case was beginning to piss him off. Maybe the resister-spread rumours were right after all, and the Administration was putting something in the water. In any case, there didn't seem to be much chance of finding an embittered homicidal maniac hiding under Tara's fragile exterior. Pity. Toreth coughed and, when Mistry looked round, he said, "Before we finish, we might as well reconfirm her previous statement." Mistry led Tara carefully through the day of Kelly's death, up to the time she entered the sim room at twenty past seven. No discrepancies with her previous statement caught Toreth's attention. "What did you talk about with Kelly?" Mistry asked her. "Nothing very . . . I think it was about shopping. The grants for the new quarter came through last week, you see. Then I went to Dr Tanit's office and we went back to my room together." "Why did Dr Tanit go to your room?" "We had a session booked for last thing in the afternoon, but she had to cancel it. I didn't want to miss the rehabituation session this morning, and we couldn't do it without the pre-session, so I asked her to come and have dinner at my room, and do it there instead. She said okay." Tara smiled. "She's always very kind to me." Not surprising, Toreth thought, when Tara was Tanit's prize example of the danger of the sim. "A shame you missed the sim, then," Mistry said.

"Oh, but we didn't. I mean, it was booked early. We were in the sim when . . ." "When Kelly was found," Mistry said gently. Tara nodded, hunching down in the seat. "It's horrible," she whispered. "We were in the sim and Kelly was only down the corridor. It's not fair." It never is, Toreth thought. And it always amazed him how many people never came to terms with that. He examined his witness, tears beginning to sparkle in her eyes. Time to call a halt, since he'd promised both Tanit and Warrick that he'd be careful with the girl. "Do you want me to stay?" Mistry asked when they were back outside. "No. If you've got things to do, come back to I&I with me." He'd thought about sending Mistry to have a crack at Dr Tanit, and attempt to uncover more details of her worries about the sim. However, that would probably be a waste of everyone's time outside an interrogation room Tanit would reveal no more or less than she wanted others to see. They shared a car to I&I, but Toreth passed the journey staring moodily out of the window. The day at SimTech had provided an enjoyable fuck, but he'd come up depressingly short of useful new evidence or leads. He felt unpleasantly out of his depth with the case technology wasn't his speciality, and he found himself wishing he'd never heard about the seminar at the university. Maybe he'd get a better feel for the sim from the SMS demonstration on Friday.

CHAPTER TWELVE
Toreth lay in absolute darkness. In fact, 'lay' wasn't the right word he simply existed. He could feel nothing, not even an awareness of being inside his body. He tried to blink, and didn't know if he had. He was a mind, adrift in an endless emptiness. Apart from his own thoughts, the only thing he was conscious of was Warrick's voice, giving a running commentary on the body Toreth couldn't feel. "God, you're hard," he murmured, from an unguessable distance. "What the hell are you doing?" Toreth couldn't even feel his lips and tongue as he spoke. The words got out, though, because Warrick answered him. "Right now? Fingerfucking you. The virtual you." "I don't see what the point is if I can't feel anything." "You will. Don't you trust me?" "For some reason, yes, I seem to." Warrick laughed. "What's so funny?" "You. Listening to you talk and watching you move. So disconnected." He laughed again, low and hungry. "Actually, it's not funny. It's the most incredible turn-on. You have a spectacular body, if you don't mind my saying so." Not at all. "Then let me out and I can get on with something more enjoyable than sensory deprivation. Like fucking you through the mattress. If there is one," he added. "Mm . . . tempting. And I can always call up a mattress. Not yet, though. You'll thank me afterwards." There was a pause, absolute isolation, before Warrick said, "Say something else." "How long have I been here?" "How long does it feel like?" Toreth tried to think back, difficult as it was with no frame of reference other than Warrick's voice. "An hour?" he guessed. "Two?" "A little over fifteen minutes." "How much longer?" "Until the protocol says we're done." "Warrick, I'm supposed to be working." "And so you are as in fact am I. I'm running an SMS trial on a new volunteer. You're investigating the sim. Didn't you say your boss was convinced it was responsible for the deaths?" "I don't think Tillotson will be impressed if I file an IIP saying I spent all afternoon here in the dark with your virtual fingers virtually up me." The warm laugh again. "So ask me a question, Para-investigator." Toreth sighed or tried to. All interviews were supposed to be recorded, although the breach of protocol was hardly significant compared to rest of the experience. On the other hand, technically this was being recorded, so . . .

"Doctor Tanit told me that you suppressed a paper about the dangers of SMS." "The case study?" Warrick sounded surprised. "Suppressed isn't the word I would choose. Personally, I had no problems with submitting the paper for publication. However, it was commercially impossible the paper revealed too much about the sim and broke a number of confidentiality agreements. We would have been sued from here to Mars and back. The sponsors concerned received copies, naturally, as part of the report into the, ah, incident." Toreth considered the differences between Warrick's version and Tanit's. The point about sponsors receiving copies would be easy enough to check out, and so probably was true. "What did they think?" Toreth asked. "That it was an unfortunate incident that didn't affect the commercial potential of the sim. Or, indeed, of SMS. "Warrick paused, and then said, "You're about ready now, as this is a first run through the protocol." Warrick fell silent and Toreth waited for whatever was about to happen. He tried counting seconds but the nothingness made it impossible. He searched for a contact with the sim reality somewhere out there, with Warrick, with himself, with Without any sense of change or transition, Toreth's body flamed back into life. At the same instant, the sensory awareness of twenty minutes of Warrick's careful handiwork exploded into his mind with perfect clarity. If he could have drawn breath, he would have screamed at the overwhelming intensity he felt as though he had spent hours on the brink of coming. He held on to the sensation for seconds that seemed to stretch into forever, before it peaked into a blaze of ecstasy, which finally burned out back into darkness. ~~~ Toreth woke to the sound of gently lapping water. Woke, or came round, he wasn't quite sure. He felt gentle heat on his body from above, and a soft, ticklish touch beneath him. Scent of flowers and warm earth. He guessed at the water meadow and opened his eyes to discover he was right. Warrick lay on his back in the grass to his right, eyes closed against the sun. He spoke without moving. "So, what do you think?" Toreth sighed. He felt too good to be bothered with this. His body still tingled with little aftershocks of sensation. "Can't we leave the post-mortem 'til later?" Toreth asked. "You said it's all recorded anyway." Warrick turned his head to look at him, shading his eyes with his hand. "Subjective accounts form a very important dataset," he said in his lecture voice. "The sim is largely a subjective experience and that was, after all, an official trial. Debriefing is required in the protocol." "And you get off on hearing about it, don't you?" "Mm." Warrick smiled. "That would be extremely unprofessional." His much warmer tone of voice seemed to stroke over Toreth's nerves. "Okay, I'll tell you." Toreth stretched, pressing his hands and heels down into the thick grass. First official interview he'd ever conducted lying stark naked in a field. "But first, you tell me how it works." "Very well." Warrick sat up. "Simply put, there is a temporary disconnection between sensory input-stroke-processing and conscious awareness of the same."

The sun slipped briefly behind a cloud, and Toreth wondered if the jargon had scared it away. "Any chance of doing this in English?" "Of course. In fact, I can do better than that." Warrick snapped his fingers, and the grass by his feet morphed into the control panel. He reached down and ran his hands over the screen. "Now," he said after a couple of minutes, "a simple example. Watch and feel." Warrick licked his forefingers, and then ran them over both of Toreth's nipples at the same time. To Toreth's surprise, he felt only the contact on the left on the right side of his chest he felt nothing, although the virtual flesh clearly responded to the touch. "You didn't feel that, did you?" Warrick asked. "Except that you did. The sim fed the sensation into your nervous system, it travelled up into your brain, was processed there, and you now have the memory of being touched on that side. It's merely not consciously accessible to you yet. I said it was a simple example actually, that was technically rather more sophisticated than the protocol we did before because of the hemispheric " Warrick paused. "We were doing this in English, weren't we? Sorry. Anyway, to complete the demonstration . . ." A touch of the controls, and memory returned. Toreth gasped. It wasn't that he felt the touch now although he did it was that he quite clearly remembered the simultaneous caresses, at the same time as he remembered looking down and feeling nothing. The disjunction between seeing two touches, feeling one, and then remembering two left him disoriented and struggling for words. "Fucking hell. That's . . . Christ, that's that's so fucking weird." Warrick grinned. "Isn't it just? Fascinating effect. Now you see why the sensory deprivation is required. It's a question of temporally intersecting memories. Watching the process creates a disharmonic memory that " Toreth tuned out, struck by a possibility that was so obvious and so commercially viable that he knew there had to be a reason why they hadn't done it. "Why do you have to bother fucking me?" he asked, interrupting Warrick in mid-flow. "Couldn't you just stick in the whole memory in one go?" Warrick nodded. "Theoretically. The sim is potentially capable of that, given access to the right preparatory techniques and drugs, although it wouldn't be a trivial process. It would certainly require a great deal more training than SMS. However, artificial memory implantation is highly restricted technology. There are some strictly controlled therapeutic uses, and " His voice became sharper, more precise. "Beyond that, you probably know more about other applications than I do. We are legally limited to real-time input and no historical modification. SMS slips through a loophole in that regard, because the memories are there all along, but hidden." "I see." Shame. He'd rather fancied the idea of being able to hook up to a sim machine and download a memory of having had a fantastic fuck the night before. Of course, if he'd actually spent it finishing paperwork, and he remembered doing both at the same time . . . "So?" Warrick asked. Mind-fucking tricks. Toreth shook his head, dismissing the unsettling idea. "So what?" "Tell me what you thought of the SMS," Warrick said. "I've never felt anything even remotely like it." "Good. Go on . . ."

~~~ When the session finished, Warrick insisted on walking him out of the AERC. It was a rather more pleasant journey to the exit than after their last sim session. At the exit, Warrick halted, uncharacteristically irresolute. Toreth waited for whatever it was nothing to do with the case, he suspected. Sure enough, Warrick eventually said, "If you would be interested in any more sim sessions, I'm sure I would be able to accommodate you." Toreth smiled, enjoying, as he always did, the feeling of being pursued. Of having the power to refuse. Enjoying it enough that, rather than responding with one of the more final retorts from his repertoire of rejections, he said, "I'll think about it." That drew not a flicker of emotion in response. "Well, let me know." Piqued by the lack of reaction, Toreth said, "Aren't we due a real-world fuck, in any case?" That got a response, if only a small one, a catch in Warrick's breathing before he said carefully, "I suppose so, if you wish to keep score." "No point playing if you don't. We could do a hotel again. Tomorrow night?" "That would be delightful." Mask back in place again, which made shattering it with the next sentence that much more fun. "Should I bring something this time? Cuffs from work?" "Well, I ah." Warrick licked his lips, and then grinned, suddenly abandoning all pretence of detachment. "Yes. I'd like that a great deal, I expect. Shall we say eight? The Anchorage is very nice, and quite out of the way." When Toreth nodded, Warrick turned and left at once. Toreth watched him go, mildly irritated to find himself smiling. The man refused to react as Toreth expected, and that was perversely intriguing. No time to dwell on it he had a meeting scheduled with Tillotson, which was more joy he didn't need. As he waited for a taxi back to I&I, Toreth thought about the SMS. It certainly beat interviews and paperwork as a way to spend the afternoon. In fact, he had to concede it had been one of the best sexual experiences of his life. No wonder Warrick was keen to add it to the commercial version of the sim. On the other hand, he could now see where Marian Tanit's concerns about addictiveness came from. If he personally had free access to something like that, would he ever leave the house again? Forget that would he even leave the sim long enough to eat? It took two people, though at the moment and presumably required a certain amount of expertise on the part of the . . . what would the word be? Dominant and submissive didn't seem to apply, although there was a certain passivity to the experience. In that way it had been, on reflection, a little unsatisfying. Perhaps it wouldn't be so very addictive, at that. For him, anyway. Warrick had mentioned that they hoped eventually to have the sim take on the role of the active participant, although he'd been vague about the details. In any case, until then the SMS would require the services of professionals or well-practised amateurs. It all created employment. If SMS was a taste of its potential, the sim would indeed make a very great deal of money, and that was nice because he always liked money as a motive. However, it led him no closer to finding the theoretical corporate sabs. The taxi drew up, and he stood for a moment, hand on the door, trying to

find some kind of bright side to look on. At least the dearth of live leads meant that he could take some time off over the weekend. It was Friday, and provided the interview with Tillotson didn't take too long, he might even be able to get away in reasonable time. Maybe he'd ask Sara if she had any plans for this evening that she couldn't cancel for beer and Thai.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
One year, just one year, Tillotson would approve his grade increase and bonus recommendations without quibbling. When it happened, the shock would probably kill both of them. With so many other things he needed to do before he could leave, the meeting took forever, or felt as if it did. Toreth checked his watch surreptitiously. Fifteen minutes, and they'd only just made it through the part where Toreth agreed that, yes, he had significantly more recommendations than the section average, and then carefully explained to Tillotson, in small words, that this was because his team was significantly better than average. There was no arguing the section head's genius with budgeting, and from that point of view, they were lucky to have him. General Criminal didn't have the cachet of some of the other sections, and Int-Sec was always looking for somewhere to cut a little something. However, Tillotson still shared the normal management conviction that, where salaries were concerned, 'average' meant 'maximum' (and that when it came to results, 'average' was 'minimum'). Tillotson finally reached the end of a monologue. "Understand my position, if you can. I have to justify the overall budget." When Toreth shrugged but didn't comment, Tillotson frowned and scanned down the list on the screen. This was the point at which Tillotson traditionally tested his resolve by picking what looked like a weak case and demanding an on-the-spot defence. "Mistry. I'm sure she's a good enough investigator, but a promotion to level three and a third of the way up the pay scale? I don't see any outstanding cases credited to her." "She's very sympathetic." "Sympathetic?" Look it up in the fucking dictionary. "Yes. She's good with people. Witnesses, particularly. People tell her things they didn't mean to, and it all adds up. If the witnesses don't talk to someone, we don't get any evidence, and then we don't close any cases. Unless you'd like me to run a lot more witness interrogations with damage waivers and all the rest of the trimmings." Any chain of logic he could complete with a threat to spend more money was usually a winner. In this case, Tillotson sighed. "Oh, well. If you say so. Why is the jump on the scale necessary?" "She's been approached by another section. Corporate Fraud. They're offering her level three, bottom of the scale, if she'll put in for a transfer. And a housing upgrade." Tillotson frowned, tapping the edge of the desk. "Corporate Fraud, eh? Are you sure? How did you find out?" "Mistry told me, Sara checked it out. It's a legit offer." All except the housing upgrade, which he'd made up, but odds were Tillotson wouldn't bother to verify the details. "Hm. Why does she want to stay?" Because I'm not quite as much of an arsehole as you and most of the others here. Toreth smiled. "She likes me." "Oh." Tillotson looked back at the screen. "Maybe we should let her go. Then CF can pay for the psych discharge." He laughed politely. With Toreth's reputation, most people would've come up with a different

comment. However, Tillotson's mind didn't work like that. As far as Toreth could tell, it was mostly filled with numbers and division politics, with people existing only in relation to the wages they cost, the expenses they submitted, and the kudos they generated. Sex had no budgetary implications. While he watched Tillotson studying the screen, Toreth wondered how section heads bred. Probably went down to accounts and divided. He was still working through the filthier permutations of double entry bookkeeping when Tillotson looked up, apparently reaching a conclusion. "I can't justify a housing upgrade for a single employee." "Then I'll have to try and sweet-talk her with the grade increase. Can I make it midpoint instead of a third?" Tillotson hesitated, then shrugged and changed an entry on the screen. "If it's that or lose her to CF. Now . . . what about Parsons?" Here he was on more solid ground, because there was a nice, numerical assessment to back this up. Tillotson must be desperate. He started with a feint. "He worked for me before I went to Mars, if you remember. I promised him a bonus if he'd wait in the pool until I came back." "I am under no obligation to fulfil promises you made without " "And if you'll look at his interrogation record since I took him back on, you'll see he's more than earned it." Tillotson studied the screen and frowned. "I suppose so." He paged through a few more screens. "Above average raises for Lambrick and Wrenn too, I see." His lips pursed, then he shrugged. "The rest looks fine. I'll approve them and send them on." Toreth blinked, caught off guard by the sudden curtailment of their annual combat. "Right. Thanks." "Just go away, and get on with finding out whatever's behind the mess at SimTech." He sat back, still frowning. "Is there any progress with that?" Halfway out of his chair, Toreth sighed silently and sat down again. So much for a quick escape. "It's all in the IIPs." "I'm catching it from all directions Legislator Nissim called personally yesterday. Twice. And people are questioning the use of resources when we don't even have a definite crime something I have wondered about myself. Do you think there's really an I&I case there?" "I still think murder is the most likely possibility." Tillotson's nose twitched at the disagreement. "Is there any evidence it's not this 'sim' itself? Untested technology? That's not an I&I matter." Why the hell did he bother filing IIPs at all? "There's the wiping of the security records at SimTech. Systems are eighty percent sure it was deliberate. There's no reason for that to have happened if a sim fault was to blame." "Hmm." Another twitch. "I've had memos inquiring whether it wouldn't be better to take the case out of your hands." From who? Nissim? Departmental friends of the Tefferas? Suddenly cold, Toreth sat up straighter. "I beg your pardon, sir?" Tillotson smiled sourly at the unusual politeness. "I told them you were my best senior, and you have the best or at least the most expensive team. So I suggest you get out there and start justifying this."

He gestured irritably at the screen. Toreth stood up, his stomach still fluttering from the shock. "Yes, sir." ~~~ "God, this place is disgusting!" Sara's voice came from the tiny kitchen of his flat. "There's stuff decomposing in the fridge that even the forensics lab wouldn't touch." Toreth swept an assortment of clothes, weights and pizza boxes off the sofa, looked around, and dropped everything in a corner. "It's only six months since you cleaned it." "You should let me do it again." "I can't afford you. The night out after the last time cost enough to pay for a monthly cleaning service for the whole year." Sara reappeared, with two newly washed glasses and a handful of beer bottles held expertly by the necks. "So get one," she said. Old, comfortable argument. "I don't like having strangers messing around with my things." "How the hell could you tell?" She put the beer down on the coffee table and frowned at the room. "I can't leave it like this." "The food's getting cold." "Five minutes." Toreth sat down, opened a couple of bottles, then leaned back to watch Sara cleaning, or at least moving the mess around. It always mildly amused him, because her own flat was barely any tidier. The mess didn't matter anyway, since she was the only one who ever saw his flat. He never brought fucks here, and it wasn't as if the place was large enough to invite more than a couple of people round. In the living room, the sofa scene of his and Sara's one and only fuck and the coffee table were the only items of furniture that had survived the gradual encroachment of Toreth's collection of exercise equipment. When Sara had satisfied her domestic urge, they sat together, ate takeaway Thai and drank beer. Most of the meal passed in a thorough discussion of Tillotson's faults, personal and professional, which was always a reliable way to pass the odd hour or so. Meal over, they moved on to more enjoyable topics. Sara lay on the sofa with her head in his lap, looking up at him while he recounted his first visit to the sim with Warrick edited to his advantage and then on to his evening with Warrick at the Renaissance Centre. Normally he'd have passed the news along over morning coffee, but coffee times had been short since the case started, and the encounters were too good to rush through. The D&S made it a bit different from his usual fuck stories, so he found he had an attentive audience. When he'd finished, Sara helped herself to another beer, and said, "Does Tillotson know you screwed him?" "Fuck, no. I fudged his alibi to 'with a lover, confirmed by surveillance and interview'. Identity concealed on request, not relevant to the case, etcetera. I got a security recording of him going in and out of the RC, so I'm in the clear. Tillotson never wants to upset corporates, so he won't ask who it was." She shook her head, which felt rather nice, but she didn't say any more about concealing personal involvement in cases. "Was he good, then?"

"Yeah, he was. Very " He snapped his fingers, hunting for the word. "Responsive. Didn't hold back. Maybe it's to do with all that fuck research in the sim. He was worth making a bit of an effort for, anyway. And he'd never done that kind of thing before." She raised her head for a mouthful of beer. "I didn't know you did that kind of thing." "Sometimes." He shrugged. "Not very often." "Can't find anyone to do it with?" "No, that's not a problem. Good tops are hard to find." She laughed at the immodesty. "And you're good, are you?" "I've had compliments." He leered down at her. "Want to find out?" It wasn't a serious question, and Sara didn't take it as one. "I don't do kinky. So why don't you do it more often?" "Usually it's all too, I don't know . . . friendly. Organised. It's a whole social scene bores the fuck out of me." He leaned back, resting his arms along the back of the sofa. "You meet people who know what they want; they've got a list as long as their arm. What they like, what they don't like. All discussed in advance. Takes all the fun out of it." "And respectable corporate guy doesn't have a list?" Toreth grinned. "Exactly. Doesn't even know he ought to have one. Not yet, anyway. He'll learn, I suppose." "You're going to do it again, then?" She sounded mildly surprised, as well she might. Toreth had rather surprised himself at SimTech when he arranged another real-world evening with Warrick. "Yeah, I am." "Not while the investigation's in progress, though?" Then her eyes narrowed. "You didn't screw him again already?" "A couple of times." He finished the bottle. "And I'm seeing him tomorrow." "Oh, Jesus. Tillotson'll blow a fuse if he finds that out." "He won't. Warrick's not going to tell anyone." He tapped her on the nose with his beer bottle. "And it's not going to get onto the network, is it?" Sara sighed, and made zipped lips gestures. "You know I wouldn't. I hope he's worth it, that's all." She sat up, burped loudly, and grinned. "Sorry. Chilies and beer." He laughed. "It's a good job you don't want to fuck your boss, because that's not a turn-on." Toreth couldn't help deliberately testing her alleged memory lapse, trying to provoke a readable reaction, so he'd know without having to drag it into the open and risk her leaving his team. He'd tried it plenty of times over the years, often on this sofa, and he'd never got a rise out of her. This time, her smile turned into a more thoughtful inspection, before she pointed her bottle at him. "You know, I never thought I'd see you of all people getting into an interrogator junkie." "A what?" Toreth blinked, distracted from his fishing expedition. "No fucking way!" "No?" She arched an eyebrow. "Screwing him with his arm up his back? Sounds like it to me." "Bollocks does it." Taking the piss was one thing, this was something else. "Do I look that desperate for a fuck?" "You should be careful with him, that's all." Toreth couldn't tell whether she was serious or not. "Next thing you know, respectable corporate guy'll turn up outside your flat with your name carved in

his chest. Remember Helen the psycho stalker?" "Oh, fuck yes. Thanks for reminding me." Toreth opened a new beer and downed half of it, trying to wash away the faint embarrassment the memory always stirred up. It was a well-known rule at I&I that anyone who went through a genuine high-level interrogation and came out the other end wanting to fuck interrogators was guaranteed to be certifiably nuts. Of course, he'd insisted on learning that lesson the hard way. "He's nothing at all like her," Toreth said. "Exactly the opposite, in fact. Doesn't even want to hear about it. He's . . ." Not a junkie. Not a typical submissive. Not anything Toreth could easily put his finger on, and all the more interesting for that. His mind went back to the hotel room, to Warrick's shivering expectation and uncertainty, and then his wholehearted surrender. It made an intriguing contrast to the first dominating fuck in the sim, and to the untouchable confidence he'd shown during the interviews. Hard to believe that they were the same man. Toreth hadn't found the idea of a repeat fuck so appealing for a long time if he ever had. Although, counting twice in the sim, he'd already had Warrick four times, which really ought to be enough for anyone. He shook his head, dismissing the idea. "Anyway, he doesn't know where I live, so don't worry about it." He leaned back and patted his thigh. "Come here, and let me tell you about this SMS sim thing."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"Sara, could you come in here for a moment?" "I'll just be a minute or two." Toreth cut the connection and stared at the message on his screen. It said simply, Lucas Marcus destroyed the security records. No name or address attached. Who had sent it? Warrick was his first suspect, although the tone of the note felt off for him. No guesswork required, no clever phrasing or possibility of misinterpretation. Maybe Toreth's fantastic fucking technique on Saturday night had inspired Warrick to send the note later. Or maybe not. Had Warrick seemed any different on Saturday? Toreth leaned back, considering. It had been an interesting evening. Very interesting. Topping was more fun than he'd remembered. He'd planned for half an hour or so after dinner, and they'd taken nearer two. 'Tell me what you want'. An entertaining question to ask someone who had so much practice in analysing his own sexual responses and who could produce clear, descriptive requests. Or at least had started off able to do so. Maybe that was why it had taken so long pushing Warrick past that into shuddering incoherence had been the most enjoyable part of all. Kneeling, flushed and panting, cuffs pinning his arms. Everything distilled down into one desperate need. 'Please. Fuck me'. Respectable corporate guy, indeed. "Is this a private moment? I can come back later." Sara stood in the doorway, one eyebrow raised. Fuck. How long had she been there? "Did you want me?" she asked. "Um, yeah." He sat up and cleared his throat. "Where the hell did this message come from?" "I don't know. It was on the system when I got in. Arrived yesterday, but because it was Sunday nobody looked at it. It's as anonymous as it can be. The systems people say there's no chance of tracing it back to wherever it came from." "Okay, thanks. That's it." She grinned and left, closing the door pointedly. Since the security specialists hadn't been able to find anything incriminating in the SimTech security system on their first pass, Toreth doubted whether having an anonymous note would chivvy them into an inspired discovery. However, with a suspect to concentrate on, there were other approaches. He pulled up the evidence analysis system's records for Marcus. Last positive sighting of him in the building was made by another engineer, who'd visited Marcus's office at eight-thirty and spoken to him in person. A security guard by the name of Alicia Dean remembered Marcus leaving, but couldn't swear to a time. A look at the duty roster showed that she was off duty, so he called her at home.

It took a while before she appeared on the screen, puffy-eyed and wearing a dressing gown. After a brief introduction, he asked, "Do you remember what time Lew Marcus left the building?" The woman frowned. "I'm not sure on my shift, I think. Didn't I say that before? It was later on. I said goodbye to him, and he didn't answer, just waved. I'm pretty sure that was that night." No point in pressing someone who was honestly doing her best to remember. Perhaps it would be enough to use against Marcus. Briefly, he considered bringing Marcus in to I&I, but the director wasn't the kind of man who would intimidate easily. Better to go round to SimTech and ask him there, where he might feel secure enough to be a little off his guard. ~~~ In Marcus's office, Toreth didn't take the low seat offered. Instead, once he'd set the camera up, he remained standing in front of the desk, forcing the man to look up at him. "What time did you leave SimTech on the night of Kelly Jarvis's death?" Toreth asked. From Marcus's wariness, Toreth knew he'd found something. Marcus gazed round his office, as if seeking inspiration from the carefully shelved hardware. "I still don't remember, I'm afraid," he said eventually. "Didn't I give you a guess? Half past nine or later, I think." "Well, do you remember noticing who was on duty in reception when you left? Because they remember you leaving." Marcus licked his thin lips. "I, ah . . . no." "Alicia Dean. I asked her what time you left." "I well, there you are, then." He was looking everywhere but at Toreth. Finally, he forced his gaze back. "Ah . . . what time was it?" Toreth smiled. "I'm going to ask again if you remember. Before you answer, I'd like to remind you who you're talking to, and why. Impeding the conduct of an investigation is in itself a minimum category two offence higher if the seriousness of the case merits it." It was a reminder he'd often found useful, and it worked in this case. Marcus's eyes narrowed, resentment at the show of authority temporarily displacing his unease, and then he said, "Quarter to nine." Setting the time back to an hour and a quarter before the murder no good. "Try again," Toreth said coldly. "It's true!" Open fear showed on his face now. "I'm telling the truth. It was eight-forty-five. I looked at my watch as I was waiting for a taxi." "And what time did you arrive home?" "I don't " He stopped, staring at the camera recording the interview, and Toreth watched as he ran through the lies, failing to find one that would stand up to pressure. Eventually, he looked down to where his hands were clasped together, resting on the edge of the desk. "It was about ten-fifteen, just as I told you before. I honestly don't remember exactly, so it could be ten minutes either way." Too early to have been here killing Kelly Jarvis ten or even twenty minutes earlier. "That's a long time to get a taxi from here." "Yes. I saw someone else on the way." Toreth's heart sank a month's salary said it was a lover. "You'll have to do better than that. I need a name." Marcus shifted his gaze up, looking past Toreth.

"I was with a girl. A woman." "A regular thing?" Who would hence make a bad alibi, and keep this lead alive. Marcus shook his head, still not looking at him. "A prostitute." Which made her an alibi with no interest in covering up for Marcus. "Was she registered?" "I didn't I don't remember." "In other words, you didn't ask." Since money wasn't likely to be a concern, he considered briefly and picked a likely kink. "How old was she?" From the flash of panic, he knew he was right. Marcus took a deep breath and said, "S eighteen. She had ID." "Of course she did. You checked her ID, but not her registration." He took a small step sideways, forcing Marcus to meet his gaze. "Listen. I don't care who you fucked. I don't care if she isn't registered. I don't care which side of legal she is. I do care that you're making my life difficult. Give me a name if you can't give me a name, give me a place, a time, and a description of whoever the hell you bought her from. Then I can check it out and just maybe I won't have to go and explain all this to your wife." Marcus actually flinched at the threat. "Jana. That's all I know. The place is registered. They . . . they'll remember me. They know me there. I'll give you the address, but " "Yes?" "There's something else." He leaned his elbows on the table and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Oh, God. All right." He looked up. "I was the one who trashed the security records." "I know," Toreth said, enjoying the dismay on Marcus's face. "I'm afraid it's too late in the day for honesty to help." "But I have the backup!" Toreth blinked. "What?" "I kept the backup." Colour flushed into his pale cheeks. "It's not been tampered with your security people will be able to tell you that. I wasn't here when Kelly died." The idea of Marcus keeping a copy of the records seemed improbable, to put it mildly or at least it did if Marcus had wiped the surveillance to cover up the murder. But if he hadn't committed the murder, it was simply more evidence that the director's story was, infuriatingly, true. "Fine," Toreth said. "The system specialists will take it." He nodded. "What will happen?" "To you? Well, as I said, what you've done is a category two offence. A fine rather than prison, but it's automatic revocation of corporate status. And a category four on top, maybe, if the girl comes in underage. The Justice system might issue a re-education order for that, for a non-corporate. If I asked for it, of course. Or I may not charge you with anything it all depends on what kind of mood I'm in." He smiled coldly. "Not very good at the moment, I have to say." Marcus simply stared at him, all arrogance gone. Toreth picked up the camera, wringing what little satisfaction he could from the situation. "I promise I'll let you know when I make my mind up." ~~~ Back in his office, he passed on the details of Marcus's alibi to Lucia Wrenn and sent her to

check it out, although Toreth was pretty sure the investigator would find it was solid. There might be enough minutes' leeway somewhere in the middle to squeeze in the murder, but he knew that was clutching at straws. However, as he considered the situation further, he called up a picture of Kelly, looking at it in the light of the new information. While obviously no longer a teenager, Kelly had a light build and short, boyish hair. Could she have been involved with Marcus? It depended on whether Marcus indulged his tastes at work, or whether he was happy to pay for it. Come to think of it, Tara would probably appeal more to someone like Marcus, and she was Kelly's friend. Blackmail of the respectable corporate by the two women was an outside possibility, but maybe worth considering. Toreth could construct any number of scenarios which might lead to murder. If the security specialists came up with evidence of tampering on the backup recordings, he might be able to show that Marcus had the opportunity to kill Jarvis. Superficially attractive as the conjecture was, he found it hard to get excited about. A liking for fucks of dubious legality didn't make a murderer and he'd have a hell of a job getting a damage waiver from Justice with that as his only evidence. Worse, it didn't provide Marcus with a motive to kill Teffera. Proving that Marcus had killed Kelly would at least have eliminated one death from the enquiry. Leaving him with . . . what? Teffera's murder as an unrelated event that Marcus had exploited to distract attention from his own crime? Or maybe not even murder after all? Just an unlucky coincidence that had left him with two corpses to which the labs were infuriatingly unwilling to ascribe any cause of death. Tillotson wouldn't like to hear that. For a moment, he envied Justice, investigating their unimportant, nobody crimes. Easy enough to get a witness interrogation waiver when the witnesses couldn't snap their fingers and call up a pack of corporate-trained lawyers. Not to mention that Warrick wouldn't appreciate having his fellow director interrogated. Regretfully, he abandoned the idea of applying for a waiver unless any more evidence turned up. The way things were going with the enquiry, that was optimistic to say the least. So what were the options? Tillotson was right he had nothing. Thanks to the anonymous tip-off, he had less than he'd had on Friday, as the possibility of murder had receded still further with the resolution of the lost security records. Proving the culpability of the sim seemed unlikely. The systems analysts were up to their necks in code and hardware, and muttering about timescales that Toreth refused to believe. Not that disbelief would make any difference, because Systems always took as long as they took. Right now, finding someone else to pass the case to looked like an attractive option. He had no how, no why, no who. He didn't even have a definite murder. All he had was a coincidence. The timing of the deaths, this close to the reinvestment negotiations, looked so much like corporate sabotage. How long was he willing to plough on before he gave it up? The investment deadline would at least put an end to the case, if not an optimistic one. Once the nervous sponsors pulled out and another corporation snapped up SimTech, the ever-more hypothetical killer would've achieved their aim. After that there would be no more fresh corpses. A pity, since another body or two could only help. Toreth leaned back in his chair, considering that idea more carefully. More bodies . . . maybe he could do something about that, and at the same time test the theory that the deaths were an attack on

SimTech. A little provocation might bring him the evidence he badly needed. At coffee time, he caught up with Sara and said, "I'd like something dropped into the admin network, please." She grinned. "Sure. What?" "The sim didn't kill our corpses it's just a very odd coincidence. Two cases of natural causes. We're sitting on our hands for a while to annoy Justice, and then closing the whole thing down." Now she looked disappointed. "It's going to be hard to float that one. It's not exactly gripping, is it?" "It doesn't need to get very far just round the section." Any corporate sabs big enough to tangle with LiveCorp would have friends at I&I to pick it up from there. ~~~ "Warrick?" Startled, Warrick looked up from his screen. He hadn't heard the office door open, but Lew Marcus stood there, hands behind his back, stance suggesting he'd been there for some time. He looked worried and harassed he had since Kelly's death, now Warrick thought about it, but who amongst the senior staff hadn't? Warrick checked his watch half past nine. "You're here late." Lew didn't answer. He closed the door behind him, then stood by it, hands by his sides now, opening and closing nervously. Warrick waited, wondering. Finally, Lew crossed the room with rapid, jerky strides, and sat down. "Warrick, I'm afraid I've done something stupid. Very probably unforgivably stupid. Do oh, God." He squared his shoulders. "Do you remember the trouble six years back? The girl?" "Your amateur blackmailer?" He tried to keep his tone light, although dealing with the incident had been one of his less enjoyable lessons in corporate management. "Yes. I did . . ." He looked down at his hands, long fingers clasped together, knuckles white. "I've been doing it again." Oh, hell. Lew's predilections weren't a subject Warrick had any wish to discuss, even when there was a legitimate concern as to how they impacted on SimTech. On the other hand, Warrick had spent a fair portion of Saturday night kneeling on the floor of a hotel room in front of the para-investigator in charge of the case, discovering how good it felt to have to beg for every touch. He was hardly in a position to take the moral high ground over sexual practices occasioning threats to SimTech's image. Absently, he rubbed the faint cuff-mark on his right wrist. "You should talk to Marian about it," he suggested, trying to sound sympathetic. Now was the worst possible time for a repetition of old problems. "I already have. That's not it. Rather, it is, but " He took a deep breath. "I was with a girl on the night Jarvis died. "He looked up." I thought she was over legal age, Warrick, I swear. She had ID." Warrick nodded, keeping the distaste locked inside. "How much does she want?" Lew shook his head, his expression grim. "It's worse than that, I'm afraid. I was the one who wiped the security tapes." A pity that he couldn't have misheard that. All sympathy was blasted away by the sudden magnification of the threat to SimTech. "I " Lew shook his head. "After the last time, Lotte said she'd leave me if I did it again, that I'd

never see the boys. God knows I suppose I couldn't blame her, but . . ." "So you wiped the tapes, so no one would find out when you left the building? Oh, you damn . . ." Perhaps it wasn't too late to tell Toreth and sort something out. "I knew they'd check with Lotte to confirm the time I got home." His mouth twisted into a parody of a smile. "And I was right, so far as it went." "Lew, you have to explain this to I&I, right away." "That's what Marian said. And I'd been thinking about it, trying to work out how. But it's too late the para-investigator already found out, somehow. He was here today." Better and better. "What did he say?" Lew's expression soured even further. "He made a lot of unpleasant threats and thoroughly enjoyed himself, as far as I could tell. The man's revolting I'd always heard that that place employed sadists, but I didn't believe it until now." 'Keep still, or I'll break your fucking neck'. Ghost words distracted him with a remembered thrill. Warrick forced his attention back to the problem. "But did he believe that you had nothing to do with Kelly's death? That's the important thing." "Oh, yes." Lew waved the question aside. "Or he will. I gave the backups to the I&I people this afternoon." "You kept backups?" "Yes." A hint of a smile lightened his expression. "Old habits, eh? And even when I wiped the records, I knew deep down that it was an idiotic thing to do." "Yes, it was." Anger hardened his voice. "I don't need to tell you what this could do to the finance renegotiations." Lew returned his gaze, all traces of humour gone. "I know. That's why I had to tell you what I'd done. In case " He sat up straighter, his shoulders stiff. "In case you wanted to invoke the founders' clause to remove me from the board. I think you could legitimately consider me a fatal liability to the corporation at this point. I won't fight it, if you do, and I'll give up my shares right away." Warrick nodded. It was something they'd all agreed to when SimTech was founded an instrument to cut the corporation quickly and cleanly free of a disgraced director. This was certainly the closest they'd ever come to a qualifying situation. Tempting to say yes to tell Lew to get the hell out of the building right now. Wiping the tapes had been beyond stupid. However, Warrick knew that threats to SimTech tended to set off a disproportionate defensive response in him. His sister, and Asher, had often teased him about it, over less serious issues. Anger still tightened his throat, but he tried to keep it under control. What was best for SimTech? As the current dire situation made Lew's action so much worse, so it dictated the necessary response. "Have you spoken to Asher?" Warrick asked. "Not yet. If you want to wait to make a decision until you've talked to her, I understand." "No. There's no need I know what she'll say, so I can tell you now that we'll stand by you." To his surprise, the pronouncement didn't seem to bring much relief. "Lew?" he asked. "There might be charges." Words dragged reluctantly out of him. "Obstruction, anything he can

come up with about the girl. I want to be sure you know that. If you need to change your mind later, I'll understand." "No. If I&I charges you, with anything, you'll get the best lawyers SimTech can find you." Clear relief washed over Marcus, and he sagged slightly in the chair. "Thanks. You have no idea what that means to me. And Warrick I am sorry." Not sorry enough that you couldn't stay away from the girl in the first place. Warrick bit back the retort. Personal feelings had no place here SimTech must come first, as always. "We have to stick together," Warrick said. "If someone is trying to kill SimTech, the last thing we need is for the directors to fall apart. That would be the last straw for our chances with the sponsors." He closed the screen down and stood. "Come on, I'll give you a lift home." "I can get " Then Lew stopped. For a moment, Warrick thought he would protest the unsubtle escort, then he nodded. "Of course. Thanks."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sitting at his desk, Toreth stared at a screenful of analysis of the financial reports on SimTech, which told him nothing that he didn't know already time was slowly running out for the fledgling corporation. More fool Warrick if he were looking to Toreth to solve the problem. The next week promised to be as dull as the past two. Eleven days had passed since Toreth had dropped his bait into the gossip pool and the less-likely-by-the-day murderer hadn't responded. The list of disappointed investors supplied by Asher Linton was generating its own mountain of files, none of which had so far produced a substantial lead. Carey had interviewed the Tefferas and extracted no more from them than Toreth had managed. She seemed as disappointed and frustrated by the lack of progress as Toreth, although she professed herself to be impressed by SimTech's number of potential corporate enemies. Toreth had filled his time with specialists' reports, technical details and security files, out of which the evidential analysis systems had pulled nothing. On the Monday of the second week, Toreth had asked Tillotson to let him take back personal charge of the interrogations for his old cases. There wasn't much left to do, but level D would make a change from his office. Tillotson had told him curtly that he could have them back when he closed the SimTech case. By yesterday morning Thursday Toreth had been so bored and frustrated that he'd called Warrick to take him up on his virtual offer. A sim session that evening had been a welcome distraction fucking that he could charge as overtime, which cheered him slightly. The whole case, he decided, was an evidential black hole, rapidly sucking his career in past its event horizon. He should've dumped the whole fucking thing when he had the chance Justice would never touch it now. At least it was the end of the week again. With a sigh, Toreth closed the reports on his screen and went for a coffee. In the quiet of a Friday afternoon coffee room, he found Chevril, sitting alone. That brightened his day a chance for revenge for all the times he'd sat through Chevril's bloody irritating whinging. He went through the case in grim and depressing detail, and by the time he'd finished, he discovered he'd managed to make himself feel worse. Chevril's expression revealed no hint of sympathy. "So, no skeletons in the closet at SimTech?" he asked. "If there are, I can't get the fuckers to rattle." Toreth sighed. "Like I said, one of the directors likes teenage girls and that's it. Turned out in the end that she was legal age after all. She hit fifteen two days before he fucked her, so the best I've got there is obstruction, and I can't be bothered processing that. I let the bastard sweat it out for a few days, then I told him I was dropping it." That had been a necessary preliminary to yesterday's sim-fuck otherwise he was certain Warrick would only have used the opportunity to bore him about his fellow director. "Other than that," Toreth said, "It's a respectable minor corporation full of respectable minor corporates and respectable, well-published academics." "But are they well cited?" "Huh?" "Well cited." Chevril waved vaguely. "It's something Elena's editor friends say at dinner parties.

One of them says, 'so-and-so's very well published', and then someone else says, 'yes, but are they well cited'? and then they all laugh a lot and open another bottle. Alcoholics, the lot of 'em. Anyway, it means, does anyone actually read the stuff they churn out?" Toreth blinked. "You have dinner parties?" "Uh . . . yes." Chevril shifted in his chair. "Or at least Elena does. People from work." "How come I never get invited?" "You?" Chevril laughed derisively. "Well, let me think about it. Would it be good for Ellie's career if you seduced the wives of half her colleagues, causing broken hearts and messy divorces? Um . . . no." "I wouldn't necessarily." "You " "It could be their husbands." "Oh, God." Chevril grimaced in disgust. "You always have to, don't you?" He drained his mug and stood up. "And that is exactly why you don't get asked to dinner." That, Toreth thought, and the fact that Chevril had a notoriously attractive wife. Back in the office, Sara had gone home early ridiculously early, even for a Friday and even given their recent long hours. Toreth left her a note asking her to find him complete publication and citation records for SimTech staff past and present, and all the university staff who had ever been associated with the AERC. There might be some useful titbit in them somewhere, and it might teach her not to be absent when he was handing out work. The thought of her expression when she found it on Monday morning gave him his first smile of the day. ~~~ Warrick was late for the Friday afternoon session. Marian knew why, of course showing his irritation both that she had interrupted his schedule and that she had the power to do so. In this matter, she had the authority of The Sponsors on her side. She had last spoken to Warrick officially nearly eight weeks ago and he'd kicked up a fuss about her demand for a session today. However, she had the ultimate threat she could stop him working in the sim. She could, and she would. As she'd told the para-investigator, she took her responsibilities very seriously. Here, in her office, she put all other concerns and worries aside and focused only on her job, as difficult as that had become to achieve lately. Eventually Warrick walked in without knocking, making no comment or apology, and took a seat. "Well?" he asked, before she could even say hello. "Well, what?" "You must have a reason for dragging me in here. What is it?" He stared at her directly, challenging her. If that was how he wanted it. "The senior para-investigator in charge of the enquiry here." She felt her lip curl on the title, but couldn't stop it. His eyes narrowed. "Toreth? What about him?"

"Why are you interested in him?" "What makes you think I'm interested?" "The strategically placed bruises on your face recently, for one thing." She'd briefly considered asking him if he thought he was in danger; that might shake him a little. However, she opted for the more direct opening gambit. "I wouldn't have thought you'd go in for pain, Warrick." "It didn't hurt," Warrick said with the trace of a smile." And he did it with his mouth, not his fist." "I'm not joking. I'm concerned about you. To do his work properly, he has to have at least one, possibly two, personality disorders. It's in the general psych profile of para-investigators." He brushed a speck of fluff from his trousers. "You seem to think you know a lot about it." "People like him are selected as interrogators. Psychologically he's barely an adult. He's a case of arrested development. A type," she said precisely. "He'll never do anything surprising. They've written books about him I can lend you some if you want to see what you're getting into." "A book might be useful, at that." Warrick tilted his head. "I don't suppose that you have anything about persuading cases of arrested development to pay their share of bar tabs?" Distancing himself from the discussion. "He's not interested in you, you know. He can't even see you as a person you or anyone else. He's only interacting with his own projections." "Don't we all?" "Beside the point. He " "If I may remind you," he interrupted, "you are the one who once told me to interact more with people outside the sim or I would require your professional help. And now I am, you're telling me to stop, or I will require your professional help." He raised one eyebrow in mock enquiry. "Is there any possibility of your establishing a consistent position on this particular topic?" She couldn't help being irritated by his wilful refusal to take her concerns seriously. "How about, you ought to spend more time outside the sim interacting with non-sociopaths? Is that really so much to ask, Warrick?" Having been provoked into the careless phrasing, she expected the answer, and the ironic quirk of his lips that accompanied it. "Apparently." No sign that the word sociopath meant anything to him, or stirred any doubts. "People like him are dangerous. They charm you and make you think they're something they're not." "Oh, I know what Toreth is. Don't concern yourself about that." "Then you've got to realise he's using you." There must be some angle to exploit, for everyone's sake. "You've got something he wants. Any idea what it might be?" His smile flickered into life again. "Now you're wounding my ego." She had the grace to smile. "Sorry. I understand sexual attraction. And he's a handsome, healthy specimen, I'll give him that. And if he's any good, then good for him. But he's a predator, Warrick. Sooner or later, you'll find out why they recruited him. A relationship with someone like him isn't a question of playing with fire this is Russian roulette. The gun is loaded. I'd hate to see you get hurt." "Your concern is very touching, I'm sure, but we don't have a relationship. We just fuck. Does that make you any happier about him?" "Fucking is a relationship, even if you don't want to admit it." She looked at him thoughtfully.

"Frankly, if sex is all it's about, I do wonder why you would choose someone like him. Some day, you'll have to tell me about your parents." "You can overanalyse these things, you know." Warrick looked at his watch. "Not to hurry you, but what does any of this have to do with work?" "My job is to assess the fitness of SimTech employees to use the sim. You've been going into the sim with him." Warrick tilted his head, looking at her with curiosity. "He has a name. Why don't you use it?" She hadn't even noticed. "You've been in the sim with Toreth. And at that point he, and his relationship with you, become my concern." He leaned back in his chair, pointedly relaxing. "Everything has been booked and logged. The computer passed his psych test. He won't do enough hours to qualify for your attentions. It's all been done according to the protocols." "I'm sure it has." Warrick wouldn't lie about something so easily checked. "Have you had sex in the sim?" "Yes." The quick, confident answer didn't match up with the resentment in his eyes that she had the power to ask these questions. "Which protocols?" He crossed his arms. "P-Leisure. And, before you ask, yes, it was SMS he wanted to know about it for the investigation. He signed the release." She sighed. "Warrick, you know how I feel about sense-memory stacking. It's dangerous." "It's nothing of the kind. With the proper screening and supervision." "It's addictive," she said firmly. Warrick shook his head, his fingers tapping on his biceps. "One student overdoing things doesn't make an addiction." "Tara developed an addiction to the sim, and the excessive immersion precipitated her breakdown. Those are facts, Warrick, and your personal feelings about the sim do not change them." "We have precautions in place. It won't happen again." Tacitly conceding the point, without acknowledging it. "And what happens when the technology is sold to the general public?" "Other precautions will be put in place." He shook his head, again half smiling. "Marian, the world is full of things that are dangerous if people misuse them. SimTech can't be held responsible for the irresponsibility of others. If we avoided technology because some people might hurt themselves with it, then we'd still be in the caves, worrying about burning our fingers." "Sex is hardly a necessity for survival." Then, as his eyebrow arched, she quickly added, "Exotic virtual sex, I meant." "I realised. But the sim isn't simply about SMS, as you well know." "Of course not. No doubt Para-investigator Toreth has some suggestions for other uses." Warrick froze in the chair, absolutely still. Marian cursed herself silently such carelessness was unforgivable, however angry his obstinacy made her. Odd and infuriating in itself that he could effortlessly cut through years of training and hit a nerve every time. "I won't sell technology to I&I," Warrick said, icily precise. "They will never have it while I'm

alive and in charge of SimTech." That she didn't doubt. "I know. I'm sorry, Warrick truly I am. I misspoke. But addiction is a danger, and it will do SimTech no good to face the problem later, rather than now." He nodded. "I appreciate that. You know we're always working on safety improvements. Besides " His voice sharpened again. "You can always go round me and speak to P-Leisure directly, as you know." As she had about Tara. Marian was poised to launch into the results of her last attempt to talk to P-Leisure when she suddenly realised that he'd very neatly sidetracked her from the real reason she'd called him in. She tried to find a route back to her concern. "If you are going to use an SMS protocol with a non-employee volunteer, I want to talk to him, to make sure he understands the risk." His eyebrows went into action again. "That's a rather sudden concern for Toreth's health." "I'm still worried about you. You didn't get those bruises in the sim. What happened to Tara can happen to him and you'll be the one who gets hurt in the fallout. I don't think you understand the risk you're running by pursuing this." "I'm not 'pursuing' anything. Or anyone, come to that. We met, we fucked, we liked it. That's it. If it weren't for the sim, once or twice would have been enough for him. He's far more interested in it than he is in me." "And what about you? How interested are you in him?" To her surprise, he cocked his head, seeming to genuinely consider his answer. "From a sexual standpoint," he said at length, "he's without doubt the most talented partner I have ever had. Personality-wise, he's really not my type." He stood up. "I hope that answers your question, because I have a meeting to get to. With P-Leisure, as a matter of fact. I'll tell them you said hello." "We're not done." "Yes, we are." He straightened his sleeves. "If you have any more questions, Dr Tanit . . . well, you know what you can do. I can't stop you. Good afternoon." She could have stopped him. She could have told him to sit down and actually listen to her concerns, or she would cancel his sim access. However, what would it have achieved beyond increasing the distance between them? Some people, she reflected ruefully, simply refused to allow themselves to be helped the easy way. After informing her admin that she would be busy, Marian locked her door and pulled out the session records. This was something else she had the authority to do, as Warrick's parting remarks had pointedly demonstrated that he knew. Therefore, she was utterly unsurprised to find that everything was in order, labelled and properly annotated. There was a link to the protocol they had followed, analyses of responses and experiences, signed consent forms for the participation of a non-company member. She doubted she would find anything in the visual reconstructions, but it was worth skimming for signs of anything amiss. Turning down the office lights, she skipped through the session, her face illuminated by the changing images on the screen. As usual, it was an uncomfortably voyeuristic experience, even given her professional detachment.

As she expected, the SMS session matched the filed protocol. Some of it was interesting enough, but none of it surprised her. She noted that they briefly discussed the lack of progress in the investigation into Kelly's death, but nothing else about Toreth's work. The professional reticence of a para-investigator, or something more? There was a second session yesterday, which hadn't followed an established protocol. That had been properly booked as part of Warrick's allocation of personal sim time. He'd even made notes on it and booked a working session next week, on his own, to test out some modifications. She started to run through the hypothetical observer record of the session. There were no sensory tricks involved, nothing but a straight simulation of reality, in a low-lit, bare, nondescript room. She watched it through carefully, rewinding parts and occasionally freezing the digital flow into still images, which she left scattered around the edges of the screen. The pictures slowly built up, overlapping. Warrick, naked and with his arms bound behind him, kneeling in the centre of the room. The blindfold bisecting his pale face. Dark hair disarrayed, and curling with virtual sweat. Fingers spreading wide against the small of his back as his shoulders arched. Sharply defined lips caught open in the middle of whispered words. "Please, don't." Toreth standing by him. Kneeling. Touching. Admiring the realism of a hand mark flushing red against white skin. His fingers in Warrick's hair, pulling his head back. Smiling as he looked down at him. "Please." Just a game. A game for which there was so much scope in the sim, where it would leave no telltale bruises. Marian tapped her finger against her chin, watching the intent, absorbed faces of the players. She hadn't lied to Warrick she'd never imagined this would be something he wanted. A sign of how little she knew him. At the end of the session, they lay together, panting, almost laughing. She cut off the visual reconstruction, leaving only the words. Her gaze wandered over the collection of images as she listened. "It doesn't work, does it?" Toreth asked. "No. Don't get me wrong, though. It was good very good but not like it was outside. I wonder why?" "Because it's not real enough," Toreth replied immediately. "It's much too safe for you." "Yes. Yes, of course." Warrick's breathing became regular, his tone more analytical. "Not as intense. Yet everything is mechanically fine. There has to be a way of making it work." Silence, then Toreth suggested, "You should try taking out the disconnect code. Would that have helped if you couldn't have stopped me? No easy way out." "Mm. Perhaps. But it's not possible. The disconnect has to be available at all times. It's a fundamental part of the design." "Couldn't you let people choose to turn it off?" Toreth asked. "Absolutely and categorically no. Safety is paramount." Marian sighed, frustrated. Still blind to the true risks of the thing she'd tried so hard to tell him.

"It's too dangerous," Warrick continued in an odd echo of her thoughts. "Users have to feel secure, not trapped." "Yeah, but that's what you want." "Yes," Warrick said, his voice cool and measured. "So I'll have to look for another way round the problem. There'll be an approach that will work; I just need to find it." "Why bother?" Toreth had begun to sound a little impatient, or maybe just bored. "Why not stick to what the sim's good at? All your fucking weird games all the things you can't do outside. Memory stacking whatever. And we can play my game in the real world. Or aren't I a good enough fuck out there?" Warrick laughed. "God, no. Or rather, God, yes. Whichever more than good enough. But the sponsors would like it. There's a market, you know. I'm hardly unique. Although I'm not denying I would like it, too." There was a silence for a few seconds, then Toreth laughed as well, suddenly breathless. "Stop it. Ah you've got to show me how to do that." "You'd need a lot longer in the sim. I've been practising for years. Shall we get out and go for a real coffee?" "Sure." The tape cut out, and Marian played the scene over again with the sound off, watching the body language. Professionally, she found nothing to worry about. There was no sign of adverse effects, nothing which would justify banning Warrick or the interrogator from the sim. However, it did confirm her opinions and, to her surprise and personal distaste, Warrick's. Toreth was manipulative and dangerous, and Warrick understood him perfectly. They were . . . comfortable together. Somehow, Warrick's unexpected insight into this only further strengthened her conviction that he would never willingly accept the dangers of the sim. And so neither would the sponsors, not unless another disaster forced their hands. Marian sighed, and closed the files. She had an appointment scheduled with Tara Scrivin which she couldn't miss.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The call for Toreth to go in to I&I came just after four on Monday morning. When he arrived, he found Sara already there. She stood up when she saw him, her eyes wide with excitement. "Is it really Pearl Nissim?" he asked her, and she nodded. "Legislator Pearl Nissim?" "One and the same," she said. Stupid question. It was hardly a common name, and the woman was connected to the investigation already. From now on, SimTech would have to sink or swim without their patron in the European Legislature. He felt an unaccountable urge to laugh, although it wasn't funny at all. "Fucking hell," he said. "Found dead in her sim machine, just like the other two." Sara waited for a comment, before adding, "Do you want to go out to Strasbourg or send someone from the team?" Toreth pulled himself together. "For a Legislator? I think that merits a personal appearance. Besides, one of the local bastards will claim it if I don't show. Send a message to I&I and Justice over there and tell them it's mine. And get hold of Tillotson or Jenny and get something saying the same sent in his name." "He's done it already." "What?" "Tillotson left a message before I got in you've got full authority over there." "Right. Get me a flight as soon as possible and I want O'Reilly and her team as well. I'll dig out an investigator to go with me." Sara nodded and Toreth went past her into his office and closed the door behind him. He sat down at his desk, half his mind running through what needed doing, and half stunned by the news. Teffera had been one thing, but this was in a new league. The murder of an Administration higher-up damn nearly highest-up, in fact wasn't something a para got a chance at solving every day. Even less frequently when it was their fault. When he'd thrown out his bait, he'd expected another death at the AERC. Another student, or maybe one of the more senior staff. Better hope Tillotson never found out about this one. Shaking off the distraction, he called Barret-Connor. When the investigator finally answered the comm he was wrapped in a startlingly pink duvet. Possibly not his own in the background Toreth could make out female legs, from the knees down. B-C's cropped blond hair was far too short to rumple, but his bleary-eyed face made up for it. "Um . . . Para?" "We have a new body. Get in here, and bring some clothes we're going to Strasbourg." "Now, Para?" The legs behind him stirred, and Toreth heard a faint, sleepy protest over the comm. He almost sympathised with B-C they were the kind of legs he wouldn't like to be torn away from himself. "Look on the bright side we'll get there just in time to start work." ~~~

On the flight over, with Barret-Connor sleeping in the seat beside him, Toreth read the Legislator's security file. Not something he often saw, although it actually made disappointingly tame reading. Nissim was in her early sixties, although from the picture she could have been ten years younger. Her family background was respectable Administration her father had also worked for the European Legislature, although his career had ended at a rank below his daughter's. After a brief stint in the Department of Science, Pearl Nissim had transferred to the Legislature. Over the next forty years she had progressed smoothly and unremarkably through the ranks until, to no one's surprise, she reached her current position in charge of Science and Technology legislation. The Council of the European Administration might be the nominal head of state, and the heads of department might actually run the government through the Bureau of Administrative Departments, but the Legislature, as the body that drafted the law, had more than its share of power. When the stranglehold of the Department of Security had been broken by the reorganisation, there had been rumours that the Bureau also planned to split up the Legislature. It never happened. Who, so the joke ran at the time, would have made the necessary changes in the law? The Legislature was also a point of contact (or collision) between government and corporation. Although it happened very rarely, the Legislature was one of the departments where corporate sabotage killings occasionally spilled over into the Administration. Normally, Toreth would have had no trouble thinking of a handful of reasons why someone might want a European Legislature head of division dead. However, Nissim's security file produced no obvious suspects. No scandals, no mysterious backers, no overt ties to any major corporation. After he'd read the file again, Toreth called up the files for Teffera and Jarvis and paged through them. At first glance it would be difficult to find files more different a major corporate, a graduate student and a division head. However, looking past the details, they gave him a strong feeling of similarity. All highly respectable. All almost unnaturally well liked by their peers. Jarvis had the most exciting black mark against her, and that was the unforeseen consequence of trying to help a friend. Toreth stared out of the plane window at the dawn sky. Everything about the deaths screamed either natural causes or technical fault. It screamed it so loudly, in fact, that it only strengthened Toreth's belief to the contrary. ~~~ At Strasbourg airport, two local branch I&I cars and an investigator met them and took them straight to Nissim's residence. On the way, he discovered that, as with Teffera, the body had been moved to a hospital for futile attempts at resuscitation. Worse, the local forensics team had already swept through Nissim's home. Tillotson's note clearly hadn't been explicit or emphatic enough. As soon as they arrived at the house, Toreth sent O'Reilly and her team on in the cars to the local I&I office to wrest control of the evidence and at least supervise the post-mortem and sample analysis. Senior Administration officials didn't achieve the same luxury of accommodation as senior corporates, but the house was in an exclusive residential area close to the Legislature complex. The place was crawling with investigators and security: private guards, Legislature guards and Service troopers. They all had the desperate busyness of people well aware that the horse had long since departed, and that whoever left the stable door unbolted was about to catch all kinds of holy hell. Toreth recognised the first man they met inside Clemens Keilholtz. The recognition, however, wasn't instant. The Legislator's death had hit him hard. However, while shock and grief tended to dull

people's expressions, in Keilholtz's case they had supplied some character to his previously nondescript face. His suit was rumpled yesterday's clothes, in Toreth's experienced judgement. Once again, he looked pleased or perhaps this time relieved to see Toreth, and Toreth had the impression that the man had been waiting for him. Keilholtz's first words confirmed the guess. "I heard you were coming." "When did you find out about the Legislator's death?" "I was there when it happened." He said it with the unconscious ease of someone who hasn't thought through what that might mean. "You were in the room?" "No. Or rather, yes. Next door. We'd both been in the sim " And now he hesitated. It couldn't have been more obvious if Keilholtz had worn an advertising screen. "Go on." "Ah, there isn't an easy way of explaining this, Para-investigator." Easy enough you were fucking her. Toreth looked around the busy hallway. He wanted to take control of the situation here, but he also wanted to get a clear story from Keilholtz in person and as soon as possible. "Excuse me, Mr Keilholtz." Toreth took Barret-Connor by the arm and moved him a few steps away. "Go round the place, find out who the hell everyone is and get rid of anyone we don't need. Try and cut it back to I&I only." "Yes, Para." When B-C had gone, Toreth returned to his witness. "Shall we go somewhere quieter?" Keilholtz nodded gratefully and showed Toreth through a doorway into a small, sparsely furnished sitting room. An open door showed a kitchen, and another led into a tiny hallway off which two more doors were visible. "My flat," Keilholtz said. "Can I get you anything?" Toreth let him fetch them both a drink while he set up the camera and had a brief snoop round. The other doors revealed a bedroom with a single bed, and a bathroom with dust on the shower floor. A place to give the illusion of propriety, not a home. After Keilholtz set down the coffee pot and cups and sat opposite him, Toreth said, "I think you were about to tell me that you and the Legislator had a relationship?" A little of the tension eased from his shoulders. "Yes." "For how long?" Keilholtz poured the coffee, his hand steady, and offered Toreth a cup. "Nearly four years. It would've been our anniversary next month. Before you ask, few people know about it. A handful of people at the Legislature, one or two close friends . . ." He rubbed his eyes tired, not tearful. "It's inevitable it will come out now, though, isn't it? Pearl hated gossip." He'd dropped the 'Legislator'. "Why did you keep it a secret?" "Why do you think?" He smiled wryly. "It would've drawn a great deal of prurient attention. Neither of us wanted that." "How old are you, Mr Keilholtz?"

Keilholtz clearly expected the question, even if he didn't welcome it. "Thirty-one," he said tonelessly. "Exactly half Pearl's age." There wasn't an easy way of asking his next question, so Toreth didn't try to be too tactful. "Is that why you were with her in the sim?" He nodded. "I should say I want to say that I had no problems at all with the situation. I much preferred sex in the real world, to tell you the truth. If you haven't been with someone in the sim, it's difficult to explain it. It lacks intimacy. Perhaps it's just me, but I'm always aware that my body is elsewhere, and alone. But outside the sim, Pearl was, well, self-conscious. It spoiled things for her, and I hated that. So we compromised we alternated between the two." Taking turns in the real world and the sim. It gave Toreth a twinge of unease, thinking of his own recent dabbling. He pulled his mind firmly back to the case. "Yesterday evening. Was there anyone else in the house?" "No. The usual security people, that's all. We tried to keep Sunday nights for ourselves Pearl was always so busy, it was hard to make time. I was with her at work, of course, but that's not the same." "Could anyone else get into the room while you were in the sim?" "No. The security is quite extraordinary; it has to be, for commercial reasons. The sim room has no windows, the walls, floor and ceiling are reinforced, there is an access security system the door opens only for the two of us. I'm sure someone will be able to give you the details. In any case, the only entrance is through Pearl's bedroom " he stumbled over the words, and then cleared his throat and carried on before Toreth could comment. "And the door to the bedroom was locked. It was still locked afterwards. No one could have got even as far as there." "Except for the security officers, presumably?" "Well . . . well, yes, I suppose so." Keilholtz flushed faintly. "I'm sorry, I didn't think of them." Toreth smiled. "You'd be surprised how many people don't. People are the weak point in any system. What time did you go in?" "After dinner. About eight-thirty." Keilholtz glanced at the watch on his left wrist expensive make, Toreth noted, and wondered if it were a gift. "One of the security guards helped us into the sim. It was the usual routine, I think I let him into the sim room, and we settled into the couches right away. All he did was tighten the straps and lower the visors, and then he left." "How can you be sure he went?" Keilholtz paused, then smiled wryly. "I'm making assumptions again, yes. I don't know, because I was in the sim. But the security system will have recorded everything." "Do you remember his name?" "I " He narrowed his eyes. "Byrne, I think. I don't know his first name. He's a Legislature guard." Toreth paused to call B-C and pass on the name, watching his witness while he did so. Keilholtz filled their cups again, slowly stirring a spoonful of sugar into his own, spending too long on the process. Hardly suspicious a killer and a bereaved lover would both have reasons to be uneasy as the time to recount the death approached. Call completed, he said, "Go on." "We were in there for three hours, maybe a little more. Do you " Keilholtz looked down at his

cup, then up again. "Do you need to know what we did?" "I'm afraid so." "Why?" It was hard to take offence at the soft, plaintive question. "We're investigating the possibility that the sim itself caused the deaths of Jon Teffera and Kelly Jarvis and now the Legislator." "I see. Very well. There was a room she especially liked, a garden . . ." He went through the session in surprisingly clear and careful detail, not looking at the camera, and with only occasional questioning required. A slushily romantic evening but Keilholtz seemed to have genuinely enjoyed it. To Toreth, it sounded dull enough to bore a user to death. On the other hand, he reflected, he wouldn't be fucking a sixty-two-year-old Legislator in the first place. Marian Tanit would probably have some choice questions for Keilholtz about his mother. "I left first," Keilholtz said when he reached the end of his account. "She liked " He shook his head, smiling slightly, although his eyes were bright with incipient tears. "She liked to tidy up in there. I used to tease her about it, because of course everything resets when the program ends, unless you save it deliberately. I unfastened my own straps, stood up, I went over and . . ." He stopped, swallowing hard. Toreth waited. "I went over and loosened Pearl's straps, so she'd be able to get out easily. Then I left her and went through to the bedroom. I started running a bath for her. Then I sat on the bed for a few minutes. I felt a little sick, from the sim I often do. When the bath was full, I turned the sheets down, put the lights on by the bed, and " He was crying now, making no attempt to hide it or wipe away the tears. "By then she'd usually come through, so I I went back to the sim room. Her eyes were open but she wasn't breathing. She was so still. I couldn't I didn't know, right away. Or I couldn't believe it, maybe. I touched her face and then " He stopped. The only sounds in the small, sparse room were his rough breathing and the muffled voices from the rest of the house. "Then?" Toreth prompted. "Oh. Yes. I oh, I called security first, I think, and then the medics, or maybe it was the other way round, and I tried to do something to get her heart started, to make her breathe." Keilholtz wiped his cheeks with the palm of his hand. "I'm afraid I'm not sure about the exact order. I usually have a very good memory but no. It's all confused. I'm sorry." Toreth drank his cooling coffee, giving Keilholtz a moment to compose himself while he considered the story. "You said that her eyes were open?" Keilholtz nodded. "Does that mean that the visor was up when you entered the room?" However hazy his recollections of later events, he answered that without hesitation. "Yes. And her left hand was " He let his arm dangle over the arm of the sofa. "Like that. The rest of the straps were in place, I think, because I had to undo them to to get her free." So similar to Kelly. This was stretching the realms of coincidence too far, and the sim room here was as secure as the one at SimTech. "Could anyone have come through the bedroom while you were running the bath?" He shook his head. "All I did was start the bath and then I went straight back into the bedroom.

Besides, as I said, the sim room opens only for Pearl and myself. I had to leave I had to leave her to let security in." "So you're quite certain there were only the two of you there?" "Absolutely." Then, before Toreth could speak again, Keilholtz said, "Do you know what was in the Legislator's will, Para-investigator?" Toreth, who had been considering asking Keilholtz something very similar, blinked, then shook his head. "I do." Keilholtz's voice was cold. "Pearl had three children, a daughter and two sons, by her estranged husband. Everything goes to them." "Nothing at all to you?" "A handful of personal gifts, nothing extravagant. Our letters. My gifts to her. Otherwise, not a thing." He gestured round the room. "I don't even have any right to stay here. I'll start packing up my things here as soon as your people have finished. I have a flat of my own, although I'm renting it out at the moment." "You don't get on with her kids?" "As it happens, we get on very well. They had no objection to our relationship." He lifted his chin. "But I always wanted to make it clear why I was with Pearl, to her more than to anyone else. I couldn't prove it wasn't career ambition although it wasn't but I could very definitely prove it had nothing to do with money. I never took a cent from her and I won't start now she's gone." "I didn't " "No, but you were about to." Keilholtz smiled slightly. "I spend a lot of time in meetings, Parainvestigator, watching people think. It's one of the reasons I was happy to keep our relationship secret. It's not pleasant knowing that people are looking at you and wondering. Assuming an ulterior motive. I had none. I loved her that's all there was to it." Oddly, Toreth believed him. Of course he'd still verify the will story, and then he'd run a credit check on the man to make sure he hadn't received any unexpectedly large payments from unknown sources lately. Time to get back to the rest of the house. "Does SimTech have any other champions in the Legislature?" he asked before he put the camera away. Keilholtz smiled sourly. "Not that I know of. And certainly not right now. Para-investigator, Pearl Nissim had a great many friends there if the sim had anything at all to do with her death, I can promise you that SimTech is finished." ~~~ The emergency meeting at SimTech took place after lunch. News of Nissim's death had spread quickly round the building. The directors had discussed making it an open staff meeting, but in the end they agreed that it would be best to speak to the senior staff first. When they had assembled, rather cramped, in the soundproofed conference room, Warrick opened the meeting with a blunt question. "Do you think that we ought to suspend work in the sim?" He had expected a rush of responses, but the room stayed silent except for the low hum of the air-conditioning, switching itself on to deal with the heat of so many bodies. Warrick looked round the table, finding all eyes on him. Almost all Lew was staring down at the table, frowning.

"Three people have died," Warrick continued. "Personally, I do not believe that the sim had anything at all to do with their deaths directly. I say that not because of pride in my work, or because we can't afford a delay in the programme, but because I think it's safe. I know it's safe. My personal belief is that SimTech is suffering a particularly unpleasant corporate sabotage attempt. Closing the sim is tantamount to unconditional surrender to that attack." Asher cleared her throat. "A suspension now would be a disaster from the point of view of the sponsors. I've been reassuring them that there is no problem, that we're confident it's corporate. If we close everything, we're as good as admitting that we think the sim is at fault." "Would another death be any better for them?" Jin Li Yang asked. Lew looked up. "We've taken all the units outside the AERC off line, and from now on no one here will be allowed to use the sim without at least two other people in the room and not in the sim. We've put a security guard on all the sim suite doors and installed surveillance. No one can get into a sim room, or once inside do anything unmonitored." Nods and murmurs of agreement rippled around the table, although Yang didn't join in. However, these were the long-serving senior staff those most committed to the corporation. How the junior staff and students would feel about continuing to work in the sim was the question. Looking round, Warrick noticed Marian also assessing the room. Odd that she had made no objection, no comment at all, when she was the one person he'd expected to say something. "What do you think, Dr Tanit?" Warrick asked. "Me?" She looked a little startled by the question. "What do you think would be best for morale?" "Morale?" Now she smiled slightly. "Overall, I would recommend reemphasising that sim work is voluntary. Forcing people to work in it would be damaging. From a commercial point of view," she added, placing the words with precision, "continuing on a voluntary basis is clearly the best option. If all work is suspended and staff believe that SimTech is going to fold, they'll start looking for other jobs." She shrugged. "Nothing you didn't already know." Warrick nodded. "Thank you. And I think the idea is a good one. Is it acceptable to everyone?" General nods. "Very well. We'll send round a message to the staff reiterating the directors' confidence in the sim, and making it clear that they are free to refuse to work in it, with no stigma attached to refusing. Asher, if you could inform the sponsors of that decision." The difficult part over, Warrick looked round the room. Not the happiest gathering he'd ever seen, but things could have gone worse. Now for a brief demonstration of corporate director hypocrisy. "One more thing, while you're all here. I have evidence that someone or more likely several someones have been accessing test data." Evidence he'd found while examining the supposedly closed files himself. "As you know, I&I have sealed all the data for the duration of the investigation. I do very much appreciate the efforts everyone is making for SimTech, but I don't want anyone to end up at I&I answering unfriendly questions." Beside him, Marcus shifted in his chair. Warrick looked from face to face as he talked, searching faces. Yang, for one, glanced down at the table as Warrick caught his eye. "So," Warrick finished, "if you could pass on to your staff that while I&I is here we play very much by their rules. Thank you." The three directors sat at the table as the rest of the senior staff filed out. Yang stayed behind,

still seated. When the rest had gone, Warrick asked, "Well?" "Uh. I wanted to talk to you about " With their undivided attention on him, Yang coloured slightly, then sat up straighter. "Are you sure the sim is safe?" he asked, a little too loudly. "Absolutely," Warrick said. He glanced at his fellow directors. Lew nodded firmly, and Asher a little less emphatically. "There is no danger from the sim. I meant every word I said." Yang hesitated, then said, "Still, I'd like to stop work in the sim. If it was just me . . . but I have to think about my family." Warrick waited for any comments from the others before he spoke. However, as he expected, they stayed silent. Yang was a programmer, and hence his to deal with. "I understand completely. The decision is yours, as I said." Yang smiled with relief. "Thanks. I don't mean I won't work in the sim again. I just I thought about taking some time off. A few days. Then I wouldn't need to mention anything to anyone." Warrick shook his head. "That's not necessary. If you want time off, take it. But don't do it for that reason alone." He nodded. "Even so. I have to think about things. And, well, my wife would prefer me to stay at home. It's just for " He shrugged and stood up, not looking at any of them. "Thank you, again." They watched him go in silence. When the door had closed behind him, Lew sniffed. "He's going to leave." Warrick's own thought, spoken aloud. "Yes. At least if things aren't cleared up soon. And he won't be the only one, whatever rules we pass about the sim, and whatever Marian says about morale." He turned to Asher. "How much longer can we last financially?" She expanded her hand screen, opened a page, then abruptly collapsed the screen and dropped it onto the table. "In two months we'll have run out of money," she said bluntly. "After that, we can't pay the staff. At that point we fold, or we take whatever deal we can get." "Anything new from the sponsors?" Warrick asked. "Yes. Three messages this morning withdrawing their current terms. Two of them say that they'll submit something new. The proposed terms were already unacceptable and our position is only weakening." Lew nodded. "So even if SimTech survives, we'll lose control?" "Yes and that's assuming that anyone wants it." Asher sighed. "The rumour that the sim is killing users is everywhere. Not so much rumour as well-known fact, now." "P-Leisure?" Warrick suggested. Their biggest hope. "I called before the meeting. They're still 'reviewing their options'. It's so " She slapped the table with the flat of her hand, and even Lew jumped slightly at the un-Asher-like display of anger. "It's so damn frustrating. Caprice asked me twice whether there was any evidence the sim was responsible. Unfortunately, the contract doesn't require them to submit anything for another six weeks." Warrick shook his head. "Too late." "That's about the size of it. We are, as Greg would say, thoroughly fucked." Asher slumped in her seat, and Warrick noticed for the first time how exhausted she looked. He'd been too preoccupied to see it before.

"How much sleep have you had recently?" he asked. She smiled, which only emphasised the tiredness. "Not a lot." "Then go home and get some now, once you've told the sponsors about the new arrangements. Everything else will wait until tomorrow. We don't want to make any quick decisions anyway." After a moment, she nodded. "I might, at that. Maybe things will look different in the morning." Lew rose. "Well, they'd better look different soon, or it'll be too damn late."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It took them two days to finish in Strasbourg. Toreth barely noticed the hotel a place to grab some food and not enough hours' sleep before he and B-C went back to work. Interviews, reinterviews, and the first, depressing forensics report that confirmed Toreth's fears or rather expectations by finding nothing. Late afternoon of the second day, and they were still in the temporary office, reviewing the last of the surveillance reports provided by the Strasbourg investigators. At least the high security around the Legislator's flat meant that no unauthorised persons could have entered the building, and all authorised people were recorded. An exhaustive test of the security system for the sim room only confirmed that everything was also functioning fine and the story given by both Keilholtz and Byrne was as rock solid as it could be. "Do you read much, B-C?" Toreth asked. Barret-Connor looked up from his own screen. "I'm sorry, Para?" "Fiction, I mean." The investigator shook his head. "I'm afraid not." "Me either, much. I used to read thrillers, until I noticed they weren't. And mysteries. Of all the setups, you know which ones really pissed me off? Sealed room murders. They're always so contrived, and yet here we are, with three of the bloody things." B-C looked back at his screen. "Yes, Para." As he was considering calling it a day, the detailed post-mortem report on Nissim arrived. Toreth skimmed through it, then called O'Reilly. "Nothing?" On the screen, O'Reilly nodded, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "I'm sorry, Para." "No need to be, assuming you didn't screw it up somewhere." She didn't respond. Toreth paged down through the report, then paused, hand raised. "What's that? Page seventeen, first line of the table." O'Reilly glanced to the side. "Er . . . traces of an anti-nausea drug. It was prescribed to Clemens Keilholtz he suffered from what his medical file calls 'sim-sickness'. What's in her body isn't enough to kill her, not by a long way; the amount suggests it was a low dose, or she took it three or four hours before she went into the sim. There's no sign of an allergic or any other adverse reaction. No genetic susceptibility." "Do we know where the drug came from?" "Um . . . yes." O'Reilly paused, her eyes flicking from side to side as she scanned a screen out of his view. "It was prepared at SimTech and delivered by courier to the Legislator's home in sealed, single-use injectors. Part of the service contract. We looked at the remaining doses in the batch, and they're clear of anything noxious." "The used injector?" "No sign of it in the room probably already in the recycling system, Para."

He nodded. "Thanks. Good work." "Thank you, Para." "But still, I'd like you to do another screen on the body. Everything toxic the system can think of." Catching sight of her expression, he shook his head. "I'm not saying you weren't thorough the first time. Humour me give me a straw to clutch at." She smiled slightly. "Yes, Para." As soon as O'Reilly closed the connection, Toreth called Keilholtz. When the man answered, Toreth asked, "Why didn't you tell me you gave Pearl Nissim an antinausea injection?" Keilholtz stared at him. "I'm sorry? If you mean . . . I must have forgotten to mention it. She gave me the injection every time we used it. The sim makes me queasy if I stay in for more than an hour or so, and we were planning to be in there all evening, so " "We found the drug in her body, Mr Keilholtz." Keilholtz frowned. "I don't . . ." His expression cleared. "She had an ear infection a few days ago. It's something she was prone to. Another reason she liked the sim she could go swimming without earplugs." "You're saying that she took it herself?" "If I'd known she'd taken it I would have told you, Para-investigator." His voice held a touch of irritation at Toreth's deliberately disbelieving tone. "I didn't even think about it I asked her if she was all right before we went in, and she said she was fine. She'd used it before, once or twice; just a half-strength dose to stop her feeling sick if her ear was bad. She'd cleared it with the medical staff at SimTech." "Wait there, please." Blanking out the comm, Toreth pulled up Nissim's medical file. It took only a few seconds to find details of recurrent ear infections, confirmation of anti-nausea drug compatibility tests courtesy of SimTech, and the record of an infection treated a few days ago. All of which Keilholtz could've known and used as a cover. Toreth reactivated the comm. "When did the Legislator take the drug?" he asked Keilholtz. "Just before we went in or rather, that's an assumption. That's when she gave me mine. I was already sitting in the couch. Just after I'd had the injection, the guard strapped me in." He paused, and Toreth prompted him. "Yes?" "I don't remember seeing her take another injector, but I can't swear she didn't. She would've had time to take a shot before the guard finished with me." "And dispose of the injectors?" "Oh, yes, Para-investigator. Pearl was always very tidy." "Thanks for your help, Mr Keilholtz. I'll be in touch if we have any further questions." Pity the injection wasn't provably linked to the Legislator's death. The only progress the information provided was evidence that Nissim had been given (or had given herself) an injection immediately before entering the sim. After which she had spent an allegedly happy three hours fucking her toyboy before dropping dead. Given that Keilholtz already had ample opportunities much

closer to the time of death to kill his lover, nothing had changed. "How is it possible to have so many bodies and so few suspects?" Toreth wondered aloud. Barret-Connor had been listening to the conversation with Keilholtz. "They are a bit thin on the ground, yes, Para." "People always get more popular when they die, B-C. Fact of life." Toreth pushed his chair back from the desk and stood up to pace. "I've never met a corpse yet who wasn't saint material if you believe what people tell you. Then you open their security file, and they're exactly the kind of bastard that someone would want to murder. Or they've got 'natural victim' stamped all over them and it was only a question of who got to them first. Either way you've got to dig through dozens of suspects to find the right one. But these three . . . what do you think?" The younger man frowned, rubbing his fingers through his short-cropped hair. A nervous habit Toreth was familiar with B-C wasn't good at producing opinions on the spot. However, he was methodical, thorough, and a superb observer. "Well . . . if it's corporate sabotage, they are natural victims," B-C said at length. "At least two of them are, I mean. Teffera and Nissim both supported SimTech strongly." "Killing a Legislator is a hell of a risk, though. If there is a killer, they must know that. It won't get covered up now, however big the corporate behind it. The Administration doesn't like to encourage corporate sabs targeting Legislators the idea might catch on. They'll be found and nailed for it, however long it takes us." B-C nodded. "So, we're back to square one: why pick Nissim?" Why indeed? "Maybe they didn't." B-C frowned thoughtfully. Toreth waited, and eventually the junior said, "You mean, if it was something in the injector " "Two gets you ten there's nothing in the body, however many times O'Reilly looks." B-C smiled wryly. "I don't think I'll take that bet, Para. But assuming that's how it was done, then the target was Keilholtz, wasn't it?" "Exactly. Unless someone knew . . . no, the last batch was dispatched from SimTech before her ear flared up. Even then the odds are in favour of a single contaminated injector getting him, not her. And it makes more sense. Killing Nissim brings you big trouble killing her boy toy and blaming the sim gets you an avenging angel ready to take down SimTech. Hmm." Toreth thought it over. "Teffera took drugs for the sim. Maybe he had a contaminated injector too. And that would make Jarvis the odd one out again because, as far as we know, she didn't take anything at all." "Although Jarvis makes sense if it's an insider looking for an easy target. Or . . ." B-C rubbed his fingers through his hair again. "What?" "Maybe it was the sim." B-C glanced at him, looking back to his screen when he caught Toreth's gaze. "I mean, there's nothing to say that it wasn't, is there, Para?" Toreth didn't answer. His conviction that the deaths weren't due to the sim was obviously developing a reputation as an obsession. For a moment, he forced himself to look at the idea head on. Was he fixated on the sabotage idea? He didn't think so, but then if he was, he wouldn't. As it were. Toreth sat down at the desk again and read through the post-mortem results slowly. Anti-nausea drugs. Not the same as the drugs used by Teffera; however, it was as close to a clue about method as

anything they'd found so far. Somewhere in the mounds of case files might be additional clues. Feeling oddly optimistic, he connected through to the main I&I evidence analysis system, and started constructing queries. Did Teffera, Nissim and Jarvis share any genetic predispositions which would make a particular toxin effective? Were there any shared genetic traits that had no previously known damaging effect, but might somehow make them vulnerable to the sim? Could the sim affect susceptibility to toxins? Were there any injectors at Teffera's home which hadn't been tested for toxins? Could the sim induce users to injure themselves, as Tara had tried to, without producing any obvious change in behaviour? He kept working, trying more unlikely suggestions as the answers began to come back as negative or 'insufficient data'. The sim was an unknown quantity that the analysis program stumbled over repeatedly. Teaching the system to understand the properties and limits of the sim would take longer than the investigation could last. Worse, the only people who understood the sim well enough to do that worked at SimTech. Asking witnesses and suspects to modify I&I systems was even less standard procedure than fucking them. Toreth spent a minute or so cheering himself up by imagining applying for high-level damage waivers on the entire SimTech staff, half of P-Leisure, and all known professional corporate sab teams, and then cranking through the interrogations until someone said something helpful. Start with Warrick and the Tefferas and work his way down the social scale. It might be worth proposing the idea simply to watch Tillotson turn purple. Pity that he wouldn't get the waivers. Maybe he could arrange to have a few more Administration higher-ups killed. So far, producing a big-name corpse seemed to be all he'd achieved in the case. He snorted with laughter, and B-C looked up. "Para?" "Nothing." Time to get back to work. To get any results from the system at all, he had to relax the criteria so far that it was only one step up from drawing cards. When he told the analysis system to assume undetectable poisoning as the method, it did spit out a name, although Toreth would've sworn the screen had a slightly apologetic air. Tara Scrivin. Of course she was a biochemist. She probably had access to the area where the drugs were prepared and possibly the knowledge to make up something the forensics lab couldn't detect. Unfortunately, Toreth would bet any amount of money that she'd told him the truth in her interview. If she'd been faking, she'd done it better than anyone else he'd interrogated. Not to mention her solid alibi for Kelly's death. While he had nothing better to do, he should at least consider an interrogation. The idea certainly had potential, although Justice (or at least SimTech's lawyers) might make trouble over her mental state. However, with Nissim dead, he had a feeling that waivers of all levels would be a lot easier to come by. Though admittedly tenuous, the possibility of her possessing the skills to create a poison

would certainly be enough to get him a low-level waiver. Toreth checked his watch. He could pick Tara up on a witness warrant tomorrow morning, and that would give him twenty-four hours before Warrick's lawyers could possibly wrest her out of custody. He'd tried nice, with Mistry. Now it was time to try a different approach. He could start the interrogation on a level two waiver while they waited for a higher level to come back from Justice. He called through to Sara, finding her diligently at her desk. The hint with the publication search had paid off, although he doubted it would last. "Sara, I've got a few things for you to do. Start by finding Parsons, and tell him to see me first thing tomorrow." "You'll be back here?" "Yeah. Tell him he's got a witness to interrogate give him Tara Scrivin's file to look over. And apply for a witness warrant for her. That's all." "Okay. See you." Toreth's stomach rumbled, reminding him of missed meals. Not a good idea, when he needed to concentrate. "Come on," he said to B-C. "Let's get something to eat and then see if we can catch a flight home." "Tonight?" The junior looked dismayed. Toreth checked his watch. "Why not? We'll be back in New London by one." Barret-Connor's narrow shoulders slumped. "Yes, Para."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The initial interrogation took Parsons an hour and three quarters. Toreth resisted the urge to spectate on the screen in his office watching other people doing his job, even very talented people like Parsons, always drove him mad. "Anything?" Toreth asked, when Parsons came up to his office. "No, Para." Parsons wasn't apologetic, simply matter-of-fact. In the eight years he'd known the man, Toreth couldn't remember hearing him sound anything other than calm and cold. His lined face and deep-set dark eyes were equally expressionless. "The same story as in the file, bar variations for errors in recollection well within standard limits." Sign of someone telling the truth rather than well-rehearsed lies. "Damn. Well, there'll be a level three waiver coming through, so you can see if she'll loosen up for that." Parsons nodded. "Yes, Para. However, I should tell you that I'm sure I'll be wasting a room booking. I can do her, no problem there, but she doesn't know anything she isn't already talking about." Fuck. Exactly what he'd thought himself. "Are you sure?" Parsons nodded again. "Positive. And for once, Justice is right that she's a fragile witness. She isn't a wreck, but she isn't so stable that I can fill her full of drugs and be sure she'll come out the other end exactly the same as she went in. If she's got good lawyers rather than a Justice rep, I'd prefer a level four, maybe five, before I'd even try the top-end level three drugs. Just thought you'd want to know, before I got started." Toreth nodded. "Thanks. If that's your opinion ?" "Yes, Para, it is." "Then I'll try something else." Exactly what that would be, he thought as he watched Parsons leave, was a different question. While he thought about it, he called up Tara's medical file, scanning through the psych section. Fragile fucking witness indeed. Just the kind of irritation he didn't need on a case that was already looking set to give him ulcers. Particularly annoying that Marian Tanit had pronounced her patient fit enough to return to work and to the sim. Shame she couldn't have glued the girl sufficiently back together for a decent interrogation, too. Not much of a cure, from that point of view. Poised to page down to a new section, he stopped, attention caught by the diagnosis summary. Not much of a cure. But how much was not much? Toreth spent fifteen minutes searching through the I&I system, read a lot of things that stirred uninformatively hazy memories of interrogator training psychology courses, and decided he needed another opinion. He opened the door to the outer office. "Sara, do you know what a dissociative state is?" Sara looked round. "Nope. No idea." "Me neither. Comes from being hung over for most of the nine o'clock seminars, I expect." She frowned. "Sorry?" "Nothing. If anyone wants me, I've gone down to Interrogation to find a psychiatric specialist

who can explain it to me in words of two syllables or less." ~~~ At the time of the merger with Investigation, Toreth had been at the Interrogation Division for a year and he'd enjoyed his work. However, it hadn't taken him long to see where the brighter future lay. He'd worked hard to win a place in the first round of appointments for the newly created post of parainvestigator, a job that theoretically combined the skills of both investigator and interrogator. Interrogation was a profession that had certain basic requirements. Primarily, the ability to hurt people, sometimes kill them, and not care. Plenty of interrogators had applied for the para conversion course, and few had made it. The successful ones were on the more socially adept end of the spectrum those who could be let near citizens of the Administration without the precaution of a damage waiver. At the time, Toreth had heard the term 'high-functioning' used. Or, as Sara put it in her less tactful moments, the difference between paras and interrogators was that the former weren't quite so dead behind the eyes. Parsons was a classic example of an interrogator, but they weren't all so icy. As Toreth explained his question to Psychiatric Specialist Senior Interrogator Warner, he found his mind drifting back to Sara's words. To be fair, the man was working a prisoner sat slumped in the chair, head forward and hands limp in the restraints. Toreth himself was known to be tetchy when interrupted midinterrogation. That said, talking to Warner was still hard work. He had a combative stance, legs apart, heavy shoulders braced, leaning a little forwards. At the same time, his gaze kept flicking away from Toreth's face, searching the interrogation room, before returning to glare for a few seconds. Overall, it left an odd impression of aggressive disinterest. "Who's feeding you that crap?" the interrogator asked when Toreth had finished. "Crap?" "That's corporate lawyer-spawned bullshit, that is." Warner snorted. "'My client wasn't in control of his actions, he didn't know what he was doing'. Tossers." "Can it actually happen, though? Could Scrivin do things without knowing it? Several times complicated things, with a long-term plan, and then forget about them afterwards?" "Now that sounds like a DID. Dissociative Identity Disorder. An even bigger pile of steaming lawyer-crap." He spat the words out. "'My client embezzled a million euros and used it to fund a resister cell, but he did it in his sleep'. Pah. Bullshit." Toreth sighed silently. "But is it possible? I was told you were the expert in this sort of thing." Warner's eyes narrowed, and for a moment Toreth thought he would start demanding names. Then he shrugged quickly. "Sure, it's possible, in theory. Have you got the list of symptoms? Usually they wheel them out like they got them from the manual that's how you know they're talking shit." "So? What are they?" "Presence of multiple distinct identities or personality states that recurrently take control of the individual's behaviour accompanied by an inability to recall important personal information that is too extensive to be explained by ordinary forgetfulness." Warner produced the definition in a monotone, staring past Toreth, before he looked back again. "And very expensive lawyers. That's usually a clue." "It does happen, then?" "Sometimes," Warner admitted reluctantly. "Rare as rocking-horse shit. I've seen maybe four in thirty-five years, and I get lumbered with all the real basket cases. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred

it's someone spinning a line to get out of here." "How do you tell the difference?" The man shrugged again. "Send 'em down here on a high-level waiver and I'll tell you in a couple of days." Visions of SimTech lawyers rose like malevolent ghosts. "If I can't get a high waiver?" "It'll take us a while longer. We're interrogators, not diagnosticians. Or " Warner glanced away again. "If you're that keen, send the prisoner to Psychoprogramming and get a deep scan done. DID is only Nature's version of the reeducation crap they pull over there anyway." His gaze slid back. "But with the waiting lists they've got, you're better off here." The prisoner stirred, and Warner looked over. "Looks like I've got company again." "Thanks," Toreth said, taking the hint. "Send her down," Warner repeated. "If she's a real DID, I can shove the results through the expert system when we've finished with her. They're so rare we're short of comparison data." ~~~ Toreth sat on his hands outside Tillotson's office, trying to keep still, until the section head called him back in. It had taken so long that he'd begun to think Tillotson must be getting somewhere. However, one look at Tillotson changed his mind about that. "No luck?" Toreth asked. The section head smiled sourly. "No. Psychoprogramming say that their priority is political, not corporate or ordinary criminal, so the request would have to be put through the system in the usual way." "This case is political. Didn't you tell them that we have a murdered Legislator?" Tillotson frowned. "Of course I did. Or rather, I told them that we have a dead Legislator. Murdered is a matter of speculation unless you have some information you haven't shared yet?" Toreth had to shake his head. "I'm sorry, Toreth. I'll do what I can to shift them, but I can't promise anything." Toreth sighed. "Thanks, anyway." The man was a waste of good oxygen, Toreth mused on the way back to his office. In fact, you could take every Administration official at Tillotson's level or higher and sink them in the North Sea and it would only improve Europe. Not to mention break a slew of intercontinental treaties regarding toxic waste. The idea generated a small smile of satisfaction, not least because, if you had the right kind of petty mind, it was treason. If he'd said it out loud in the coffee room, it could be incitement to discontent. It wasn't, of course. He was anti-moron, not anti-Administration. Not his fault if the two often coincided. Tillotson probably would try his useless best. However, Toreth didn't have weeks to hold Tara Scrivin until Psychoprogramming could get round to formally rejecting his application because it had a spelling mistake in the prisoner's name on page ten. He'd have to see what a little sweet-talking could achieve. ~~~ Psychoprogramming had been created at the time of the reorganisation, stealing experts away from many divisions. Int-Sec made a natural home for them, but they were one of the more

clandestine divisions. Unlike I&I, they had no public contact numbers, nor access for private legal representatives to bother them over the fate of the majority of the unlucky citizens who crossed their threshold. Toreth scanned his ID at the unmanned minor entrance and was let through the heavy security door. The solid sound of the door closing behind him gave Toreth no more than a momentary twinge of unease Mindfuck might be departmental rivals, but they were Administration colleagues. Colleagues who were doing very nicely, or so it looked to him. None of the buildings in the IntSec complex was more than a dozen years old, so there was no reason that the place should seem so much sprucer than I&I. Toreth suspected that one reason Mindfuck were so secretive about their techniques was to hide the fact that most of the time they did fuck all. If they were really so fucking busy, where did they find the spare budget for fresh paint and new carpets? Certainly it was quieter than I&I. Still, like I&I, the detention levels were underground, and they were probably noisier than the admin areas. He passed a door marked Research, where a serious and heavily armed guard watched him pass. Toreth's lip curled. Pretentious wankers who the hell were they expecting, here in the middle of the Int-Sec complex? Packs of armed resisters come to find their friends? Finally he reached his goal and stuck his head round the office door. "Ange, my darling, can I have a word?" The senior administrative assistant to the head of the Psychoprogramming Division was putting her coat on. "What do you want? Make it quick, whatever it is I've got an appointment." Not a promising opener. Toreth made it a policy to keep on the good side of all the senior admins and he'd been hoping for a better reception. Ange was a favourite because, as well as making a useful contact, she was married but not very married. That gave him an easy way to keep her friendly, as well as to fill the occasional lunch hour. Had he remembered to call her after the last time? He sat on the edge of her desk, to get his eyes lower than hers, and gave her his patented adminmelting smile. She looked resolutely unimpressed. "I wanted to talk about booking an m-f . . . about booking a psychoprogramming session with one of your esteemed and preferably discreet colleagues," Toreth said. "Did you fill in a request form?" "Ange, sweetheart . . ." "No form, no session. Anyway, we're booked up two months ahead for externals." By which time the SimTech funding would be history and the case effectively over. He inched closer and cranked the charm up a notch. "I'll make it worth your while, I promise. Dinner? Somewhere nice?" "Well . . . there might be a couple of cancellations, I suppose. "A smile indicated a slight thaw as she sat down at her screen and switched it back on. "All right. I could reschedule a few people. There's an afternoon slot in three weeks' time that's absolutely the best I can do." Still too late. "I need it now first thing tomorrow I'm going to have corporate lawyers crawling all over me."

Absently, she reached out and rested her hand on his thigh. "Lucky lawyers. But I can't do any better." "Okay." If that was the best he could get, he'd have to take it. He hoped Tillotson could come up with something better, and that SimTech's lawyers wouldn't be too tedious. Neither of those sounded like good bets. "What's the prisoner ID code?" Ange said. "She's not a prisoner, she's a witness." She smiled archly. "And you mean to say your silver tongue's not silvery enough to get her to talk?" He grinned briefly and touched the centre of his top lip with his tongue. "What do you think? Anyway, that's not the reason. She's talking, all right, but I think she's not remembering what happened." Ange's eyes narrowed. "Illegal memory blocks?" Not quite what he'd meant, but he liked the reaction. "Just a suspicion. If it's not a memory block, I don't want to waste weeks chasing it up. All I need is a scan to look for a block or other evidence of tampering no deep poking around or reprogramming." She gave an exaggerated sigh. "And I suppose you don't have a damage waiver?" "Indeed I do level three witness." "Is that an I&I witness waiver or anything good for over here?" "Ah." She sighed again. "All right. If you can get her to consent signed forms, mind, and no drugs before she signs them then I can squeeze in an extra session later today. I'll book it in as a recalibration, so no one will ask any questions about queue jumping, and I'll ask Seiden to stay and do it. But you might want to consider taking him out for a meal as well." Toreth laughed. "I'll think of something else." She patted his leg and began to enter the booking into the computer. "This is just for you, Toreth. I don't want you telling anyone else I'm a soft touch." "Cross my heart. You're an angel, Ange." She smiled without looking up. "This dinner had better be good, that's all." On his way back to I&I to collect Tara, Toreth made a mental note that hinting about a threat to Psychoprogramming's fiercely guarded exclusive rights to mind-fucking was a technique he'd have to remember in future. ~~~ Up in the observation gallery, Seiden worked over a screen, grumbling occasionally about the unexpected extension of his shift. Toreth kept the length of the room between them. At the end of a long day, Seiden's body odour could strip paint. Setting the machine up took forever. Through the window, Toreth studied Tara's pale, elfin face. Lying on the platform in the enclosed room below them, sedated and surrounded by the m-f equipment, she looked horribly fragile. A level three I&I damage waiver didn't explicitly cover memory scans. The risk from the procedure was small, but if he ended up damaging a technically unwaivered witness, he'd be lucky to

get away with a reprimand. SimTech's lawyers would raise hell, no doubt with Warrick encouraging them every step of the way. Tara had signed the consent to the procedure eagerly enough, once he'd explained she'd be released after the scan, but a lawyer could so easily twist it into her signing under duress. Toreth might even be sacked, particularly since he'd deliberately end-run Tillotson's authority to get her here. "This is safe, isn't it?" Toreth asked. Seiden didn't look up from the screen. "Yes. As safe as it can be, for someone with a history of mental instability." "Oh, hell." "If you don't want to know, don't ask. If she has been tampered with, then it's possible messing around without knowing what was done to her could be unfortunate." He scratched the back of his neck, and then added, "That's why the prisoners we get here have high-level waivers." "She's a witness, not a prisoner, so be careful." Seiden looked round, offended. "I'm always careful. Even with the low-life resisters that get passed through for reboring. Of course," he added more thoughtfully, "that's different we don't need a waiver at all after they're convicted." "If she breaks down, I'm sunk." "She won't. She's not even going to get a headache." Seiden flipped a plexiglass cover up from a small panel and pressed a button. "Activating." The platform slid smoothly into the tunnel, the upper half of Tara's body vanishing into the maw of the machine, and Toreth waited. After a while, Seiden said, "If there was any justice in the world, you'd need a waiver to do that to music." It took Toreth a moment to realise Seiden was addressing him. "What?" "To hum like that. If it's in a key, it's one I don't recognise." "Sorry." Toreth hadn't noticed he'd been doing it. "I play the cornet; bet you didn't know that, did you? Jazz. Nearly professional standard." Seiden peered at the screen, then nodded. "Right . . . I've finished the calibrations. First, I'll do the scan. Then I'll take the interviews she gave you and play them back to her, to stimulate her memory. If she has memory blocks, that should show them up." "Don't forget the DID." "I told you already, it's in the program." From the gallery, Toreth could see nothing except the smooth metal casing of the large scanner and the blinking lights of the computer systems. He thought that, compared to the sim, it was a lot of tech to achieve something that was on the surface less impressive. Like the sim, it was dull to watch, but if it produced both a result and an undamaged witness it was time well spent. His slanted view of Seiden's screen showed samples of the scan results flicking into life and vanishing again. Complex 3D traces like multicoloured tangles of thread, representing the activity of neurons. A light touch, for the m-f. With more invasive and potentially damaging scanning and a lot of expensive computing power, the results could be processed into fragmentary thoughts and memories. That was the reason that mindfuckers were widely considered to be a threat to I&I territory. More by Interrogation than

Investigation, but that was half of Toreth's job. Psychoprogramming's speciality was brainwashing, not mind-reading, but the m-f still gave a direct link into the brain. At the moment, it made for a ridiculously expensive alternative to real interrogation, but Toreth had to admit, reluctantly, that in some cases it was better. For one thing, it was capable of extracting memories which couldn't be deliberately retrieved by their owner. Even when pressed to the point of desperation, most people knew more than they could consciously call to mind. For another, as it worked on unconscious subjects, the m-f couldn't be lied to. Nor was it as susceptible to the anti-interrogation drugs and vaccines which kept I&I locked in a pharmacological arms race with resisters and criminals. Still, as he'd told Chev, it would be a long time before the equipment below him displaced people like Warner and Parsons. Cost wasn't the only factor. The m-f was a perfect tool, as long as you ignored the failures: the partial and complete amnesiacs, the psychotics, catatonics, and other 'oops, we fucked up' results. Toreth leaned against the glass of the observation gallery and stared down at his valuable, vulnerable witness. Neural scanning, direct stimulation and manipulation of memories the basic technology here wasn't so different to the sim. Yet, while Seiden was willing to admit to the dangers of the m-f, Warrick was unshakable on the safety of the sim. On the other hand, if the sim were as dangerous as the m-f, SimTech would be full of highly-paid, expert vegetables. There was no evidence the sim could injure. Not counting, of course, three corpses. Time passed slowly, almost an hour and a half. Eventually, Seiden said, "Done." "Is she all right?" "Fine, as far as I can tell at this stage." He looked over his shoulder and grinned. "'Course she could be completely fucked when she wakes up." Probably just trying to wind him up. "Did you get anything?" "Well . . ." Seiden paged through screens of numbers and complicated 3D mappings that meant nothing to Toreth. "Nothing glaringly obvious. A few anomalies are flagged up here and there." "What the hell does 'anomalies' mean?" Seiden shrugged. "It means something odd or irregular. Probably just a glitch in the scanner. Things like that usually go away once the program analyses the data and hammers it into shape. I can't tell you for sure until these results have gone through the program." The screen went black, and Seiden blew out his cheeks, looking at his watch. "And that's going to wait until tomorrow morning. Results by the afternoon and only because Ange said to be nice to you. The systems are swamped. Send one reformed citizen out of here, we get two bad ones back in." ~~~ When the Psychoprogramming medic pronounced her fit to leave, Toreth arranged a taxi to take Tara Scrivin wherever she wanted to go. He already had three messages from SimTech's legal department waiting on his comm. It gave him great satisfaction to send replies, all polite variations on 'You can fuck off, because we don't have her any more'. He was back in his office, reading through Tara's files again, when a knock on the door attracted his attention. "Yes?" Sara appeared. "If there's nothing else, I'm off."

"What time is it?" "Nearly seven." Toreth blinked. "Really? Okay fine." As Sara turned to go, Toreth remembered something he ought to have checked already. "One minute. First thing tomorrow, can you get me the surveillance recordings for the SimTech pharmacy? Probably no go, but if there was something in that injector it must have come from somewhere." She paused. "I'm sorry?" Other people might simply have forgotten about something like that. However, since it was Sara, her blank expression gave him a sinking feeling. "There should've been surveillance equipment installed at SimTech. I told Belqola to arrange it weeks ago." Sara regarded him in eloquent silence. She hadn't approved of Belqola's appointment in the first place, and remembering that didn't do anything for Toreth's temper. "Where the fuck is he?" he snapped. "At SimTech," she said promptly. "Talking to the technical people. Or he was ten minutes ago. He called me and made a point of saying he was still there. Trying to look keen, if you ask me. Do you want me to ask him to come back?" "No. I'm not hanging around here. I'll find him and then go straight home afterwards. Call him; tell him to wait there for me." ~~~ By the time he reached the AERC, Toreth was in a steaming bad temper. Knowing that he should have checked the surveillance was in place himself only made it worse. However, nursemaiding idiot juniors wasn't Toreth's job. Toreth didn't make many mistakes when selecting for his team, and the failure was another irritation. So much for high fucking training scores. As he slammed the car door, he vowed he'd never again make the mistake again of relying purely on those when picking new team members. He found Belqola waiting in the entrance, looking apprehensive. Good. "Where's the surveillance for the pharmacy?" Toreth asked. "I've arranged for it to go in now, Para." Sara had obviously taken pity on the idiot, for what little good that would do him. "Using your time machine, are you?" "I I'm sorry, Para." "Sorry is no fucking good to me. And no fucking good to Pearl Nissim, either." Toreth stepped closer. "Why the hell wasn't it in place a month ago?" The junior shifted his feet, but didn't back away. "I forgot to arrange it, Para." That won him one point for not coming up with an excuse, but only one. "You can tell that to the disciplinary board. I'm sure Tillotson'll be sympathetic." He waited, but Belqola had decided that silence was the best approach. "Do you know what?" Toreth said. "I can't be fucking bothered with disciplinary reports and turning up to hearings when I should be running my cases. I don't need to waste any more of my time on you." Belqola brightened very slightly, before Toreth continued. "Because tomorrow morning, you're out of my team. And I promise you that with the reference I'll put in your file, no senior will

touch you with a fucking shock stick. You'll be doing investigative grunt work and level one interrogations 'til you fucking retire." Belqola's stricken expression provided at least some satisfaction. "Please one more chance." Belqola's gaze dropped, and then he looked up again, taking a deep breath. "I'll do whatever it takes, Para. Anything." With the metaphorical axe about to fall, Toreth paused. Was that an offer? It was hard to tell from Belqola's expression he'd looked desperate since the beginning of the conversation. Not that Toreth intended to change his mind about throwing the man out. His team was worth far more to him than a quick fuck. However, it might be entertaining to see how far the junior would go for the sake of his career. He could postpone the reassignment for a little while. Until the end of the investigation, say. Toreth smiled slowly, watching the hope kindle in Belqola's eyes. "Okay. Come out for a drink, and we can discuss your future performance." ~~~ Toreth picked a nearby bar at random, and let Belqola buy him a drink. Then he listened with a fragment of his attention as Belqola talked, explaining how much his job meant to him, how proud his parents were of his career, and a lot of other probably fictional crap Toreth wasn't interested in. The underlying message was clear enough. After they'd finished their drinks, Belqola checked his watch. "I ought to get home. My my wife was expecting me an hour ago." First time he'd mentioned his wife. Asking permission not to get into trouble it was quite clear he'd stay if required to do so. Toreth smiled indulgently. "All right. But first " He looked over towards the toilets. After a moment's hesitation, Belqola stood and led the way. The toilets were fortunately empty, and equipped with sufficiently spacious cubicles to make things, if not comfortable, then at least not too awkward. Toreth leaned against the wall of the cubicle, hands behind his back, and said, "Well?" Belqola started to kneel, then obviously thought better of the state of the floor and settled for squatting. Once there, he hesitated; Toreth wondered if it was second thoughts or a desire to set the deal out in more concrete terms. No chance of that. "Done this before?" Toreth asked. Belqola nodded. "Good. So I won't need to give directions." Resting his head against the wall, Toreth closed his eyes and waited as Belqola unfastened his clothes and freed his cock, already hard with anticipation. Another pause, then Toreth heard one deep breath before Belqola took him in. Toreth was willing to concede that, with the decision made, the man wasn't bad. Seven out of ten, he'd give him. Nice and deep, not rushing things, despite the uncomfortable position. Putting enough effort into it that Toreth could feel him gagging from time to time. Not Toreth's problem, nor Belqola's for much longer. He clenched his fists, toes curling, pressing himself back against the wall as, for long, delicious seconds, his orgasm wiped out the irritations and stresses of the case and everything else in his life. Belqola spat into the toilet, the sound nudging Toreth out of the pleasant post-orgasm haze. As

usual, Toreth enjoyed the soothing flood of endorphins. And, as usual, he felt an urge to get away from the person responsible for it as soon as was practical. He zipped himself up, and then opened the door without offering the junior a hand up. The toilets were still deserted, making an uncomplicated end to a very satisfactory ten minutes. Back at the table, Toreth sat. Belqola hovered by his chair for a moment, then said, "I'll see you tomorrow, Para." "Don't be late. And give my love to your wife." As he watched Belqola make his way out of the bar, Toreth caught sight of Warrick leaning against the bar. There was no reason Toreth ought to be surprised they were only a few minutes' walk from the AERC. However, the idea of Warrick watching him as he clearly had been was peculiarly unsettling. Toreth wondered briefly if Warrick had followed them there. As soon as he caught Toreth's eye, Warrick picked up his drink and strolled over. "Good to see the forces of law and order working so hard," he said as he dropped into the chair vacated by Belqola. He settled in with a comfortable casualness which didn't disguise the curiosity in his glance. "Just getting to know my staff," Toreth said. "Harry Belqola. He's a new junior finished his training this year." "Ah. So how's he enjoying the investigation?" "I don't care it's a job, not a hobby." His sharp tone didn't scratch Warrick's poise. "And how's he enjoying the investigator?" Toreth blinked. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he said, and hid his smile in his drink. "Oh, please. Don't tell me he turned you down?" Toreth looked up, nettled. "Of course not!" Then he caught Warrick's smile. "Bastard. You should come and work for us, you know. You can have Belqola's job." "Not my field. Besides, it was hardly challenging. Or do you choose your juniors on qualities other than deductive skills?" "He came highly recommended." By fucking idiots. Warrick snorted. "I'm sure he did." To Toreth's relief, Warrick apparently found the whole situation funny rather than . . . what? Threatening? A reason for jealousy? Not the kind of shit Toreth wanted to deal with when he was fucking a witness mid-case. Warrick sipped his drink and eyed Toreth appraisingly. "You didn't really want him, anyway." "How the fuck would you know?" "He was too keen to go along with it," he said judiciously. "Not putting up enough resistance. You could've had him over the table if you'd wanted to more comfortable than your ten minutes in the toilets probably were." He noticed an attentive silence at the next table. "He's married," Toreth said, as if it made a difference to how willing the junior had been. Warrick snorted, unimpressed. "I know. He hadn't even bothered taking his ring off. Which probably means he isn't feeling guilty about it either, and that makes him even less interesting. To you."

"Big assumption from someone who's known me for what, five weeks? I thought scientists were supposed to consider the evidence." "And the evidence tells me you like to play games. Particular games, at that. Tell me something how often do you have sex with the same person, on average?" "Once." Toreth shrugged. "Twice, maybe, if " "Well?" Another fucking interrogation, but what the hell. "If they regretted the first time. You've been spending too much time with Tanit." Warrick ignored the comparison. "You're only interested as long as your target is putting up resistance of some kind my point exactly." "You don't exactly play hard to get," Toreth pointed out. "No." Warrick smiled slightly. "No, I don't, do I?" A pause, while Toreth considered this exception that proved the rule. It edged dangerously towards a silence before the explanation occurred. Or rather an analogy Ange, with her useful influence in Psychoprogramming. "You've got the sim," Toreth said. "Ah, yes. Of course." There was a moment of probably mutual hidden relief before Warrick said, "Why did you arrest Tara?" Not surprising that he'd heard about it from his calm tone, he'd heard about her release as well. "She wasn't arrested. We reinterviewed her as a witness, regarding the evidence she gave before." "You couldn't do that at SimTech?" "No." A long pause, then Warrick nodded. "I see." "Did you speak to her?" "No. I understand she's at home. She called Dr Tanit." That explained why Warrick was taking it so well. Once he'd heard Tara's account of her experiences with Parsons and at Psychoprogramming, he'd be less sanguine. Still, his good mood upped the probability of a fuck this evening Toreth wouldn't mind keeping up the buzz he'd got from Belqola's efforts. With that in mind, Toreth asked, "Would you like a drink?" Warrick shook his head and raised his half-empty glass. "I'm fine. I try not to drink too much during the week. Are you making any progress with the investigation? With Legislator Nissim, I mean?" Toreth shrugged, wondering if the change of topic was a refusal. "Big mess of nothings and dead ends. No suspects, no method, no opportunity. Tillotson still thinks the sim killed her and the others." "Then he's an even bigger idiot than you said he was," Warrick said emphatically. "It's not possible. And I bet your so-called computing experts who've been thrashing around in my code say it's impossible too." "No, they say they haven't yet found a way the sim could kill. They also say it'll take weeks to be sure."

"Months," Warrick predicted with relish. "If not years. There are thousands of man-years of effort in it. And in the end they won't find anything that would kill a sim user." He sipped his drink. "While we're on the subject, may I ask why you still have so many of the files at SimTech sealed? It's making work very difficult, and upsetting the sponsors. You have copies, why stop us using them?" "It's procedure, I'm afraid." Then, one eye on the rest of the evening, Toreth modified the automatic response with, "But I'll have a word with Tillotson about it." "Really?" Warrick sounded genuinely surprised. "Thanks. Can I do anything in return?" "Such as?" Warrick sighed. "Or, in the less subtle version, do you want to fuck? Or was your staff management session too taxing?" A woman at the next table spluttered red wine all over her white-and-silver skirt. A man Toreth guessed to be her boyfriend started to stand up with intent, took a better look at Toreth's uniform and sat down quickly. Toreth stifled a laugh, because there was no point in starting trouble. Warrick looked openly amused. "That's a handy perk of the job." "How the hell do you avoid getting beaten up in bars?" Toreth asked with genuine curiosity. "Well, normally I don't say things like that it must be the company I'm keeping." Warrick stood up. "Coming?" he asked in a pointed voice which made white-and-silver skirt giggle again. Toreth winked at her as they walked past and the boyfriend looked daggers at them. They had reached the door and were discussing hotels when Toreth's comm chimed. "Damn. Excuse me." Warrick leaned against a pillar and waited. Toreth listened, and sighed, and agreed, and finally finished the call. "On my way." "I sense impending disappointment," Warrick said. Toreth opened his hand screen and flicked through numbers. "I have to go in to work." "Why?" "Sorry, can't tell you." "Then I hope it's good news. For someone." Without a farewell, Warrick pried himself away from the pillar and walked out of the bar. Toreth felt slightly aggrieved. It wasn't his fault. Someone had very inconsiderately found a body.

CHAPTER NINETEEN
When he reached the morgue in the Justice complex, he discovered it was actually two bodies. A Justice officer waited at reception for him, a woman in her mid-thirties who looked tired probably from life in general rather than anything that had happened tonight. Justice officers had plenty of experience in dealing with corpses. She also looked less than pleased to see him, which was no surprise. Better funding, better facilities and a reputation for arrogance made I&I unpopular in the Justice Department and considering the time, she might well have been going off shift when someone ordered her to wait for him. "Senior Para-investigator Toreth, sir?" He could almost hear her teeth gritting. He nodded. "Just call me Para. No need for the sir." "Officer Lee." She sounded surprised, but slightly friendlier. As they walked through the dingy corridors, Toreth amused himself by wondering how she'd look with her severely pinned-up hair let down, and a couple of weeks' sleep. Once they reached the vast morgue, the officer told him to wait by the empty reception desk while she tracked down assistance. Her footsteps echoed as she walked away, the sound distorted by the tall ranks of preservation units. It was still relatively early in the evening a quiet time down here, Toreth guessed. Eventually she reappeared with a scrubbed-looking young man in a spotlessly white uniform and a nametag identifying him as Pathology Officer Kirkby. "Evening, sir," Kirkby said. His smile was a disconcerting on-off flash, like a torch, leaving the impression he had consciously to operate it. "This way, please," he added, leading the way across the room. Eventually, he stopped by one of the racks and pulled a flat control screen from his pocket. "Let me see . . . yes. These are the two." He touched the screen and first one unit opened noiselessly, then a second, spilling chill wisps of condensation into the already cool air. Toreth recognised one of the corpses at once Jin Li Yang, his usually pale face now stark white and his spiky hair matted and filthy. His ID must have been the reason Warrick had had his evening spoiled; the man's file would be tagged with his association to a high-priority I&I case, making the call to Toreth automatic. The other body was of a man of indeterminate age anywhere between thirty and fifty. He had scruffy clothes and long, tangled hair and beard that were probably brown. Indigent, judging by the smell if nothing else. "Where did you find Yang?" Toreth asked Lee "We pulled him out of the river and sir? Are you all right?" Toreth had turned away, quickly, but not quickly enough that Lee hadn't seen his face. Out of the river. The body hadn't looked it. Obviously drowned corpses were bad enough, but surprise intensified the reaction and it slipped beyond his control. He could feel the water, choking him, the hands holding him down as he struggled and his treacherous lungs fought to pull more water in. Drowning. He was "Sir? Para?"

Slowly, Toreth became aware of a hand on his shoulder. Lee peered up at him, her face creased with concern. "I just " Shit, he'd have to say something, much as he loathed admitting the weakness. "I had a bad experience once. Some fucking idiot tried to drown me." Leave it at that. Lee nodded. "Close the unit," she said to Kirkby. "No. I'm fine." He forced himself to turn, to look down at the bodies, focusing on the questions he had to ask. "Who's the other one?" "An indig. We'll get his registered name from the Data Division as soon as the DNA check comes back, but his friends called him Tracker." "Friends? What's the story?" "Seven of them, counting this dead one, sitting round a fire. Tracker disappeared one witness said he thought Tracker might have heard something, one of the others said he thought he had a meeting arranged with 'a friend'. Probably a supplier. I wouldn't rely on either of those statements. Then a few minutes later, half an hour later or an hour later, depending on who you ask they heard a yell." Lee shook her head. "They must have really counted him a friend, 'cause they went to look for him. They looked down the alley and saw a shape bending over what turned out to be the body." Forestalling his question, she added, "Too dark to get many details. Three say a man, one says a woman, two honest 'don't knows'." Toreth nodded. Lee was almost certainly right that the 'don't knows' were the more honest witnesses. "Then, and this is a shame, a couple of our witnesses shouted out. Mystery figure saw them and ran. When they got there, it was clean gone and Tracker was dying. He'd been shot in the chest at close range with a silenced weapon no one heard a shot." "Did Tracker say anything to them?" Toreth asked. She shook her head. "So how did you find Yang?" "The officer on the scene that was me spoke to the indigs there. Two of them mentioned hearing a splash just before they turned the corner. I ordered a search of the river and we found him " She hesitated, gaze searching his face, and he gestured impatiently for her to continue. "He'd been pushed, or fallen, into the water. The river's deep and fast-flowing there, but the body snagged on some railings underwater the tide would have washed it clear within the hour." "How you get there so quickly?" "The indigs called Justice." The officer shrugged in response to his expression of surprise. "They called the Administration indig medic service and they called us at the same time. It happens more often than you'd think." She gave Toreth a sly smile. "Of course, you wouldn't know about that, up in the rarefied heights of I&I." Toreth acknowledged the jab with a smile of his own, but it annoyed him that the woman was right. He didn't know much about Justice work and although normally he didn't care about the good opinion of Justice officers, he found himself bothered by it now. Perhaps it was because Lee had displayed a higher degree of competence than the run-of-the-mill Justice employee. "What killed Yang?" he asked, not wanting to hear the answer.

Kirkby's smile clicked on again. "Drowning." He said it with a relish that made Toreth's fists clench involuntarily. "He just " Fuck. "Just drowned? That quickly?" "It can be almost instantaneous. Vagal inhibition from the shock of hitting the water can stop the heart, especially if they're drunk " Kirkby nodded at Yang. " he'd had a glass or two of something. Normally people hold their breath until elevated carbon dioxide forces them to breathe." Flash of teeth, his eyes intent on Toreth's face. "But they can panic and inhale right away." Toreth turned away, bracing one hand on the cool metal of the preservation unit. He could barely hear Kirkby's voice over the pounding in his ears. Jesus, he was going to be sick he didn't dare open his mouth to tell the bastard to shut the fuck up. 'Inspiration of fluid by the lungs induces choking and vomiting. Unconsciousness and death follow quickly.' Memories flooded back, so vivid, of sitting through the pathology lecture, held back from bolting only because then everyone would see him, everyone would know. "Or there's laryngeal spasm," Kirkby said. "Sometimes " "That's enough," Lee said sharply. "He asked," Kirkby said, sounding hurt. "Get back to reception," she said. He heard the hiss of the units closing, and then footsteps retreating. Toreth breathed deeply, trying to think about anything other than his roiling stomach. A light touch on his shoulder was followed by Lee clearing her throat. "I'm sorry about that, Para." After a final swallow, pushing down the nausea, Toreth turned round, forcing himself to meet her eyes. "Forget it. I'll need all your interrogation interview transcripts and I'll need to speak to the witnesses. Are they still here?" Lee nodded. "We held the witnesses because of the flag on Yang's file. Do you want to do it now?" "No, it'll wait until tomorrow," he said, and smiled slightly at her expression of relief. "I'd like to look through the transcripts now, in case there's anything I need to check right away, and then I'll send a couple of investigators round tomorrow morning Investigator Stephen Lambrick will be in charge. They can . . . may they use your interview facilities? It'll save us both the transfer paperwork." The change of phrase from a demand to a request didn't impress her. "Whatever you need, Para." While she made the arrangements, Toreth called I&I and sent a forensic team along to the murder site. With luck, Justice wouldn't have done too much damage up there. The bodies could go to I&I more business for O'Reilly. ~~~ He sat in Lee's small office obviously shared with two other officers, but empty at this hour. The descriptions of the figure were infuriatingly vague, although four out of the six were positive it wasn't Jin Li Yang. Two said they saw reddish hair, one said dark, three didn't know. No one could agree on a height. All six were either drunk or had systems filled with assortments of drugs that raised even Toreth's eyebrows. Needless to say, there were no security cameras near the scene. Toreth considered Yang's possessions as they lay spread out on the desk in their protective

plastic sheaths: a hand screen yielding nothing on a quick inspection, ID and credit card. No indication Yang had expected trouble, nothing out of place at all. No gun, either. It could be lying at the bottom of the river people were searching for it now. However, Toreth didn't expect them to find it. No fucking evidence. Story of his life, at least on this case.

CHAPTER TWENTY
The end was always mercifully fast, the unrelenting grip pinning him, forcing his head down. The horror of the water flooding into his lungs and his body's desperate, involuntary reactions. Choking and vomiting. Unconsciousness follows quickly. Yes, it had. But not quickly enough to avoid leaving the memory, a seed for the nightmare. Toreth woke at six-thirty am, jerking awake for the third time that night as the water-distorted noises in his ears faded into silence. He fought his way free of the tangled sheet and sat up, sweat stinging his eyes. Supposedly, if you died in a dream, you died in the real world too, heart stopping in sympathy. Sara swore that it was true; Toreth knew it was bullshit. He'd drowned in dozens of dreams, and he always woke. Nauseous and with muscles aching from the phantom struggles, but he always woke. Toreth took a deep breath, as his heart rate settled down. He was already starting to shiver in the cool air. In the bathroom, it took him a minute before he could make himself step into the shower, and another two before he could put his face under the spray. He stood under the water, fighting down the rising panic until it was over, and the fear settled down. Back to normal again. He'd expected to have the dream, although three in one night was bad. Fucking Kirkby's fault, Toreth thought sourly as he towelled himself dry. Without his little performance it would have been one none, if he'd been lucky. If he had another tomorrow, that meant at least a week of them. Maybe even carrying on until the case closed and he could forget about Yang. Unpleasant as the dreams were, Toreth was used to them. Knowing them, understanding their rhythm, gave him an illusion of control that he welcomed. It was the next best thing to never having another one in his life. They'd come up once during his yearly psych evaluations. The division psychologist had seemed more interested in discussing them than suggesting any way of making them stop. He'd spent a long time talking about the symbolism of water and fear of death, until Toreth could barely breathe for the tightness in his throat. Eventually he'd told the psychologist that unless he shut the fuck up, Toreth would fetch a couple of friends and demonstrate just how fucking symbolic it felt to have your head held underwater until you drowned. No doubt the outburst had produced an interesting entry in his psych file, but at least it had brought the interview to an end. He hadn't failed the evaluation, of course. It took a lot more than threats to kill for a parainvestigator to fail an I&I psych assessment. Toreth jogged in to work, and then spent an hour in the gym. No swimming, though, not just yet. Combined with the lack of sleep, the unaccustomed early-morning exercise left him tired, but at least it banished the leftover tension from the nightmares. When he arrived at his office, Toreth found a message from Tillotson waiting for him. Sara gave him a sympathetic look and promised him a quadruple-strength coffee when he got back. However, as soon as Toreth walked through the door, Tillotson offered him a cup of his own coffee, which was unusual enough to arouse instant suspicion. Still, he accepted gratefully section heads received a far better grade of coffee than the lower ranks.

"You're sure it wasn't suicide?" Tillotson asked when Toreth had run through the events of the previous night. "Positive. Can I ?" Toreth waved the cup, and Tillotson nodded. Toreth refilled his cup and sat down. "The SimTech man went in the river and someone left the scene in a hell of a hurry. And we didn't find a gun. Even if it had gone in the river the detectors should have found it. On the positive side, it does help the corporate sabotage angle. Rather than the sim killing them, I mean. It was an awfully real bullet in that indig." Tillotson frowned, clearly irritated by having his pet theory mocked. "Any one of the indigs could have killed both of them." "Justice are holding them for a few days I can interrogate if you like. But if they did it, why call Justice? Why not " Toreth set the refilled cup on the section head's desk, because he hated to let anyone see his hands shaking. "Why not just drop both bodies in the river? Odds are they wouldn't be found for weeks, if ever. And they all saw someone, even if they can't agree on the details." And two of them said red hair. He thought about asking Tillotson where he was last night, but refrained. Deliberately inducing apoplexy in a section head was probably a disciplinary offence. "Indigs aren't what I would call quality witnesses," Tillotson grumbled. "They were clear enough about the order of events, though. A splash, then they saw someone standing there." "I see." Tillotson nodded slowly. "It certainly puts a new spin on the investigation." Toreth had expected Tillotson to be overjoyed at the prospect of getting a return on the time and euros invested so far. Worrying that he wasn't. However, Toreth hadn't had enough sleep to manage the steps to the political dance. "Do you want this whole thing buried? If you do, don't f " He caught himself. "Just tell me." "No. If it's corporate, with the Legislator dead it needs wrapping up ASAP." After a moment, Tillotson added, "But don't forget to follow up other possibilities." "Sir?" "If the sim killed Nissim and the others, then this could be an attempt to divert attention from that. There's a lot of money at stake. The killer might hope that if you have one corpse definitely not killed by the sim, you'll assume all the deaths are corporate sabotage." And without my wise guidance, you'd be falling for it. Yeah, right. Toreth bit his tongue and considered the idea, trying to take it on merit. Possible, he supposed, but hardly the first thing that sprang to mind. Certainly not a plan he could imagine any of the SimTech directors devising. "It's a theory, sir," he said politely. "Hmm. In any case, keep the whole thing as quiet as you can no one outside the division hears about it. If it's a cover-up or corporate, better not to let whoever's behind it know what the witnesses saw." "Thanks for the suggestion, sir I hadn't thought of that." Tillotson looked at him sharply, but didn't pursue it. "Do you have any leads on the mystery figure?" If he were less tired, he would've been able to come up with something vaguely positive. "Not really."

"Then why are you sitting around here?" ~~~ Back in his own office, Toreth called Mistry, whom he'd sent in search of the other redhead in the case. From the grey and blue decor of the office behind her, Mistry was at SimTech. "Have you spoken to Tara Scrivin yet?" he asked. "Where the hell was she last night?" "At home in bed, Para." Mistry sounded apologetic. "Building security confirms that she was in the building it is a student building, though, and there are plenty of potential unofficial exits. However, she was sedated she was still a little groggy when I spoke to her this morning." "Who sedated her?" "Dr Tanit. She went to see her yesterday evening at home, and she visited again this morning. She arrived while I was interviewing Tara. I've spoken to her too, Para I thought you'd want me to." He nodded. "Tanit said " She glanced down. "Scrivin was distressed and panicky as a result of the interrogation. Parsons upset her." "It's his job. When was this relative to the time of the murder?" "Dr Tanit left about twenty-thirty." A bare fifteen minutes before the indig disturbed a killer by the river. "She called a taxi at Tara's and went straight home that's confirmed by the taxi record and the surveillance at Tanit's home. She offered to stay the night, but Tara apparently didn't want her to, so Dr Tanit put her to bed and left." "How's Tara now?" Mistry considered. "Badly upset by the news she liked the victim. He volunteered for her trials, I think I'm at SimTech to check that. She was virtually incoherent in places. It took me a long time to get the story out of her, and not because of the doping. When I left, Dr Tanit was talking to her about the hospital the psych ward she was in before. Sounded to me like they'd discussed it last night as well. She was trying to talk the girl into a voluntary admission, and in my judgement, she'll probably manage it." Funded by SimTech's generosity again, no doubt. "Thanks. Let me know if Tara goes anywhere." Toreth cut the connection and went over to the window to think. On the face of it, the idea was ridiculous Yang wasn't a large man, but Tara was tiny. How could she have thrown him into the river? Still, if he'd been drunk . . . A glass or two, Kirkby had said, which was probably not enough. Then there was the indig. Difficult enough to imagine Tara killing Yang calmly dealing with an unexpected interruption and killing Tracker seemed even more improbable. Where would she have got hold of the gun? Not a trivial thing, even with connections he couldn't see her having. Fifteen minutes might be long enough to get from Tara's room to the river he'd send an investigator to run it and check out cameras on the route. The alternative was that Tanit was covering for her. Would she do that? Toreth called up everything he had on the two women. When he examined Marian Tanit's files, he found three he didn't recognise: one was a moderately impressive list of her published papers, the other two were both lists of the papers citing her work. Sara had found time to fulfil his citation search request in the midst of all the excitement. He flicked through them, then stopped and went back,

comparing the duplicate citation documents more closely. Then he called Sara into his office. "Why are there two of these?" She peered at the screen. "I don't . . . oh, wait, yes I do. The system produced two records with the same ident number. Probably a mix-up with the name, although you wouldn't think there would be two Marian Tanits with PhDs in psychology. I shoved them in the case database and then I didn't get back to working out which is the right Tanit. Sorry." "No, don't be. They're both the right Tanit. Look at the papers cited and tell me what you think." Obediently she scrolled down the lists, then frowned and did it again more slowly. "This one is a truncated version of the other," she said. "Except not quite. It looks like the shorter one is an older version the last citation on the list is twenty-five years old. Same year as the last time the short file was modified. But there are citations on the short one that aren't on the longer one." "And if you look, the extra citations are for papers not on her publication list." Sara checked the list again and nodded. "Maybe it got cross-indexed with someone else's record. That happens sometimes." "Or . . . how did you do the search?" Sara kept her eyes fixed on the screen, guilt stamped plainly on her face. "I, er . . . what do you mean?" Toreth sighed. "Don't forget what I do for a living. Whose code?" "Well, I . . . I'm not sure." She straightened up, and then sat on the edge of his desk. "I wouldn't have done it, except that there was so much going on and it takes forever to do the need-to-know justifications for the restricted stuff. There's a high security level code I got from " She stopped. Toreth raised his eyebrows and waited. "Kel." She put her hand on his arm. "Don't bust him, Toreth, please." Chevril's admin. "Of course I won't. But you could've shared the goodies, you know." She grinned with relief. "Sorry. I'll add it to your collection." "Good. Now do the search again, using your own code." Toreth watched while Sara did it. The screen displayed only one file the longer, up-to-date one, with a few restricted-access papers now marked as unavailable. "You're right," Sara said. "Someone frigged the files. I wonder why?" Toreth considered the papers cited the titles of those missing from the start of the longer list meant nothing to him. He recognised the names of the three journals, though: The Journal of Reeducation Research, Neuromanipulation, and Social Pathology and Psychology. All restricted circulation. If this file had been modified, others belonging to Tanit could have been tampered with as well. "Give me that code," he said. Sara stood behind him and watched as he used Kel's stolen code to call up all Tanit's files. Only the citations file came up with two versions. He tried a couple of other high-security codes he kept for emergencies, with the same result. When he'd finished, there was an expectant silence. "Well?" Sara asked eventually.

"No idea. Could be a glitch in the system. Could be someone rewrote her files and took her name off those papers, but missed this version of the citation file when they were tidying up the databases. A full-clearance citation record is fairly obscure, so if they were going to miss something, it's a good candidate. This is the first time I've ever asked for one." "So why did you this time?" Mostly to annoy you. "It was Chev's idea." He studied the screen again. "If the date of the last entry is any guide the alterations are twenty-five years old, so it's probably not important. Still . . ." She sighed. "Someone needs to waste time finding out who did it. Any ideas before I get my lamp and helmet and start delving in the archives? Or can I ask one of the investigators to do it if I don't tell them about Kel's code? Wrenn's good with the systems." Toreth didn't answer. He was thinking about a restaurant. 'The files are always supposed to be secure'. Warrick smiling, boasting a little without admitting anything directly. Time to get over to SimTech. ~~~ When the admin showed Toreth into Warrick's office, Toreth thought Warrick looked surprisingly calm. He wondered whether he even knew about Yang. However, as he neared the desk he noted the tight lines in Warrick's face. Warrick watched coldly as he sat down and placed the camera on the desk. "Can I assume that you've heard the news?" Toreth asked. Warrick nodded sharply. "And to answer your next question, I spent yesterday evening at home. Alone except for the SimTech security guard outside my flat door, that is. The building security will confirm that." "Thanks. Sit down and let me tell you the details." Halfway through the reiteration of last night's events just after he'd steeled himself and said 'in the river' Warrick stood up abruptly. "He committed suicide?" Toreth couldn't help noting how damn fuckable he looked, pale with anger, his eyes bright and intent. "If you'd sit down and listen, Doctor " "I don't believe it. Not for a moment. If you're trying to say that the sim was responsible for this, somehow, then you're a fool." Warrick's hands clenched, his body taut with tension easy to translate the image to a bedroom, and ascribe the slight baring of his teeth to a different emotion. Then Toreth banished that unprofessional line of thought. "I know he didn't kill himself. He was murdered." First reactions always interested him. Colour flushed back into Warrick's face, and he leaned on the desk. "Oh, thank God." Then, as he realised what he'd said, he paled again and sat down. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean . . . I told you all along it wasn't the sim, that's all. I knew it couldn't be and I'm God. Have you told his wife?" "I sent Mistry round last night. We're keeping the details of the murder quiet for now." Warrick nodded. "What did happen? I won't tell anyone else." Warrick had held to a previous promise to keep quiet. "We're not sure yet. There was no sign of

violence, no drugs. Your first guess was suicide maybe the perpetrators hoped that's how it would look, if the body was ever found." "Corporate sabotage," Warrick said. "It has to be. A professional team." "That's one alternative." "There are others?" Ironically, Warrick's reaction to the news of Yang's death, with his relief that Toreth was treating it as murder, not suicide, meshed nicely with Tillotson's improbable suggestion that the directors were behind the killing. Toreth still didn't believe it. "That's where I was hoping you might be able to help." "I wish I could." Warrick stared past him, palms stroking together. "He hasn't been at work since Monday." "Why?" "Well . . . after the Legislator's death, we tightened sim security and instituted a policy that anyone who felt uneasy was free to refuse to work in the sim, no questions asked, no stigma attached." His mouth twisted, half smile, half grimace. "The kinder, gentler corporation, as you would say. Most people elected to keep working, but Yang wanted to take some time off." Interesting that Warrick would tell him about a senior employee's misgivings either for once he hadn't thought through the implication or he was banking on Toreth discovering the programmer's doubts and taking the chance to put the best spin on it. "He thought the sim was dangerous?" "He didn't want to take a risk." Another grimace. "He was thinking of his family." "You don't think he had any proof, then, that the sim caused the other deaths?" Warrick frowned at him, uncomprehending, until his expression cleared. "And he was killed to suppress that information? By whom? Am I top of the list, or are you going to accuse the directors in order?" His tone was mildly amused, but Toreth could hear the undercurrent of anger. "Do you really think I make a habit of killing my staff and friends?" Genuine anger, or evasion? "That's not the question I asked." His eyes narrowed. "No. I don't think he had any such evidence, because it doesn't exist. The sim doesn't kill. It can't kill." "So you've said." Warrick leaned back, mask firmly back in place. "And if you have any evidence to the contrary, then I would love to hear it." Back to stalemate because, as Warrick damn well knew, he had nothing. "I'll let you know if I find any. Now, I have another question. You used to work in the Data Division?" Warrick nodded. "That's right." His face showed only curiosity, slight wariness, but nothing that looked like guilt. Not that reading Warrick was an easy task. "Doing what, precisely?" "Security and encryption. It was my first job I had a part sponsorship at university." "Did you ever work on citizens' security files?" "Int-Sec or Central Records?" Interesting distinction the fact that Warrick mentioned the Int-Sec records at all told Toreth that he must have had access to sensitive areas. "Either." He half expected Warrick to ask, 'isn't it in my file'? Instead he merely said, "Central Records,

primarily, although some of the same encryption and transfer systems were adopted for the Int-Sec files. Or so I understand." "I have a question about security files. Are they often lost? Or rather, is it possible for someone to lose that kind of information?" Warrick studied him carefully. Toreth waited, saying nothing. Warrick must know that the ins and outs of security files were hardly a mystery to a senior para-investigator, and so he must also suspect why Toreth was asking. "Accidentally lose . . . perhaps," Warrick said at length. "Mistakes are made all the time; it's inevitable with so many records. In the vast majority of cases, something as major as losing an entire file would be caught by the cross-checks. The system is quite robust. If you mean the kind of losing that takes a great deal of effort, then also 'perhaps'. With skill and time. Is there a reason for asking me this?" "It's possible that someone has altered Marian Tanit's security file." A pause, before Warrick made the obvious connection. He smiled slightly. "If someone has, it wasn't me. And however you ask the question, the answer will be the same." Toreth sat and scrutinised Warrick's face, letting the silence stretch out. Lying, or not? After a while, Warrick raised his eyebrows. "Well?" "When you gave Tanit the job, how far back did you take the background checks?" Warrick didn't react to the implicit acceptance of his denial. "The actual checks would have been made by Personnel and the Security department. However, I spoke to her previous employer myself I always do for senior appointments." "And?" "And everything was fine. If not, she wouldn't be here now." Toreth nodded. "Thanks. I won't take up any more of your time, Doctor." He switched off the camera, but didn't stand up. Warrick waited. Dare he risk this? Toreth wondered. He looked at the desk, close enough to touch, thinking of the fuck they'd had there. It would be stupid, when he'd already compromised his relationship with Warrick so badly, to risk anything more. Warrick was still watching him, slowly spinning a pencil round on the desk. He appeared willing to give Toreth however long he needed to make up his mind, and the thought came again when did Warrick start running the interview? Any time Toreth gave the bastard a chance, like all the other corporate fuckers who thought that the world ran on their time. "If her file had been changed," Toreth said, "could you retrieve the original version?" Warrick's right eyebrow twitched very slightly. "I think you are rather better placed to access security files than I." "Hypothetically then, if for whatever reason I couldn't manage it at I&I, do you think that y . . . that someone else with more experience of Central Records security systems could . . . ?" Toreth wasn't sure how best to put it, so he left the question dangling. Warrick sat, head bowed, apparently intent on the pencil. "Hypothetically, then," he said at length, every syllable distinct, "perhaps. There are extensive

archives and backups. It would depend on how thorough the initial, ah, losing had been. For an ordinary civilian file it may be possible, at least for someone who understood the system on, shall we say, a fundamental level. Someone who knew how to examine files without leaving traces that they had done so." He glanced up, eyes hooded, expression giving nothing away. "Would you think that was a good thing?" "A good thing? In what sense?" Toreth asked. Warrick looked back down. "If someone could do that, would you want them to? Considering that such an action would be manifestly illegal, I would imagine that you'd be very much opposed to it." "I wouldn't care, frankly, as long as I saw the file. I certainly wouldn't ask any questions about where it came from hypothetically or actually." "Mm." Warrick smiled, rather distant. "I do so admire flexibility." He picked the pencil up, examined it for a moment, and then dropped it into a drawer and smiled. "Was there anything else you wanted?" That was, apparently, that. Had he agreed to look, or hadn't he? Trying to crack Warrick was like trying to get a purchase on polished marble an impervious, reflecting surface. "I " Toreth stood. "No. I've got lots to do. You'll be seeing me again, I expect." Warrick nodded, half-smile still in place. "Good luck, Para-investigator," he said as Toreth crossed the office. With the door open, Toreth stopped and turned, leaning on the frame. "One more question, if you have time." "Of course." Letting the door swing closed, Toreth strolled back across the office and leaned against Warrick's desk. "Do you deep throat?" The pure surprise on Warrick's face was a gratifyingly immediate payback. After a few seconds he said, "When the occasion demands." "In the sim?" A short nod. "And out of it?" One corner of Warrick's mouth quirked as he recovered his poise. "Is this an official enquiry, Para-investigator?" "Not at all." "In that case, I tried it several times, a long time ago. I never got the hang of it." Another few slow steps took him behind Warrick's chair. He leaned on the back. "It's easy," he said, lowering his voice to not quite a professional tone, but definitely with an edge of threat. Or promise. "Is it?" Warrick didn't look round, didn't move at all. "Oh, yes. You need to learn how to relax, that's all. To accept. To be taken. To be used. I bet you could do it with one hand tied . . . with both hands tied behind your back." His mouth now only a few inches from Warrick's ear. "With some training and a sufficient incentive." "Mm. Which you think you could, ah, supply?" Warrick was struggling to keep his voice level.

"I'm sure I could." Despite the risk of the partly open door, he couldn't resist lowering his head the last short distance to nip at Warrick's throat. Warrick shivered, marble crumbling like clay. When Warrick spoke again, his voice was a whisper. "Tonight?" "No." Toreth stood up. "Far too much to do. I'll call you, maybe." Outside the door, he ran into Belqola, looking eager to be useful. "We've got all the staff accounted for and interviews scheduled, Para." ~~~ Toreth left the SimTech staff interviews to his team. He returned to I&I and read the reports as they came in. Some of the staff alibied each other, although this time the directors did not. Asher Linton was confirmed by AERC security to have been in the building. Marcus had been at home with his wife being a good boy, obviously. Most of the rest of the staff had also been at home at the time of death quarter to nine or in other places that excluded them from being at the river. Times were listed for checking with movement records, credit usage and security recordings; alibis, weak, strong or nonexistent, were noted for corroboration. Toreth studied a map of the city, watching as the system traced routes for him, highlighting those of the staff whose alibis left them a large enough window to have been at the murder scene. The place itself wasn't too far from the edge of campus; quiet and unobserved, it would've made a convincing enough place for a suicide but for the intervention of the luckless Tracker. Most of the staff who came up as possibles had alibis for Kelly's death, and of the ones remaining, none had any special connection to Teffera or Nissim. Frustratingly, by the time the last of the interviews came in, there was no clear SimTech suspect. That left a team of commercial sabs as the strongest possibility. Toreth hated chasing professionals I&I tended to come up against the expensive ones, which meant the good ones. Only one point argued against pros. Yang had left his house at eight-fifteen, captured on security camera leaving the building and heading in the direction of the river. He'd been alone, but walking quickly, like someone late for a meeting. That suggested he had an appointment hopefully, the man wouldn't be stupid enough to meet someone he didn't know in such an isolated spot. Still, Toreth couldn't assume that, so he had to consider professionals. That meant more names to pull up, of known and suspected contractors. More whereabouts to discover, credit reports and movements to analyse and names to eliminate. It also meant a lot of very long days. Saturday tomorrow, but he'd no doubt be working through the weekend. Long days and, probably, bad nights. With a sigh, Toreth called Sara and asked her to arrange to have something delivered to his office for dinner. I&I security didn't like random takeaway food delivery staff arriving at reception but, frankly, screw them.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
On Monday, Toreth had hoped to get away from work early, meaning before seven o'clock. With ten minutes to go, a call came through. "Para-investigator Toreth?" To his surprise, it was Officer Lee, looking tired but cheerful. "What can I do for you?" he asked, knowing that the early getaway was doomed. "I have another body for you, Para. I think you might like to come and have a look at it." For a moment, Toreth considered sending Mistry instead, or even Belqola. He'd had only the one nightmare last night, and he didn't fancy another visit to the morgue so soon. On the other hand, Lee looked to have good news and he could do with some of that. "I'll be right over." ~~~ To his irritation, Kirkby was waiting for them in the morgue. Toreth didn't bother to respond to his greeting, which earned him a dark look from the pathologist. The preservation unit slid open, and Toreth looked at the body. A man in his late thirties, unkempt, bearded, and vaguely familiar. "Who is he?" "One of the indigs from Friday night," Lee said. "We released them a few hours ago. They'd been gone for about two hours when the indig medical service got another call. Only this one was there when the medics arrived I expect the others didn't fancy our hospitality again. He was already dead; the body lay only a few hundred metres from where the first one was found. The medics called me in because I'd flagged all the indigents' files." There were no obvious marks on the body and, thank fuck, no sign it had been anywhere near the river. "Any idea what killed him?" Kirkby's smile lit up. "We certainly do, sir. An engineered biotoxin, delivered by a cell-type specific immunotargetting system." Toreth blinked. "A what?" "Genetically engineered poison, and a sophisticated one, according to the lab. A full report is being prepared, but in summary it attacks the breathing control centres in the brain in a very specific fashion. Death would take somewhere between one to twenty minutes, depending on the dose. And it had, um " He consulted the screen. "A post-mortem self-catalysing destructive element. Probably a conformational change triggered by pH changes in the cerebrospinal fluid due to carbon dioxide acidosis the lab is still working out the detail. That means it cleared from the system very quickly once he stopped breathing we were lucky to catch it." The summary didn't help much, but the last sentence caught Toreth's attention. "Why did you look?" "Because of the injector." This time Kirkby's smile looked almost natural. "Otherwise we'd have bedded him down for the night, processed him in the morning, and found nothing." "Injector?" Toreth queried.

Lee nodded. "A disposable injector with a three-quarter-empty drug ampoule was found in the nearest recycling unit; luckily, the unit was out of order. A sterile wrapper by the body caught my attention and made me look for the injector, because a wrapper's unusual for the quality of drugs indigs take. Fingerprints from the indigs all over the wrapper and injector. I had an immediate pharm work-up on the contents of the ampoule." Toreth seriously considered kissing her. Or Kirkby. Or maybe both of them and the corpse as well. "How much of the toxin did you find in him?" he asked the pathologist. "None as I said, the stuff starts to degrade as soon as it's finished its job. The lab managed to get some diagnostic breakdown products from the body." "I have tissue samples from Yang over at I&I," Toreth said urgently. "And from three more bodies, all dead for days or weeks. Is there any chance of showing that the toxin killed them?" Kirkby considered. "Maybe. I could have a word with Pala she's the senior immunologist in the morning. She might have some ideas." "Do it. Not in the morning. Now. Get her back in here charge her a taxi to I&I. O'Reilly from I&I Forensic Pathology will be getting in touch with her." Kirkby looked at Lee, who nodded slightly. "Yes sir," he said, and hurried off back towards the reception desk. Lee said, "I've got all the files ready to send over to I&I, sir. And I've put out a detaining order for the rest of the indigs. My guess is that the injector came from the previous scene. The indigs hid it before we arrived, then picked it up after we let them out; they probably assumed Tracker bought it from whoever shot him. One of them dropped it into the recycling unit when they realised it had killed this one." "Sounds likely enough. Pull them back in and send me the interviews." Time to get back to I&I and start trying to locate a creator for the drug. "Thanks for everything you did a good job. I'll let your boss know how helpful you've been." She grimaced slightly as she closed the unit. "Thank you, sir." "Don't fancy a commendation from a para?" he asked Lee as she walked him to the exit. "No offence intended, sir, but it's not the best thing to have on your file." Career ambition over all, even in a dump like Justice. On the other hand, someone with Lee's obvious ability ought to shine here. "Were you at Justice before the reorganisation?" "Yes for four years." He didn't remember her from the year he'd worked at Justice before Interrogation became part of I&I, but it had been a big place. "Didn't apply to be an I&I investigator?" "I didn't think I'd enjoy it, back then." "And now?" Lee shook her head. "Sometimes I think it was the biggest mistake of my life." She looked at her watch. "Usually when I'm working overtime without any chance of getting paid for it." And as a favour to an outsider at that. "You could apply for a transfer. We take people from Justice, if they're good enough." She'd be a hundred percent improvement over bloody Belqola. "I could put a word in for you I'd be glad to have you on my team."

"Thanks. But no thanks." They reached the foyer, and she stopped in the centre of the quiet space. Two guards stood by the door, with two others behind the desk. All four watched them. "Why not?" he asked. "Ninety-nine percent of the cases we see here are routine. No idealists, just ordinary criminals. Then every so often we stumble across part of something big and dangerous. Like this restricted biotech, corporate connections, politics, and God only knows what else. And when that happens, people like you breeze through those doors and take the case away before we really know what's going on." She smiled. "That's when I know I made the right choice."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Toreth was so deeply asleep that it took several minutes for the insistent chiming of the comm to awaken him. Even through a thick haze of sleep he felt certain that he'd set it to take messages, so he knew who it was. Moving on autopilot, he reached out and fumbled for the earpiece. "Sara?" he croaked. "Where were you?" Warrick's voice demanded. "W " Was this a bad dream? "Where the fuck do you think? Asleep. What the hell do you want?" "Come over to SimTech." He sounded disgustingly awake. Toreth finally pried his eyes open and looked at the clock; it took him a moment to focus, and then another to believe what he was seeing. Tuesday the thirteenth of November looked right, but the time Jesus fucking Christ. "No. It's three o'clock in the fucking morning. What is it?" "Get up, get dressed, get over here." The comm went dead. Toreth closed his eyes and buried his head in the pillow. Every bone in his body protested the idea of leaving the loving embrace of the sheets. Then he forced himself out of bed and started hunting for clothes. Warrick would only call back if he didn't show up. As he stood on the street in the biting wind, waiting for the taxi, he decided he really hated this fucking case. ~~~ At the AERC, the security guard let him in without asking for an ID and told him Doctor Warrick was in his office. Toreth voice-activated lights in the corridors as he went; the building echoed emptily and he felt a stab of apprehension. There had been five murders already. If he hadn't been half asleep in the taxi on the way over, he might have thought more about it. Had it really been Warrick's voice over the comm? Had Yang received a similar summons? Wishing he'd detoured to I&I and checked out a gun, Toreth hesitated outside the office, and then opened the door. No one there. He stepped inside cautiously and moved over to the desk. All three screens were active, showing pages of complex-looking coding. On the other hand, most code looked complex to him, especially right now. "There you are!" Startled, he looked up to find Warrick in the doorway, carrying a tray with two mugs and a large insulated flask. "Coffee," he said. "My machine in here's empty, but I dredged this up in the cafeteria. I thought you might need some, and I sure as hell do." Warrick did look as if caffeine might help. The dark hollows under his eyes made Toreth feel a little better about his own haggard appearance. However, Warrick's eyes shone with what Toreth recognised as sim-related excitement and he was practically bouncing on the spot. How, Toreth wondered, could he get so excited about his job at this time in the morning?

Warrick set the tray down and poured the coffee. Tepid, and with the consistency of gritty soup, it tasted wonderful. "So, what is it?" Toreth swept a pile of papers away and dropped into the chair, slopping coffee onto the floor and not caring. "And why the fuck couldn't it wait until tomorrow?" "Because I didn't want to risk waiting 'til the morning and talking myself out of it." Warrick sat down at the screen. "And also because I thought you might like to know that I found out how they did it." "What?" Toreth blinked. "But we know " He bit the sentence off, but Warrick didn't seem to have noticed. Warrick started bringing up new screens of code. Toreth pulled his chair up beside him and tried to ready his brain to keep up. The first words surprised him. "Yang sent me a file," Warrick said. "Sent? When?" Warrick glanced at him. "This afternoon Monday, rather. Time coded. I think it was something along the lines of health insurance." "Not very healthy." "No. But he's he wasn't a corporate, just a programmer. All I was once, but I've learned. Blackmail-style insurance only works if the right people know about it. Clearly, they didn't." "So what was in the file? And why didn't you send it to me straight away?" "Well, for one reason, because you already have it it's a log of the session where Kelly died." "All that was supposed to be with the division investigators downstairs," Toreth felt obliged to point out. "And the files have been sealed." Warrick waved a dismissive hand, and Toreth snatched his coffee out of danger just in time. "Yes, well, pretend he found a copy on a machine they overlooked. It hardly matters now, does it? He thought " Warrick hesitated, then ploughed on. "He thought it was evidence that the sim was responsible for Kelly's death." Toreth blinked. "And was it?" "No. Quite the opposite. But first, look what he sent me it's a comparison of the homeostatic control module activation log from the fatal session here with some approximately equivalent data." One of the expansive monitors on the desk displayed a section of code. Another showed line after line of numbers and letters, each with a time attached, accurate to microseconds. Occasional lines were highlighted in red, and that was all Toreth could see. "Yang misinterpreted it," Warrick continued. "And your systems experts probably haven't even found it. Not their fault I&I didn't write this stuff, and it is complex. I didn't write most of it either, but I created the system architecture and I did write the homeostatic monitoring and the associated feedback code." Now a caffeine buzz overlaid the fatigue, concentrating it into the beginnings of a splitting headache. "Could you run that past me again, only a lot more slowly and in English?" Warrick frowned. "Did you even read the summary material I sent you?" "Let's say that I did, and that I've somehow forgotten it over the past three days during which I've had about five hours' sleep a night. "Three hours short of what he needed to stay civilised.

"Sorry." Warrick endeavoured to look contrite. "All right. Slowly and in small words. Broadly defined, homeostasis is the body's ability to regulate itself it's very complicated and the biochemistry behind it isn't really my field. It covers blood chemistry, breathing, temperature, that sort of thing. It's relevant because if, to pick an example, you get into a hot bath in the sim, your body feels hot but the heat isn't real. In that case, the sim has the potential to interfere with the mechanisms that maintain body temperature." "And kill you?" "Very unlikely. Detailed modelling suggests not. However, there is a miniscule outside chance, theoretically, that it could cause some minor, non-fatal damage. The sponsors didn't want to take the risk and neither did I. Even if it did no harm, it could be unpleasant for the user. Actually, it's one of the potential causes of sim-sickness, so we were very interested in eliminating the smallest effect." He hit a key and the code scrolled smoothly past. "This is the homeostatic control module HCM. It takes real physiological and biochemical readings from the sensors and feeds them into the homeostatic control centres, bypassing all the other parts of the sim. A direct link to the real world. And the HCM can modulate autonomic nervous functions to smooth out confusions caused by the sim environment." Warrick frowned, obviously looking back over the speech. "The autonomic nerves regulate involuntary body functions," he added. "That's the important feature in this case." Toreth knew exactly what autonomic nerves were, but that didn't make him feel any less stupid. "So you could kill someone by fucking with this HCM?" "No, of course not," Warrick said witheringly. "There are so many failsafes in this system that the moment the body chemistry started drifting beyond acceptable limits, the sim would disconnect. It's impossible to turn those failsafes off and have the sim operate at all. There is no way on earth the HCM could kill someone." He smiled triumphantly. "But it could keep someone alive. If a user had a defect in his homeostatic control, even a serious one, the sim could compensate for it and he wouldn't die straight away. Think of it as a very expensive life support system. Actually, it's similar to standard nerve induction systems in a hospital intensive care unit; like those systems, the sim would make him breathe, bypassing the damaged portion of the brain." Surprise temporarily banished sleepiness. "Make him breathe?" "Yes." Warrick scrolled up to the point where the red highlights began. "If you look at the log, the respiratory control module was called repeatedly after a certain point. That alone should have tripped an alarm, but it's a secondary level one and it can be disabled remotely, if necessary, like everything else. And the only plausible explanation is a drug, a poison." Toreth stared at the screen, not really seeing it. One line of characters looked very much like another to him, but if Warrick said that it was possible, then he was willing to believe him. The real question was why Warrick was showing this to him now. "What do you think?" Warrick asked impatiently. "I thought the pharmaceutical side wasn't your field?" "It isn't, but the exact biochemical mechanism doesn't matter." Impatience sharpened his voice again. "Gross damage, even a localized stroke, would've shown up in the autopsy, so it requires something capable of destroying the body's ability to breathe in a highly targeted way. You're the damn investigator. There must be some evidence to find, some trace in the bodies."

It was too much of a coincidence. "Warrick, how the fuck did you know?" "It's all in the files your systems people will be able to confirm it." Warrick frowned at the screen with disapproval. "It's almost disappointing, really. It requires no technical skill at all; it's simply a question of spotting the potential loophole in the system. My code does all the work." "No, I mean how did you know about the toxin?" "About " His head snapped round. "You mean you've already found something?" Anger flared up. "Why the hell didn't you tell me before?" That was a step too far over the line. "I file my IIPs with Tillotson, not with you." Warrick's expression closed down. "I apologise. If you could share some details, I'd be grateful." "I don't know anything for certain yet. We found an injector with a toxin engineered to target breathing we're checking the bodies for traces of it now. You did know, didn't you? That's why you called me now." "I had no idea. None at all." Warrick sat back, then laughed a single, short sound before he shook his head. "I was expecting to have to convince you this was evidence of sabotage rather than the sim. That's why I spent so long checking it out before I called you." "Actually, I thought all along it was probably corporate. Not that you ever bothered to ask me. "Toreth considered the new information. "Wouldn't the person in the sim feel an injection and come out?" "No. That's the whole point of the sim, to block out perceptions of the real world and replace them with the virtual. If the program stops early for any reason then the person dies sooner, but that's all. It would even be possible to fix the time of death with a preprogrammed or remote shutdown, if you had the authority to do it." Another consequence of the revelation occurred to him, and Toreth groaned. "Fuck. Alibis. All the bloody alibis are worthless." Warrick nodded. "The victims could have been injected with the toxin at any time between starting the sim or even just before and the time of death. Or earlier, with a slow-release system." Toreth looked at him curiously. "And you knew I'd think of that?" Warrick waved the question away impatiently. "I should hope you would, Para-investigator. It's obvious." Toreth found truthfulness somewhat difficult to handle at the best of times. It made him suspicious. "Why did you tell me?" Warrick looked at him with genuine surprise. "Apart from the intellectual dishonesty of not telling you, it's important. Those people were friends I want you to find who killed them. And who's killing SimTech by extension." He shrugged. "Anyway, once I'd realised what it meant, hiding it would look highly suspicious. Yang may have sent copies to other people, and your division friends should have found it eventually." He never got just one explanation with Warrick, although Toreth couldn't imagine anyone other than Warrick coming up with a dislike of intellectual dishonesty as a reason to make himself a murder suspect. Of course, the last one Warrick had given was the obvious reason he would've called Toreth, were Warrick really the murderer.

"Did you kill them? Any of them?" Warrick looked at him narrowly. "What do you think?" "I'm asking you." "And if I don't answer, you'll take me down to the Interrogation Division? Strap me down and hurt me for real?" "Warrick, I'm being serious here." One side of Warrick's mouth lifted in a non-smile. "So am I. You would, wouldn't you?" "Of course." Toreth shrugged. "Or, rather, I'd take you there. I'd have to hand you over to another interrogator because I'd have a personal involvement with the prisoner." The conversation, in fact the whole experience, had begun to feel unreal, far more unreal than the sim. "Personal involvement. Mm. No, I didn't do it. I could have, but I didn't. You'll have to look elsewhere, I'm afraid." Toreth stared into the sludgy remains of his coffee until he decided that, on balance, he believed him. He'd never really thought Warrick had done it. He had a very good instinct for lies, probably because he told so many himself. One instinct he did trust. Confrontation over, Warrick's manic energy had drained away. When Toreth looked at him again, he was staring at the screen, watching the lines scroll past. "It's ironic really a system we put in place because of probably unfounded safety concerns is the one used to kill. I just wish Yang had come to me," Warrick added quietly. "I would've worked it out and brought it directly to you. He'd still be alive now." Toreth yawned. "Probably thought you wouldn't listen." Warrick looked round, his fatigue-ringed eyes seeming darker and larger than usual. "Why do you say that?" "People tell their bosses what they want to hear. You do go on about how safe the sim is." "I suppose I do. I have a responsibility to the corporation." He shook his head. "I seem to be doing better on that front than with responsibility to my employees." Toreth downed the last bitter mouthful of cold coffee. "Don't worry about it unless SimTech contracts don't limit corporate liability for sabotage damage, that is." Warrick winced slightly. "Hardly the point." "Bet they do though, don't they?" When Warrick nodded reluctantly, Toreth grinned. "And looking on the bright side, he trusted you enough to send you the file, so at least now we know." Warrick stared at him, but tiredness took some of the edge off his usual icy glare. After a moment he nodded. "Indeed. Now we know. And, to be equally and grimly practical, once the sponsors hear " "No. I can't allow that yet. You'll have to keep it quiet for now." Warrick started to protest, but Toreth spoke over him. "Once the sab team discovers that we know about the toxin, they'll pull back and we'll never find them. News will get out soon, but the longer it takes the more chance we have of catching the bastards." "Please, couldn't we at least " Warrick took a deep breath, and Toreth couldn't help admiring the effect. Pleading must just about kill him. "Would it be possible to reassure a few of the major sponsors?"

"When any one of them could be responsible? No." Warrick looked at him, dark eyes hooded, then nodded. "Of course, Para-investigator. I would appreciate it if you could let me know when the news can be released." "Of course." Warrick reached out for the screen and closed it down. "Now I think I'm going to rest on my laurels for a while. How did you get here?" "Taxi." "I'll give you a lift back." He raised an eyebrow, half-smile slipping into something more sardonic. "If you don't mind a murder suspect knowing where you live." "Right now I'd give you the code for the door if it'd get me back to sleep any faster." They sat in silence as the car drove them across the darkened city. Warrick seemed to be thinking, and Toreth was already imagining his bed. As Toreth let himself into the building, he heard Warrick call his name. He went back to the ground-car and leaned down to the window. "Yes?" "There's something " Warrick stopped. "What?" "Nothing. Or nothing relevant. Ah I thought I should mention that I'm not planning to be at SimTech first thing tomorrow. I need my beauty sleep." Toreth, who knew that he himself would have to be at work in less than four hours, glared at him. Warrick smiled slightly. "So, the answers to the questions are that there was no homeostasis log on Jon Teffera's machine, but we installed full logging on all the external machines, including Pearl Nissim's, after Kelly's death. Also, no one has authority to alter the logs, and that all the data recording is tamper-proofed." He spread his hands. "Although if someone understood the security system on a fundamental level . . ." Before Toreth could say anything, the car drove away.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
When he arrived at I&I Toreth called the division computer experts at SimTech and informed them that Doctor Warrick had suggested checking the control call logs against a comparable data set. There was no point in prejudicing them with Warrick's conclusions. It took them two hours to find the homeostatic control evidence, another two hours to work out what it meant, and half an hour on the comm to explain it to Toreth. Warrick had told him the unvarnished truth. Almost a pity he would have liked an excuse to drag Warrick out of bed and ask him some searching questions. Once Knethen finished explaining things Toreth already knew, he promised a more thorough analysis. Toreth nodded. "And " Tillotson's suggestion rose in his mind better to cover all angles. "Check for a mechanism for the sim to cause the neural damage in the first place. If there's any possibility, no matter how small, I want to know about it." "Yes, Para. While we're doing that, could someone find out for us whether the sim machines not in the AERC building had session logs and who, if anyone, had the necessary security permission to alter the logs?" Feeling slightly better disposed towards Warrick, Toreth spent an hour asleep in his office while he pretended to hunt down the information. ~~~ The short day at work had made a pleasant change of pace, Warrick reflected. At least, it did until he allowed himself to think about why it was pleasant. He'd always loved SimTech, looked forwards to waking up and coming in to work. His sister had teased him about it for years. Now, waking up to the knowledge of how close they were to losing everything made every day an ordeal. Over the last few weeks, he'd found himself looking for excuses not to get up. Leaving the flat was the worst part. Setting off, knowing that there would probably be more bad news waiting for him when he arrived at the AERC. Now, finally, there was hope of a way through the nightmare. Before he went home, Warrick looked at the file for the fiftieth time and wondered what to do with it. When he'd first found it, he'd been reluctant to say anything to Toreth because the man was so clearly ready to clutch at straws. Anyone who was willing to pull in and question someone like Tara Scrivin would certainly go a lot further with Marian Tanit. He'd told the truth to Toreth when he'd said that, personally, he had nothing against Marian. He respected her, on many points, and he'd always made an effort to accept criticism within the corporation it was healthy, in fact, as long as it wasn't out of control or commercially damaging. He'd almost mentioned the file to Toreth in the early hours of this morning, but he'd stopped himself. The logic he'd used then was that he'd done his duty as a loyal citizen by bringing the murder method to Toreth's attention, and that made the omission acceptable. It had worked at the time. In the cold light of day or the fading light of the November afternoon it sounded hollow. The thought of Marian at I&I still held him back. The thought of anyone in that place. The techniques of the Interrogation Division weren't public knowledge, but the Administration found rumours to be a useful way to remind people of the penalties for open defiance or serious crime.

However, unlikely as the information was, he had to check it out for SimTech's sake, never mind any theoretical obligation to Toreth. Short of telling Toreth, he could find no way of doing that except talking to Marian. As he opened the office door, he realised how infrequently he visited her without a summons. The surprise on her face reflected that, but she offered him a seat without comment. "I have a question I must ask you," he began. "I received some information about your qualifications." No flicker of a reaction. "From the para-investigator?" "No. I'm talking to you now because I'm trying to decide what to do with it. Whether to tell him." "Is it relevant to the investigation?" "I can't imagine that it would be. It's a suggestion that you once worked for Psychoprogramming, or at least for their predecessors. That they sponsored your training. It is true?" "Yes." He'd been so confident of a denial that he couldn't think of a response. "They sponsored me through university," she continued. "Then they employed me for four years and after that I left. I've had no dealings with them since. I want to tell you now, before you say or decide anything, that I never wanted to work for them." The defensiveness might have sounded odd except that she was well aware of his feelings about psychoprogramming, interrogation and other allied arts. "So what the hell were you doing there for four years?" Marian looked down at the desk with a slight frown. "I wanted to be a psychologist. To help people. To do that, I had to get into university and I couldn't afford it without finding a sponsor. So . . . I faked my psych test to give myself a psychoprogrammer profile." She smiled sadly. "I thought I'd spend a few years there, find a corporation to repay my training debt, and then I'd be free." "And?" She looked away. "I couldn't do it. I stuck it out through the training, but when I qualified, when I was assigned, I couldn't do it any longer." "What happened?" "I tried to fake my way out again. I had a 'breakdown'. I was hoping for a reassignment, but I'd have been grateful enough if they'd dismissed me and thrown me out onto the streets. I was lucky, in a way. They saw right through it, and then it all came out how I'd got there in the first place. They didn't want the embarrassment of dismissing me officially, because that would have meant acknowledging that I'd beaten the psych tests. Instead they found me a university post and wiped the records. A clean parting of the ways. It was the only time I felt grateful to them." She looked down at the table for a moment. When she lifted her head, the desperation in her eyes shocked him. "Warrick, you don't know what goes on there. Most of the psychoprogrammers are barely human. I've never forgotten the things I saw there. I won't for the rest of my life. The things they do to people . . ." She actually shivered. "But more than that, it's the way they do it. Their technology isn't so different from the sim, you know." So much about her hostility towards the sim was becoming clear now. "The sim is safe." "So you keep saying. I was there when the first neural manipulation machines went into service.

I've seen people destroyed by them destroyed, Warrick. Not just a single memory blocked or implanted here or there, but their entire lives torn away from them, piece by piece. Broken down and rebuilt into different people who willingly betray their families, their friends. They call it 'reeducation'. It takes weeks for every victim who survives. Months sometimes, back then. Cliche or not, the people who die in those places really are the lucky ones." "Marian . . ." No point in repeating the assurances she'd heard so often. "It's too late now. Even if I agreed which you know I don't the sim exists. We can't uninvent it. We can only make it as safe as possible. Besides, as you say, it's not new technology, in a way. They can do . . . what they do, already." She didn't answer. This was the unbridgeable gulf between them. "The sim can't be used like that in its commercial form," he said. "And I have no intention of making it easy for Psychoprogramming or any other part of the Administration to get hold of it. They can't afford it, and as long as the directors have control of SimTech we won't drop the price." She looked at him for a long moment, eyes narrowed, then said, "Are you going to tell the parainvestigator about it?" "I " He'd been so confident that the file was a mistake that he hadn't thought it through. It took him only a few seconds to decide his first loyalty was to his employees, not to a man he'd known for only a few weeks. He'd failed Yang he wouldn't fail Marian. "No, I won't. It doesn't have anything to do with the investigation. I'm happy to keep it as our secret. Now they know for sure it's murder " Marian stared at him. "It is?" "Oh, Christ I shouldn't have said." "I'll treat it as confidential, of course. What have they found?" "They suspect poisoning. No they're sure of it. They've found a bioengineered toxin. The sim was used to keep victims alive for a while, but that's all the connection it had." "Not the sim." Marian leaned back, slowly, her face pale. After a while, she nodded. "Not the sim." "Definitely not. It was Yang, actually." Her brows knitted. "What was?" "He found the evidence in the data logs. He left a time-delayed copy for me he must have been worried that something would happen to him." "He didn't say " She stopped abruptly. "What?" Marian shook her head. "He came to see me last week. About stopping work in the sim about leaving the company, really. He never said anything about logs." "Don't blame yourself. I had exactly the same thought if only he'd told me. But it's no use dwelling on things like that." Odd to be giving her advice. If it were someone else, he might have gone over to touch her, comfort her, but he had no idea how she would take such an approach. Instead, he stood up, brisk and professional. "Hopefully they'll clear everything up soon. I'll instruct the legal department to press I&I for a preliminary release of the findings, if they don't make a quick arrest. It should be enough to reassure the sponsors. Toreth thinks it's corporate sabotage, and the sponsors will unite in the face of that; if the sim is valuable enough to kill for, it's valuable enough

to invest in." She nodded again. "Yes. Yes, I'm sure they will." He'd never seen her so subdued. Had she placed that much hope in her theory about the dangers of the sim finally being proved true? Healthy diversity of internal viewpoints was one thing, but perhaps, when it was all over, he should speak to Asher and Lew about finding a new senior psychologist. "Marian? Can I get you something? A drink?" "No, I'm all right." She checked her watch. "Goodness, I'm afraid I have some calls I really must make. Was there anything else?" "No. And don't worry about your about it. Not a word to anyone, I promise." She smiled, relief evident. "Thanks. But . . ." "What?" "Perhaps " She closed her eyes briefly, and then carried on. "Perhaps you ought to tell the to tell Toreth what you found out. Better to have things like that out in the open. It's certainly better to be as honest as possible with people like that." Another smile, more like the usual Marian. "Aren't I always telling you that repressing the past is unhealthy?" ~~~ Late in the afternoon, Toreth was snatching another nap at his desk when Sara woke him to announce the arrival of the lab results for the first three bodies. They were better than he had hoped. Despite a list of technical problems that filled most of the report, O'Reilly had finally produced clear positive traces in Nissim and Kelly, although nothing for Teffera. Even Tillotson would have to drop his sim theory now. By taking the time of the first red line on each log, he also had definite and now hopefully correct times of 'death' for both Kelly Jarvis and Pearl Nissim. Nissim's was half an hour into the sim session, when she had been alone in the room except for Keilholtz, and both of them were in the sim couches. However, that made a low dose of the toxin contained in the anti-nausea injection a perfectly plausible theory. The red lines in Kelly's session started at seven-thirty-three and some seconds, which was when Toreth had been changing in his room at Renaissance Centre, and Warrick would have been in the SimTech car on the way there. That appeared to put Warrick in the clear. He must have known that last night, and Toreth spent a few minutes wondering why he hadn't said anything. Then he remembered the second question the techs had asked. The logs could've been altered, and Warrick had the ability to do it. At least now he had an indisputable suspect for Kelly's death Tara Scrivin. The respiratory control whatever-the-hell-it-was had activated fifteen minutes after she had entered the room to speak to Kelly. Jin Li Yang made a technical second suspect. He had been in the room too, and he could have administered the drug after Tara's departure. However, his sim record showed he'd been in the couch all the time. That left only the possibility that he'd faked the records. Given that he was a programmer, Toreth wasn't about to discount that possibility. If Yang had been the killer, however, who had killed him? No, Tara was the obvious suspect. Infuriatingly, she was probably the best-interrogated witness in the case, and he and Parsons were in complete agreement over her honesty. That left only the

extremely thin straw of Tara committing the killings in some kind of autonomic state. He could just imagine what Tillotson would have to say about that suggestion. Still, her mental fragility wasn't in doubt. As Mistry predicted, she'd been admitted to the hospital on Friday, and without some better evidence, it would be a hell of a nuisance to pull her out of there. Pity he hadn't done a more thorough interrogation of Tara while he had the chance. Except Toreth sat up suddenly. Except he had. He'd put her through the m-f scan, and with the distraction of Yang's death he'd never bothered to get the results from Seiden. When he put the call through, Seiden looked surprised to see him. "I thought you'd forgotten about her." "Hardly." Out of sight of the screen, Toreth crossed his fingers. "Did you find anything?" "Not a lot. She's not a DID, I can tell you that. She's got emotional spikes all over the place in response to pretty much everything, but underneath she's well integrated." Another lovely theory shot down in flames. "Nothing else? Nothing in the interviews?" "Nothing definite, since it was just a preliminary scan, but a few anomalies persisted once the system had finished smoothing things out." Still fucking anomalies. "In what?" "Uh . . ." Seiden peered at something away from the comm. "Recollections of her movements from the night of the eighteenth of October." The date of Kelly's death. "Can't you be any more specific?" "Not unless you bring her back in and let me do a detailed check on the memories. Put a request in." "Could be a problem she's in hospital." Seiden grinned. "And you told me to be careful. Unlucky drug reaction, was it? Accidental overdose? Fell down the stairs a few times?" Fucking idiot. Toreth cut the connection before he did anything to radically worsen relations between I&I and Psychoprogramming. Leaving his desk, Toreth went to stare moodily down at the courtyard. The palm trees had gone, and he wondered vaguely when that had happened. Was it worth trying to wrestle Mindfuck into providing a more thorough scan on Tara? No chance of bypassing the system again so soon, unfortunately. At least Tara was safe and sound in the hospital. He could fill in the m-f form, shove it into the system, and wait. By the time it came through, the girl might be stable again. He could wait. Masses of information were still being gathered and sifted and something could come from the sab team enquiries at any time. With this level of Tech, a sab team was more likely than a deranged girl. He had a definite method and he should be grateful for that. Toreth sat down at the screen and stared at the files displayed for almost ten minutes before he acknowledged that he couldn't do it. He'd been pushing too hard for too long. Switching the screen off, he pulled on his coat and stood. Home and bed was tempting, but he could use some stress relief first. Not Belqola he wanted more than five minutes, and he didn't think he could bear the useless bastard's company for any longer than that.

Toreth smiled. Plenty more fish in the building.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
When he got to work in the morning, Toreth found that Warrick had called yesterday evening, missing him by fifteen minutes. He'd left a message asking Toreth to meet him for lunch at SimTech. Toreth rather hoped there weren't going to be any more revelations. Or that, if there were, they would lead somewhere immediately useful. The cafeteria at SimTech was a considerable step up from I&I's, including such luxuries as fresh salads. Toreth filled his plate, to Warrick's apparent amusement. "What was he or she like, then?" Warrick asked, as they took seats at a corner table away from other diners. "Who?" "When I called your office yesterday, your charming admin was very cagey until I told her who I was. Then she said, and I quote, 'He's got a hot date, don't expect him back tonight'. From the relish with which she said it I suspect she had some privileged information about me and was hoping for an amusing reaction." During the course of the speech, his voice crept from cool calm to simmering anger. "Or maybe not such privileged information, as I'm not au fait with torturers' coffee room gossip." Torturers sign of a bad temper. "It's just Sara." Keep it casual. "She likes gossip, but she doesn't spread it if I've told her not to, which I have. Come on am I likely to be broadcasting the fact that I'm fucking a murder suspect?" "I suppose not." Warrick sounded somewhat mollified. "In that case I withdraw my slur on her character." "So have you found something out?" "That it was someone from the accounts department and that they'd only been married for a fortnight. I gathered that was what piqued your interest. Although Sara hinted it might also have something to do with getting your expenses through faster." "About the investigation," Toreth said patiently, making a mental note to have a stern word with Sara later. Gossiping with a suspect was . . . well, a lot less serious than what he'd been doing. Moreover, he didn't entirely blame her he could just imagine Warrick's smooth voice coaxing out the information. Probably best not to mention it to her. "It is about the investigation, I assume?" Toreth asked when Warrick still hesitated. "Not as such, no. It's the question you asked me about Marian Tanit's background." "Yeah?" "I . . . came across an old file, which doesn't match her career history as given in her application to SimTech." Warrick stopped, eyebrows raised, waiting for a question. "Go on." "After she finished school, she was given a scholarship by the Psychocorrective Institute, which became the core of the Psychoprogramming Division after the reorganisation. And after university, she went on to train there." Psychoprogramming. There was no getting away from the bastards. "Shit. Really?" Warrick nodded. "I can send you the file. It contains nothing more than I've told you no

details of what she did after training, or how the file came to be altered." "How long have you known?" "Not long." Which could mean practically ever since he'd first asked about it. "How long?" "I did the search shortly after you left the office." "Why the hell didn't you tell me before?" Warrick shrugged. "I didn't think it was relevant." Toreth took a deep breath, managing to keep his voice low. "Didn't I already explain that it's not your job to decide what's relevant and what isn't? Impeding the course of an investigation is a minimum category two offence." "I see." Warrick put his knife and fork down, aligning them precisely against the edge of his plate. "And, purely out of interest, what category is conspiring with a civilian to illegally access Administration files?" He blinked at Warrick. "You have no fucking evidence I did anything of the kind." "Don't I?" The soft, dangerous voice matched the light in Warrick's eyes. On reflection, it was unlikely that Warrick would have tried to locate the file without some security and he could easily have recorded a request made in his own office. Toreth broke eye contact, taking a sip of water, and then said, "Okay. Want to call that one a draw?" "Why not?" Warrick smiled suddenly, the display of teeth nothing but friendly. "For one thing, you're right, and I apologise. Perhaps you can understand a feeling of loyalty towards my employees. Particularly after . . ." After Yang. "So what changed?" Warrick hesitated, and then picked up his fork, returning his attention to his plate. "As you said, it is an investigation, and it's not my place to make those decisions." Toreth didn't entirely believe him but, for the moment, he was willing to let it go. ~~~ As he crossed the office after lunch, Toreth saw Mistry talking to Sara. To his surprise, when the investigator saw him approaching, she finished the conversation and left before he reached the desk. "What did she want?" he asked Sara, looking after the retreating figure. "To know whether or not you were screwing Belqola," Sara said equably, eyes on her screen. Toreth grinned. The circumstances under which he did fuck team members were well known to the old hands. "What did you tell her?" "That it probably wasn't worth adding him to her New Year's card list." She looked up. "Do you want me to file a transfer for him?" "Yes. Or at least put in the system. I'll authorise it when the case is over. If it ever is." Back in his office, Toreth looked at the new information, sent by Warrick as promised, and wondered how the hell it helped. Toreth had never liked psychoprogrammers or their division. Few people at I&I did. Still, in this case, he'd be acting on reflex prejudice if he pretended the revelation made much sense. There were the interesting questions of who had concealed Marian Tanit's past, and why, and how. Tanit's version might be the truth. Alternatively, a corporation could be responsible, if they could afford the bribe to

someone in the Data Division, which would be substantial. However, the answers all lay a long time in the past. If the alteration had been recent, he might have been able to make something of it, but twenty-five years ago was long before SimTech's founding, before the sim had been conceived. Tanit was a technical suspect for the murders of Nissim and Teffera, as was the rest of solar system, but she had a cast-iron alibi for Kelly's death and the deaths by the river. Unless Tara Scrivin had been lying for Tanit, which struck Toreth as highly unlikely. He would have staked his reputation on Tara having told the truth as she remembered it, and Parsons had said the same thing. He paused, struck by the thought. The truth as she remembered it. That was the bane of interrogations, because however cooperative the prisoner that was the best that they could give. Tara didn't have to be lying, or in a dissociated state at least not a natural one. Warrick had told him that theoretically the sim was capable of memory implantation. Not a trivial thing, he'd said, and with the proviso that it would need the right drugs and the right training. Toreth forced himself to think it through before the excitement overwhelmed good judgement. He didn't know a great deal about the mechanics of psychoprogramming or the intricacies of the sim, but nothing he did know made the hypothesis impossible. Marian Tanit had the training to do it. If her corporate employers could buy access to tailored biotech toxins, then they could sure as hell supply her with mindfuck drugs. The sim contained copies of rooms and corridors in the AERC. Everything Tanit would need to create and implant a false memory was there. Seiden had found anomalies in her recollection of the night of the eighteenth of October. He pulled up the sim summary files Warrick had provided, found the list of available sim rooms, and compared the AERC interiors to the floor plan of the building. When he found the room number of the sim suite where Kelly's body had been discovered, and also the corridor leading to it, he couldn't contain the yell of triumph. A method and a suspect, when this time yesterday he'd had neither. Best of all was the prospect of eventually telling Psychoprogramming that they'd produced a rogue who'd killed a high-profile corporate and a Legislator. They would never live it down. ~~~ Tillotson approved without quibbling Toreth's request for a waiver to pull Tara out of her hospital haven. However, by the time she was delivered to I&I two hours later, SimTech lawyers had found out about the request and begun lodging protests. Toreth didn't bother reading them. Whether it was a piece of unusually forceful persuasion on Tillotson's part or more likely fear that their techniques were loose in the big wide world, Mindfuck were so cooperative it was disturbing. Tara spent barely an hour in the I&I holding cell before Ange called from Psychoprogramming to confirm that a slot was available. Toreth escorted the sobbing Tara over to the Psychoprogramming building and waited while she was sedated and placed into the machine once more. Officially booked in and waivered this time, which made the experience far more enjoyable at least for him. Seiden was waiting for him in the gallery, unusually animated. "What the hell are you up to? There are higher-ups doing headless chicken impersonations all over the building." "Just get on with it." Seiden sniffed. "Aren't you going to tell me not to break her?" "She's waivered for anything short of taking her apart with a scalpel. Do whatever it takes, just

get me a result." ~~~ "That's funny," Seiden said after an hour. Two of the best words to hear during an investigation. Taking a deep breath, Toreth crossed over to peer at the screen over the mindfucker's shoulder. Figures and multicoloured images that meant nothing to him filled the screen. "What?" "I'm not sure. It looks like something . . . not just a block, though. It's " "Wait a minute. You said, 'not just a block'?" "That's right. You can see the block here. See?" He pointed to an incomprehensible mass of coloured peaks on the 3D map. "Or at least that's what it looks like on the preliminary scan. She's a mess worse than the last time I saw her." The screen changed to a more complex map. "But when it's processed . . . if anything, it looks like an implant." Seiden turned to another screen. "It's concurrent with this part of the statement. From 'I finished my work' until 'we left together'. The retrieval patterns for those memories are different to the segments before and after. If you look at this trace " "Hang on. You're saying it's not real?" Toreth had forgotten about holding his breath. Seiden shook his head. "I'm saying it's an anomaly. If it's an implant, it's a bloody good one. Better than I could do." The sim. It had to be the sim. "It's like a real experience, slotted in afterwards so the edges don't quite join up." Seiden looked round. "Something like that. Where the hell did you learn to read retrieval traces?" "Nowhere. I'm a lucky guesser. Can you stick it all in a report and send it to me? I need a onepage summary simple enough that a head of section will sign an arrest warrant on the strength of it." ~~~ Warrick put up more resistance than Tanit. The director pushed his way into the psychologist's office only minutes after Toreth, B-C and a pair of I&I guards arrived. Toreth continued to read the warrant out, simply raising his voice to make sure that Tanit could hear it over Warrick's protests. When he'd finished, and asked her if she understood, Tanit nodded and turned to Warrick. "Don't worry," she said. "I don't have anything to hide." "Don't " The guards started to move forwards and Warrick stepped quickly in front of Tanit. "She's not going anywhere until I get her a lawyer." "Arrange it with the Justice rep," Toreth said. "I'll send you the name as soon as one's appointed." He turned to the guards. "B-C, get her back to I&I. Process her, put her in the cells." "Yes, Para." "You can't " Warrick began. Toreth caught Warrick by the arm and pushed him back a few steps, holding him as the guards escorted Marian from the room. Warrick tried to jerk his arm free, then hissed with pain as Toreth dug his fingers in strategically. "Listen to me," Toreth said, his voice low. "I'm doing my job here. Just because I've had my cock in you a few times doesn't mean that I give a fuck about what you think about Tanit, about I&I, or

about any other fucking thing. One more fucking word out of you, and I'll arrest you for obstruction." Warrick stared at him, his mouth open. Then it snapped closed, and he nodded sharply. Toreth released him and turned to find B-C and the guards still waiting in the outer office. Tanit was watching them through the door with a slight smile. Her calm was mildly unnerving. "Go on get her out of here." As the guards started to lead her away, Warrick took a step forwards, then stopped himself. Silence in the office, until the sounds of footsteps had faded, and Warrick turned to him. "She didn't do it," Warrick said. Toreth noticed that he made the statement with the same confidence that he usually applied to pronouncing the sim completely safe. "That's what we'll find out at I&I." Warrick's lip curled briefly, contempt familiar to Toreth from a hundred previous cases, and then he left without another word. As Warrick walked out, the forensics team walked in. Toreth hung around outside, waiting for them to finish the first pass of the room. They found only one thing, but it had the potential to be all he needed: two ampoules, in a box marked 'sedatives', pushed to the back of a drawer. Why the hell Tanit had kept them if they were the toxin and why they were here to be found, Toreth didn't know. Still, it gave him something with which to open the interrogation in the morning.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Down in the interrogation room, Tanit kept up an impressive front as she read through the analysis of the ampoules in her desk drawer, which perfectly matched that of the toxin in the injector found by Lee. After reading it carefully, Tanit shook her head. "I have no idea at all where those came from," she said calmly. "They're not mine, and I didn't put them in the drawer." "Your own office records show that Yang came to see you last week. Twice." Tanit looked at the copy of the record with equal composure. "Indeed he did about his future with SimTech. And, regrettably, that was all he talked about. Perhaps I should have guessed that there might be more to it." "He told you nothing about his suspicions that the sim might be killing people?" Her lips quirked. "If he had, don't you think you'd have been the first person I would have told? How long have I been trying to tell you that the sim isn't safe?" He flicked the screen to the third item, and she looked down again. Her expression froze. "Is she all right?" Toreth shrugged. "I didn't ask. No one mentioned that she died." "Tara was in no condition for a deep scan!" Her hands tightened on the edge of the screen, knuckles whitening, and when she looked up, her eyes were blazing. "You knew that they must have known that too. She was in the hospital. That's why " She stopped dead. "Why you sent her there?" She stared past him, lips pressed together. "Look at the summary. Look at the scan results. Who else at SimTech could do that?" Composure returning, Tanit simply shook her head slightly. "I know about your training. I have a file that proves you have the necessary skills." No response. Toreth shrugged. "Well, if you won't do this the easy way." He stood and gestured to the interrogation chair. Tanit was already rising, setting the screen down with a sharp click. "You have a noticeable theatrical streak in your nature, Para-investigator Toreth," she said as she crossed the room and took the seat, settling her wrists into place as he came over. She looked up at him as he fitted the restraints, her pale eyes clear. "One might almost call it playful. An uncommon trait in the personality disordered. Someone should write a paper." Straps secured, he dismissed the guards and cut out the external feed he didn't like an audience, and with a commercially sensitive case and the possibility of a corporate sab team still in his mind, he couldn't risk information leaking. ~~~ Popular rumour gave I&I wonder drugs that made subjects talk instantly and truthfully, and scanners that could read minds. Toreth had never understood how people could believe both that and the horror stories of brutality and maiming. The truth was, as usual, somewhere between the two. They had drugs, and they often worked if

given enough time and experimentation. Neural monitors and behavioural analysis gave a high probability of detecting lies, but they couldn't pluck out the truth. If the drugs didn't do the trick, or if someone needed the information quickly, there were other methods available. Toreth worked carefully, adjusting dosages and adding extra compounds to the mix, until Tanit's denials trailed off into confusion and stumbling half-confessions. It took him five hours before he found the right combination to keep his prisoner both truthful and capable of stringing together a useful sentence. He started with his entry point to the whole case. "How did you kill Kelly Jarvis?" "I went into the room with Tara, when she opened the door." She spoke slowly, concentrating. "Then, while she was using the mike, I injected Jarvis. Next morning, in the rehabilitation session, I altered her memory so that she didn't remember I was there." "Warrick said that the sim can't do that." "It can't. Not " She frowned. "Not without drugs. Right drugs." "Which were supplied by?" She shook her head. Toreth crouched down beside the chair. "Come on. You had help to get hold of the drugs and the toxin, you must have had. Who?" Another shake. Standing up, he considered. Another dose might send her over the edge of coherence, but he was too frustratingly close not to risk it. He could always wait for her to come down and resume later, although every lost minute gave whoever was using Tanit more time to get away. She watched, unreacting, as he gave her the injection. He sat down, tapping his fingers on the edge of the table, while it took effect. When he repeated the question, she answered at once. "I was contacted. Three months ago. Four." "Why you?" "Don't know. Because I'd made objections, maybe. Maybe they'd seen the paper on Tara's episode." "Who?" She shook her head, the gesture exaggerated. "Corporate. No names. They wanted to cripple SimTech's funding. I arranged everything with them. I wanted people to know the sim is dangerous. It damages users not all users, but some. Warrick won't accept it. None of them will." Justifications that didn't interest him. "So you killed Jon Teffera?" "No. Jon Teffera died." She smiled, relaxed in the grip of the drugs. "Just died. Coincidence. Or the sim it would serve him right. I warned him. Said it was dangerous. I didn't know what to do, and then, when he died, I saw the way." "What was the plan?" The smile became almost mischievous, oddly out of place on her usually austere face. "Which one?" "What do you mean?" "I told them I would kill users, one or two. I picked them Jarvis and Keilholtz. Do you want me to tell you about Keilholtz? They said you were going to call it natural causes, so I contaminated one ampoule in the batch. That's all. Easy." She giggled. "It was all very, very easy."

"Why Keilholtz?" "He had no children, no family. No one close except Nissim. Nissim was dangerous she backed the sim. She could have helped them SimTech. I'd sent her information about it. Anonymously. She wouldn't listen. I had to neutral neutralise her. Better than killing her that was a mistake. Wanted to make her hate us. Them. SimTech." "And Kelly Jarvis?" For the first time, Tanit looked away from him. "I needed someone. She was Tara's friend the one Tara went to see in the sim." "You could've picked Yang." She nodded. "I had to pick one, didn't I?" Her face was bleak. "One of them. And he's married and Kelly was Tara's friend. Her only real friend. The shock. Isolation. Makes it easier to implant. To get close. To God . . . such a long time ago when I learned it all. I'll never forget it. I see their faces in my sleep, all of them." It took Toreth a moment to realise she must be talking about her psychoprogrammer training. "You said there was more then one plan?" "Plan . . . oh, yes." She shook her head. "Corporates. They wanted the sim no good if it's been killing people, yes? You understand?" He nodded. "I told them when SimTech was gone, I would give Tara the memory of carrying out the killings. She'd confess. They could have the sim, cleared of blame. Easy to do. She was ideal. So vulnerable. All those rehabituation sessions . . ." She smiled bitterly. "Best work I ever did. So well prepared putting the memories in would've been easy." "But you weren't going to keep your promise?" She giggled again. "No. Wasn't that naughty of me? Let them blame the sim it would never be sold." The humour disappeared abruptly. "I never planned to hurt Tara. She should've been fine. You. It was your fault. You were supposed to blame the sim." She looked almost angry now. "I made it easy for you. I told you it was dangerous. It is dangerous. I sent the note about Marcus. I knew about that about his girls. He told me he'd tampered with the security system. It was obvious it was the sim." "Not obvious enough. Or maybe too obvious." She nodded, biting her lip. "I never wanted her to get hurt." "So what about Yang?" She shook her head emphatically. "It wasn't me. No. Not him. He'd he'd done nothing." Her voice sank to a whisper. "Or maybe . . . I don't know. Maybe it was me. I didn't want anything to happen to him, but it was my fault. He came to me with the sim logs. I knew what it meant, that it could lead you to the toxin. He trusted me, because I doubted the sim. I shouldn't have told them." "Who?" "No names. Anonymous contact. I didn't think. Should've seen it, that they'd try to silence him. So . . . yes. That's my fault. As much as the others. I killed him. Price " She stopped, breathing quickly, obviously trying to pull herself together. "The sim is dangerous." Her voice strengthened. "People will people will suffer. People will die. It's damaging. Neuro . . . neurological damage. When there are enough users, for long enough, it'll show up. But do you think they'll let that out? When it's making money? I had to stop it now. Kill a few and that would stop it

now." Her conviction, in the face of all the evidence he had about the safety of the sim, made him ask, "Tell me how you know the sim is dangerous." She took a deep breath. "Original data, from the Neural Remodelling. In-Indirect Neural project. He destroyed it." "Who?" "Warrick." "Keir Warrick destroyed data demonstrating neurological damage from the sim?" He had to say it out loud because it sounded so unlikely. "Yes. He thought I don't know. Maybe he thought he could correct it, make it safe. I don't know." She shook her head. "I like him. Warrick. I like him, but he's so blind. Fixated. He loves the sim." Her expression grew distant. "Displacement, I think. I don't know. He won't talk to me. Can't do therapy in an antagonistic . . . he said he knew what you were. He has no idea. No idea." The prisoner was losing focus, so Toreth ignored the digression and pressed on. "Why didn't you tell the sponsors?" She blinked up at him. "Why didn't you tell the sponsors that the sim causes neurological damage?" "Oh. Yes. Why would they believe me? I told Warrick first. I thought he might not know." She laughed. "Naive, yes. I showed him the file and he said he'd look into it and then " She snapped her fingers clumsily, hampered by the restraints. " gone. Couldn't find it again. I had a copy and that was gone too. No hard copy. Stupid. There might be other copies somewhere I couldn't find them. But he knows, Para-investigator. He's always known. Must have." He walked away, listening with a splinter of his attention to his prisoner's breathing, as he thought it through. Warrick loved the sim that was an indisputable fact. Toreth didn't believe that he loved it enough to kill for it, still less kill people he knew, but Tanit's accusation was a different matter entirely. Destroying data showing a fault he hoped he would be able to correct that was more than plausible. How would intellectual honesty stand up to the threat of SimTech's destruction? Warrick might not have flat-out lied at any point during the investigation, but he'd withheld information twice that Toreth knew about on Tanit's background and Yang's doubts then brought the information forwards only after he'd examined it and apparently decided that it would not harm SimTech or its employees. He thought back to Warrick's ready cooperation over the trials data. 'Of course anything you want . . . But you'll be wasting your time. You won't find anything'. Confident, as ever. Because he believed in the sim, or because he had made sure there was nothing to find? There was no way of telling. If anyone at SimTech had the expertise required to make the information vanish, it was Warrick. If this long-standing deception of SimTech's corporate partners got out, the chances of finding further funding for SimTech would fall to almost zero. Reason enough for Warrick to conceal the truth. Case closed. Lots of things he ought to do next. He ought to strip any remaining information from his

prisoner. He ought to submit the transcript of the session to Tillotson. He ought to start a hunt for the vanished trial data; Warrick had proved with Tanit's security file how difficult it was to lose a file completely. A witness interrogation order for Keir Warrick should be the first thing on the list. He listened to Tanit's breathing, almost subconsciously, alert for the changes which might signal a reaction to the interrogation drugs, for the telltale signs that something was wrong. However, it had stayed regular and even. It was Something was wrong. ~~~ As soon as he'd called the guards and had Tanit taken back to her cell, Toreth went down to the medical labs. To his relief, he recognised the man on reception his own ex-admin from pre-Sara days. Useless, but at least usually friendly. "How're things going, Les?" Del Lesko smiled at him. "Using my famed psychic powers, I'm going to deduce that you need a favour." Les had always had a talent for spotting and avoiding incoming work. "You should be an investigator. I want a sample put through, quickly." "For?" "Full drug resistance sweep all the exotics, pharm blockers and vaccines, whatever you've got." "You don't want a standard set first?" "You did that already unless you screwed it up, the prisoner's clean for those." The admin sniffed, mock-insulted. "If we say they're clean, they're clean. When by?" "This evening?" He laughed. "The wait's two days for the samples to go into the machine on a priority screen Monday now. Do you have a section head's authorisation on the request? If not, it's four days." Fuck. "It's urgent." That cut as little ice as he'd expected. "Find me a senior whose cases aren't." Toreth sighed. "Okay. How much?" "I beg your pardon?" "Don't fuck around." Toreth fished a crumpled sheaf of notes from his breast pocket and started smoothing them out onto the counter as Lesko watched. Cards paid adequately for almost everything these days, but the Administration had never quite managed to stamp out the demand for less traceable currency. When he had put down three, Lesko said, "First thing Monday?" "Results first thing tomorrow. We both know you can do it if you get on with it." Four more notes, and then the pile disappeared under the desk in one smooth sweep. "They're doing a run in fifteen minutes. If someone comes looking for you, wanting to know why their sample got bounced, you can tell them it was probably a cockup in the system." Toreth handed over the vial of blood. "Just get me the results and I'll tell them anything you like."

Something else to put through on expenses.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Lesko delivered, as promised. At nine in the morning, Toreth sat at his desk and reviewed the results of the screen for interrogation drug resistance. Perversely, the results cheered him. A lone murderer might just be able to whip up a metabolic bullet in her spare time without outside help, but there was no way in hell Tanit could have come up with this kind of sophisticated anti-interrogation arsenal without a lot of very expensive friends indeed. 'I had a copy and that was gone too . . . There might be extra copies somewhere I couldn't find them'. Yes, no doubt there would be copies, somewhere. Carefully planted files, to be dug out and displayed as part of an I&I investigation. Officially endorsed evidence designed to deal the final deathblow to SimTech. Toreth hated being played, most especially by corporates. However, corporate privilege stretched only so far. This time, with the death of Pearl Nissim, they whoever they were had well and truly crossed the line, even if the prisoner had been telling the truth about Teffera's death being natural. Tanit, he was sure, could give him names. From those he could generate more interrogations, naming the same names, and eventually he'd have whichever of SimTech's rivals or possibly sponsors lay behind it. Best of all, however many friends they had, with Nissim in the morgue they wouldn't be able to buy a way out. For that happy, if accidental, choice of victim, he was grateful to Tanit. Taking down a major corporate a big, beautiful case that would really make his name. He called Sara into his office. "If I asked you what's the biggest waiver I could apply for on the SimTech case, what would you say?" She pulled a chair round. "What's the new evidence?" He showed her the results. "That's conspiracy," he said, "and the illegal use of plenty of restricted substances and technology on top of a confession of the murder of a Legislator. Nothing solidly political I can point to, though, so it still looks corporate." She considered the question. "Um . . . six? Seven, if you want to push it." "Six sounds about right. Put it through, will you? And listen this is the important part: don't put anything in about why she says she did it. No mention of Warrick or the flaws in the sim. I don't want whoever's behind it getting wind that I don't buy it. At the moment, no one's seen the confession except you and me. She's lying, and I want to know why, but tell them to hurry it up." Sara nodded, but in the doorway, she hesitated. "Are you sure you want to do this?" "Why the hell wouldn't I?" Coming back into the room, she closed the door. "Toreth, this sounds like big stuff. Restricted tech isn't cheap. And if it isn't corporate it " "Of course it is," he interrupted. "It's one huge corporation going for a small one. But if I can get names and prove it, then it would be a hell of a coup. How often do we get a chance at a really big corporate arrest?" She nodded reluctantly. "I suppose so. What does Tillotson think?"

"I haven't told him yet. You know what he's like; he's got no fucking spine when it comes to corporates. I'll tell him when I have a name for Tanit's employer. He'll be keen enough when he sees there's a solid case." "And if there isn't?" He'd wondered the same thing himself, but the doubt in her voice stung him. "Then it'll be a good thing I didn't go spreading accusations around. Sara, I know she was lying. Warrick didn't hide any evidence about the sim I'm absolutely sure about it." "How can you be?" "How can I . . . ?" He stopped, unaccountably stuck for a way to explain it. "It's not the way he's put together." Her sceptical expression didn't alter, so he changed tack. "There's nothing to get excited about. It's typical nasty corporate sabotage, only with big-name bodies. Why the hell should they get away with it on my case record?" "Well, you said it before: expensive friends. She's confessed; the case is closed. Is it really worth digging any deeper? Just for Warrick?" "What the hell has Warrick got to do with it? I want the score, that's all." She looked at him oddly, and then shrugged. "If you say so. I just thought I'd better mention. I'd hate to have to break in a new boss when you get demoted to running level ones down in Interrogation." After she shut the door once more, he sat looking at it and wondering what the fuck that had been about. Sometimes he didn't understand the woman at all. ~~~ Two hours later, while Toreth was tidying up the backlog of IIPs, Sara showed the Justice rep into his office. Toreth had been half expecting to see Marian's rep; whoever was protecting her would fight like hell over the application for a higher-level damage waiver, and no doubt the man was here to argue him out of it. Well, he'd be disappointed, because Toreth wasn't dropping it now. However, after Sara had closed the door, the man refused Toreth's offer of a seat, and simply produced a hand screen, transferring the authorised waiver to Toreth's screen. Toreth frowned at it, perplexed, then at his visitor. "Level eight? I applied for " "The Justice Department has reviewed the case as requested and in view of evidence presented has issued a waiver as deemed appropriate by the system." Toreth stared. Textbook answer, and quite obviously there would be no explanation given. Equally obviously, that wasn't all. "And?" The man smiled faintly. "Annex A," he said, and left. Annex A. An unofficially official addendum to a maximum level waiver the prisoner talked, then died. The mystery corporation must be getting nervous about the prisoner's apparent silence so far, when she was clearly supposed to be feeding him her line about Warrick's duplicity. ~~~ Back in the interrogation room, Tanit looked angry and sullen the near-perfect picture of a proud woman forced to betray herself. However, now Toreth was paying closer attention, he wondered how he'd managed to miss the signs before. The prisoner hadn't broken far from it. She had

delivered every sentence with careful thought and for maximum effect. "Good morning." He looked at his watch. "I hope today's session won't take too long if you're willing to cooperate this time, it can be very short indeed." "I told you everything I know." She was a damn good actor, but not quite good enough. He shook his head. "I don't think you did. In fact, I'm sure you didn't. I had some interesting lab results this morning. Regarding your resistance to interrogation drugs." A flash of suddenly real emotion showed in her eyes, which made him even more sure that yesterday's performance had been precisely that. "It leaves me with a dilemma. Most of the pharmacy isn't going to be very effective. And what's left would probably kill you before you said anything." Stark fear showed in her eyes now, although her physical control still impressed him as he paraphrased the relevant section of the Procedures and Protocols. "Under most circumstances, pain isn't a very effective questioning tool. But for some prisoners, under some circumstances, it can work very well." She collected herself. "It doesn't matter what you do there's nothing else I can tell you." "Well, we'll see which of us is right about that." He picked out a nerve induction probe from the bench. A level eight lifted all restrictions, but it was always better to start out on the basis of no tissue damage. ~~~ "Please." After two hours of stubborn (and impressive) near silence, a significant moment at last. Some prisoners would've started pleading straight away, but that was the first time she'd said it. Toreth gave her a moment's respite, enough for her to think that it had stopped, and then carried on. That first time she had been sufficiently in control to ask. By the time he stopped again, she was begging. "Before we begin, these are the rules." He leaned on the back of the chair and spoke in a low voice, filling in the time while she regained enough control to produce a coherent narrative. "It can start again, whenever you want it to. If you don't answer a question, if you hesitate, if you tell me a lie, if you try to hold something back, I'll know about it and we'll go back to the pain until I'm satisfied you've learned the lesson. Do you understand me?" She nodded, pleas held back now, but still shaking with tears. "Good." He moved round in front of her, to where he could see her face. "Now did you tell me the truth yesterday about how you carried out the killings?" "Yes." A whisper. "Think very carefully about that." He shifted the NI probe from hand to hand, and she flinched in the restraints. "It was all true." "Good. Did you tell me the truth about why?" "No." "Tell me what the lies were." "There are no old results. No proof. Not really. They said they could create them, that they would

be found. By you. Warrick would be disgraced. If the sponsors believed the sim could cause harm, that I was sure enough to kill to prove it, they'd pull out. But the sim . . . the sim is dangerous. I know it is. I had to stop it." "The story about old results was a fallback, in case the killings weren't attributed to the sim?" "Yes." For procedure's sake, he ran through the previous day's answers again, getting nothing different at first. Eventually, he asked, "Who picked out Keilholtz?" "Me. His death was supposed to drive Pearl Nissim away from SimTech. She would have blamed the sim, because there was no way it could be anything else." She almost smiled. "They weren't very happy about the Legislator. Not what they wanted." As he spotted the mistake, he caught the simultaneous flash of realisation on her face. "Who wasn't happy?" he asked. "Who was behind it?" "I I don't know." When he moved forwards, she closed her eyes and clenched her fists. Ready to resist. Toreth smiled. It was only a matter of time. He waited until she opened her eyes again before he activated the probe. ~~~ Only a matter of time, but still more time than he'd expected. Toreth changed the angle of questioning repeatedly, trying to chip through the stubborn resistance, and cursing the useless pharmacy. Eventually he risked a low dose of one the newer additions to the pharmacopoeia, an antidote to which had presumably been beyond the expertise of whoever had supplied Tanit. He'd never tried the drug before he didn't have much faith in it. It was supposed to increase susceptibility to pain, and he'd always felt that could be more easily and reliably achieved by turning up the probe. At this point, he was willing to take a risk on something new. After twenty minutes, he thought he might owe the pharmacist an apology. The prisoner had a worryingly pale and clammy look, from fear rather than from an adverse drug reaction the monitors showed nothing drastically wrong. More importantly, the prisoner was finally becoming more cooperative. "Your fallback plan was to confess to murder and taint Warrick in the process?" She nodded, shivering. "You expect me to believe that you were willing to be executed to destroy the sim?" Another nod, but accompanied this time by a glance at the probe. Pitifully easy to read. Toreth shifted his grip again, and at once she was talking. "They promised me a way out. When it was over I wouldn't be tried." "Who are they?" "I don't know." He shook his head, lowered his voice. "That is a lie." "No! I promise I " Two minutes this time, as she struggled in the chair, screaming, all pretence of control gone.

"Psychoprogramming! Psychoprogramming." A name at last, but not one he expected, or wanted to hear. Toreth clicked off the probe and stepped back. "Say that again." "Psychoprogramming. They wanted the sim. They knew where I was. They knew I was there, they knew I was trained; they knew about the paper on Tara, they knew I wanted to destroy it, they . . . please. Please. It was Psychoprogramming." Distantly, he heard himself say, "A name. Give me a name." "I don't know." She was crying again. Toreth watched with more than normal detachment. Psychoprogramming." I had one contact a man with ginger hair. After my time. I don't know his name, I swear. Please." "Fine." Psychoprogramming. Fuck. "I don't " "Shut the fuck up!" She stared at him, eyes wide, tears brimming on the lower lashes. "That's enough you've said enough." He threw the probe back onto the instrument bench. "More than fucking enough." ~~~ The next fifteen minutes were a blur: calling the guards, having Tanit taken back to her cell, going back up to his office and locking the door. Sara was away from her desk, thank fuck, so she wasn't there to ask what was wrong. That would have been an easy question, though everything. Psychoprogramming, obviously looking for a way past budget restrictions to get hold of the sim tech. He knew all too well what it meant he was thoroughly and totally screwed. Of course, there was always the chance that Tanit was lying. A slim chance, given that her description of a ginger-haired contact from Mindfuck matched the indigs' description of Yang's killer, but he'd take whatever chance he could get. A few minutes' consideration produced a possible way of confirming her story. He called Carey, and got Phil Verstraeten. Over the comm the man was more confident. "What can I do for you, Para?" "Is Liz there?" "I'm afraid Investigator Carey is out of the building." Fuck. Toreth debated, but couldn't bring himself to trust a trainee he'd met for ten minutes. "Where? I need to talk to her now." "I'll see if I can get hold of her, Para. Shall I ask her to call you?" Of course, you fucking idiot. "Please." He cut the connection and stared blankly at the darkened comm screen. Toreth knew how these things worked. Mindfuck would never risk any hint of this escaping. Hell, the Administration top ranks would suppress it no less keenly. While corporates normally displayed the same sort of group loyalty as starving sharks, they would go berserk at such a blatant attack on corporate sanctity. That sort of thing brought down heads of department, or even more than that. Idealistically motivated resisters were less than nothing compared to a united corporate front.

Tanit would be dead as soon as the mindfuckers responsible for the mess found out she'd talked; he was the only living witness to her doing it, which gave him a life expectancy just marginally longer. The fact that heads would undoubtedly also roll at Psychoprogramming was no consolation at all. The reason behind the unexpected annex was clear now. According to the plan, Tanit should've confessed quickly. The request for the higher-level waiver showed that either she hadn't yet, or that Toreth didn't believe her. The annex A ought to have ensured that in either case Tanit would die without Toreth examining her faked confession too closely. He cursed himself for the stupidity that had landed him here. Tillotson should've given the case to Chevril, who had the dedication and animation of a whelk. In Chev's hands, Tanit would already be annexed and cremated. The comm screen flickered, and Toreth composed himself in time to greet Elizabeth Carey. "What's so urgent?" she asked. "I need a file. A list of " Not too specific. "Everyone who's tried to license sim tech. Successfully and unsuccessfully." Luckily, she made it easy for him. "Corporate and Administration?" He pretended to hesitate. "Sure. Sling in the internal budget requests while you're at it. Might as well collect the set." "Don't go away I'll only be a minute." She looked away, talking as she worked. "Verstraeten could've done it for you, you know. I think you hurt his feelings by asking to talk to me." Toreth forced a smile. "I admit it I just wanted to hear your voice. It's pure aural sex." She chuckled. "Keep that up, I'll be applying for a transfer to General Criminal. Okay it's all on its way to your screen." "Thanks, Liz." He skipped quickly through the summary file, praying not to find what he was looking for. On the first run through, he somehow missed it, but he'd barely had time to enjoy the first rush of relief before his eyes caught the link, and his stomach backflipped. The details of the requests to purchase sim technology filled pages. Psychoprogramming had tried every damn thing they could to get hold of the sim. The Treasury must've had to take on an admin just to bounce the requests. When he looked at the sums involved, he couldn't believe they'd kept trying. Warrick was clearly stretching the licensing rules to the limit to keep Mindfuck at bay. Why hadn't the stupid bastard given them what they wanted? The requests had kept coming in until what a fucking surprise four months ago. The same time Marian Tanit claimed to have been contacted. Since then, they'd sent a couple more, just for appearances. No new justifications and no appeals. It was It was evidence. Solid evidence and a motive. Money. He'd always liked money as a motive. One more thing to check. Where, specifically, did ownership of the sim technology revert? All he knew was Administration. He called up Asher Linton's carefully written files, and began tracing the links. The Human Sciences Research Centre fell under the umbrella of the Department of Medicine, and had been basically untouched by the reorganisation. However, as Marcus had told him, the Neuroscience Section project had been funded by the now-defunct Department of Security. On that basis, the rights would revert to somewhere within Internal Security, External Security or the Service.

That made him think of something else Marcus had said that it was possible someone elsewhere in the Administration had deliberately killed the project after the reorganisation. Perhaps, even back then, it had been an attempt to gain control of the technology. Could that be traced to Psychoprogramming? Was it worth trying to find out? It might take days to track the information down in the wake of the reorganisation, and he didn't even have hours. In the end he decided to try. It took only one call to locate the former head of the project the man was still at the Human Sciences Research Centre. "Doctor Le Tissiet? My name is Senior Para-investigator Val Toreth. I have a question about the Indirect Neural Remodelling project, if you remember that." "Of course," he said, polite but wary. "I'll do anything I can to help." "When the project was cancelled, did you think it might've been deliberately squelched by another department?" Le Tissiet's expression closed down. "We had our suspicions, yes." "Who?" "I really can't remember." Open evasion now. "It was a long time ago, and it was nothing more than the usual rumours." Toreth changed tack. "The rights to the technology were sold. Do you know where they would end up if the corporation who owns them now failed?" "To you, of course. Don't you have that information already?" To I&I? "I'm sorry?" "Para-investigators are Psychoprogramming, aren't they?" For a moment, he couldn't answer. Gold. He'd struck a great big shining vein of gold. "No. Part of Int-Sec, yes, but we're Investigation and Interrogation. Are you saying Psychoprogramming asked the same question?" "Yes. A few months ago. Took us a while to trace the information, I can tell you. But I have all the details to hand now. Or closer to hand than they were." "Do you remember the name of the person who put the request in?" Le Tissiet frowned. "Ah . . . no, I'm afraid not. In fact, I didn't speak to anyone in person. The request arrived on a general information code. Shall I send it all along to you?" With the 'please' on his lips, Toreth reconsidered. "Maybe later. And I'd be grateful if you didn't mention this to anyone." Le Tissiet's eyebrows lifted, but he merely nodded. The I&I reputation was very good for deflecting inconvenient questions. "Thanks for your help." Toreth closed the connection and sat back. A case. An actual, solid case. A good confession and nice circumstantial evidence to back it up. Now what the fuck was he going to do? One option was to take it directly to an Administration higher-up. Now he regretted Nissim's death. He could try one of her friends in the Legislature, or even the Int-Sec Head of Department. What was the man's name? Toreth had seen him on a tour on the building once. Shaken his hand, in fact, and thought he looked like exactly the kind of untrustworthy political scum that rose to the top. Of course, if the first person Toreth approached was involved, or reported him to someone who

was, or thought the whole thing was best covered up very comprehensively, he'd be just as fucked as if Psychoprogramming found out what he knew. On reflection, Toreth decided he'd rather have a plan where an optimistic outcome wasn't 'maybe they'll kill me quickly'. Evidence of Psychoprogramming's involvement or not, what he really needed was a way to bury the whole mess deeper than the I&I waste recycling level. His first impulse was to go back downstairs and kill Tanit and then try somehow to wipe the recordings. However, there were too many backups and safeguards that he had no idea how to circumvent. Nor would Sara, and she was the only person in the building he could trust to do it and keep quiet. Tillotson might be able to fix it, or at least refer the question up to find who could. With a high enough level of authority behind it, transcripts could certainly be erased and altered. However, that meant trusting Tillotson not to sacrifice him if things went badly. He'd rather trust corporates. That unlikely sentiment gave him pause. He knew one person who might be able to erase the confession. On the face of it, trusting Warrick, an outsider, looked insane. Fortunately, trust wasn't required. Warrick stood to lose from this too. The confession that went back to Justice with Tanit's corpse wouldn't be the one he'd extracted today but rather her first faked confession, which would destroy Warrick's personal reputation and take SimTech out of his control. Toreth wasn't sure which of those two Warrick would hate more, but either on its own ought to buy his help. He locked the records up as completely as he could, as would be expected anyway with such commercially sensitive results. Thank fuck it was Saturday tomorrow and he could justify not showing the recordings to anyone until Monday. Then he called SimTech. ~~~ With the surveillance he'd had installed at SimTech (not to mention whatever private arrangements Warrick had in his office), Toreth didn't want to risk a meeting there. Warrick was waiting by the lake on the main university campus when Toreth got there, staring out over the water. He didn't look round as Toreth walked up. "If you're here to ask for Tara back, then you're wasting your time," he said coldly, before Toreth could speak. "Back?" Last thing he'd heard they had her in the cells. "She's in hospital again we finally managed to retrieve her from I&I this morning. Don't tell me that you didn't know." His voice chilled even further, which Toreth would have said was impossible. "Or do you lose interest once you've broken your witnesses?" "I missed the memo, and you're welcome to keep her. Listen, Warrick I need your help." Warrick laughed. "Oh?" "It might interest you to know that Tanit has made a confession. To three of the five deaths." He turned slowly. "Really? Well, I have to admit that with the methods available to you, the only real surprise is that she didn't confess to all of them." Hardly an original accusation. "You want to try Justice for that I'm not in the business of

extracting false confessions. "Or at least not in this case. "Please, just hear me out." Warrick said nothing, which Toreth was willing to take as encouragement. He had debated his approach and had decided on honesty because, as at the bar in the Renaissance Centre, he only had one shot at convincing Warrick. He outlined the problem quickly and straightforwardly, trying not to let his nervousness show. Halfway through the explanation he felt certain Warrick would simply not believe him. The last thing he'd said at SimTech was that Tanit hadn't done it. When he finished, Warrick stayed silent. Having gone this far, Toreth saw no point in not taking the extra step and pleading. "Warrick, I swear it's all true I checked the Mindfuck budget requests. And they approached your old boss, Le Tissiet, about the license reversion. He " "Yes, I believe you." Toreth stopped, relief and surprise fighting for his attention. "You do? Why?" "I told Marian that you knew about the toxin." Warrick held his hand up. "I'm sorry it was an accidental slip of the tongue. However, once she'd heard that, she suggested that I should tell you about her old file. About her connection to Psychoprogramming. She must have known that you would make the link between that and " His voice flattened. " Tara's scan results." Toreth nodded. "She wanted to be arrested before you could tell the sponsors the sim was in the clear. It's all to fuck SimTech she wants to give the sim to Psychoprogramming. You can see that?" "Of course. However," Warrick added, "I fail to see what you expect me to do about the situation." "I don't know. Something. Anything." Panic surfaced briefly. "If anyone gets hold of this I'm dead. Literally and pretty fucking soon. And " And you're almost as fucked as I am but it was obvious that Warrick had realised this. "All right," Warrick said. "Be quiet and let me think." They walked round the edge of the lake in the thin sunshine. Eventually Warrick stopped and stared into mid-space. Toreth watched the ducks pulling up underwater weed and tried not to scream with impatience. "I think I have an idea," Warrick said slowly. "Perhaps. I'll need to know a few things first." When Toreth nodded, he continued. "Do you have any names for the people behind it? Someone at Psychoprogramming?" "No. A one-line description of Tanit's contact, that's all. I could get more from her, but I daren't risk putting it through the ident system. I might have blown it already by getting the Psychoprogramming budget requests." "I see. Now, has anyone else seen the interrogation?" "Not yet. Soon. Monday at the latest." "Excellent. Is there tamper proofing on the recording?" "Yes." "Mm. Is your office under surveillance?" Toreth blinked, then said, "I don't think so." Warrick looked at him sharply. "Think isn't good enough."

"Well, then . . . no, it isn't. I'm sure." If it had been, then some of the things he'd done in there over the years would definitely have ended up in the edited highlights of life at I&I, screened every year by the head of security at the New Year parties. "All right," Warrick said, "here's my idea. We mock up the interrogation room in the sim, record a version of the interrogation where she doesn't confess, and then substitute it for the real record in the I&I system. I should be able to fake the tamper proofing if you can give me access to the system. Will that work?" Toreth considered it. Okay insofar as it went, but it only solved the immediate problem. If only the rep had given him an annex B dies without talking. "It's not enough. What we need is a short confession with a good motive, and then for her to die without getting a chance to say anything else." Warrick stared. "Die?" "Yes. I can't leave her alive. They'll give her to someone else if I don't get a result. And she will talk she wants to. She only held out as long as she did at first to make it look good." Appalled silence, then Warrick said, "If I could talk to her, convince her to keep quiet " "It wouldn't matter. If she doesn't come through for Mindfuck, she's dead and she knows it. Besides " This wasn't the time to consider Warrick's squeamishness. "You haven't seen her. She's broken. She'll break again, even if you or I could talk her into trying not to. There won't be any questions about the death I can guarantee that." Warrick shook his head, but his next words weren't a refusal. "How can you be sure?" Toreth hesitated, then decided that it wouldn't make any difference. Not with the kind of trouble he was in already. "I've been told to make sure she doesn't get to trial." "There has to be another way," Warrick said. Toreth clenched his hands behind his back, fighting to keep his voice calm. "Fine. You think of one. Because at the moment the only other way is that she confesses and dies anyway, SimTech loses the sponsors, and you're out on the streets or in prison. Psychoprogramming gets the sim to do whatever the hell they want with, and I'll be dead." Warrick turned away, looking out over the lake, and Toreth fought down the urge to grab him, to shake him into agreement. "What does it matter?" Toreth said. "Christ, they'll execute her anyway, even if we don't kill her at I&I. She killed Nissim, and the Justice system won't give a fuck that she claims it was a mistake." Eventually, Warrick nodded. "Very well. Get me the plans for the room, pictures if you can, and a copy of the recording we need to replace. Marian is on file at SimTech, or we wouldn't be able to do it in time." ~~~ He collected the things as quickly as he could, managing to avoid Sara, and delivered them to SimTech. He didn't see Warrick his admin said that he was in the sim and that he'd left a message saying he would call so he put everything in Warrick's office, waiting until he knew that Warrick had been told they were there. Sara had left already by the time he got back to I&I. She usually went a little early on a Friday, although Toreth thought that a full two hours was taking the piss. He filled time by writing an informal disciplinary note for her to ignore. After four versions came out vitriolic enough to require

apology-flowers, he decided to give up and leave early too. On the way to the lift, Toreth remembered the surveillance he'd had installed at SimTech. He sent a security team out to remove it right away, and they were happy enough for the overtime. Still, the incident left him cold. If he hadn't thought of it, God knows what might have been recorded and left lying on file. At the very least the surveillance would show himself and Warrick at SimTech, working together for hours. It was just the kind of thing to interest Internal Investigations. He remembered Marian talking about estimates. One pitfall in the plan he'd barely avoided. Could he possibly miss all the rest he hadn't yet even considered? Leaving instructions that his prisoner could speak to no one except him, Toreth went home.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
He woke up early on Saturday morning, the sheets drenched in sweat, his ears still ringing, and his shoulders aching from fruitless struggles against the dream hands holding him under the water. Once the worst of the sickness had abated, Toreth lay back, trying to calm his breathing. When he looked at the clock, it read six am. Too early to get up, but he'd be lucky to sleep again now. Kirkby's fault for bringing the old nightmares back so vividly. Fucking sadist. Toreth had always thought that spending too much time with the dead couldn't be healthy. Abandoning any idea of getting back to sleep, Toreth showered and dressed, and settled down on the sofa to consider the contents of Marian Tanit's final confession. Warrick might have his own plans, but the result needed to be satisfactory for Toreth's career, as well as for SimTech. But for Warrick's involvement, he could use the first, fake confession verbatim and make Psychoprogramming into happy little mindfuckers. Much as he disliked Psychoprogramming and the know-all shits who worked there, it would be by far the safest path. However, he'd still need Warrick's help to erase the second confession, which named Psychoprogramming. Warrick would never agree to anything that would damage SimTech and Toreth had no leverage over Warrick. No power over him at all. Pushing that nasty idea firmly out of his mind, he got to work. After several elaborate starts, he went for the simple and unverifiable. Tanit was paid to discredit the sim by one of the numerous disgruntled corporations which had been disappointed in its hopes of investing in the sim. Unable to partake in the spoils, it had resolved to destroy the fledgling corporation instead and buy back the rights from the Administration. Tanit had been contacted by an anonymous third party she knew no names. An ordinary tale of corporate sabotage, exactly, ironically, as he had always maintained it was. It would be nice to be proved right, even by an illusion. When he'd polished the story to his satisfaction, he sent the file to Warrick, receiving a terse note of acknowledgement a few minutes later. Then he could do no more except wait for Warrick to call. ~~~ By late Saturday afternoon, Toreth was almost frantic with worry. If Warrick was unable to set up the mock interrogation room soon, it was probably too late to think of another plan. Then the comm chimed. Not Warrick in person, simply a message reading come. When he reached SimTech, a technician met him in reception and showed him straight up to the sim suite, where Warrick was already in the sim. To Toreth's surprise and relief there were no security guards in the sim room. He hoped that their dismissal wouldn't cause comment. Setting up the sim seemed to take three times longer than normal. He almost yelled at the technician to hurry up as he checked the straps, ran the calibration, and finally lowered the visor. Opening his eyes, Toreth found himself somewhere very familiar indeed. Warrick sat at the table, working on the virtual control panel, which was the only incongruent thing Toreth could see except Warrick himself. "How is it?" Warrick asked, without looking up. The room was creepily like work, and he said so.

"It's not finished. Many of the items on the bench over there you can't pick up. You can handle the items you used in the interrogation but they aren't all fully interactive. I couldn't find sufficiently close templates for some things. Let me know if there's anything else you need functional and I'll see what I can do." Toreth looked at Warrick, busy with the control panel, speaking so calmly and matter-of-factly about interrogation. At any other time, the subject disgusted him. Now it had become an interesting technical problem and he was utterly caught up in it. He must have watched the interrogation through if he knew which instruments Toreth had used. "What about the prisoner?" Toreth asked. "Wait." As Warrick worked, Toreth checked through the instruments and drugs. Then Marian Tanit appeared, seated in the chair, staring blankly ahead. Toreth moved over, reached out, then paused and looked across at Warrick. He nodded permission, and then went back to the screen. She felt alive, warm and pliable. Toreth lifted his hand and touched her eyeball. The figure blinked and flinched very slightly away, then returned to her its former position. Not convincing. Not good. "Will she react properly?" he asked. "No, she won't. But I will." "What?" "I'm going to be inside." "Inside?" Warrick looked up and smiled tightly. "It's the only way to make it look real. I don't have time to train up an expert system to play the part realistically. Believe me, I'm not suggesting this for lack of trying to think of another option." "Warrick, it's going to take eight hours. Eight hours recorded." "Not at all. As I understand it, you require three interrogation sessions the two already conducted and one tomorrow where Marian will die." No waver in his voice. "Is that correct?" "Yes. And they all have to be in the system by Monday. After that it'll be too late to do anything. Once Tillotson sees the real interrogations we're both fucked." "We should have everything completed in time to clean out the system before anyone gets here tomorrow. Even leaving a margin for any necessary processing, the recordings will be ready to install in the I&I systems by tomorrow afternoon." Warrick stood up and began pacing lecturing voice and illustrative gestures. "In the first interrogation, she says nothing dangerous until the last ten minutes. So we simply duplicate the tape up to that point. I've already prepared that. Then we have only to remove the section where she alleges that the sim is dangerous and that I hid the safety data. That leaves just ten minutes which need to be filled with new material." That sounded almost reasonable, except for one thing. "And you'll play her part?" Warrick paused and smiled. "I'm not a bad actor. You'll see. I suggest adding the ten minutes in bits and pieces near the beginning of the interrogation, when she isn't saying much anyway. Less likely to attract scrutiny there." There was no point arguing now he'd simply have to wait to see if Warrick could do it. "Okay,

say that works. What next?" He resumed pacing. "In the second interrogation, the damaging content is again at the end, where Marian names Psychoprogramming. It's only a few minutes long. Again, I've already duplicated the sections where she says nothing and we can pad the recording near the beginning." "What about the interrogation for tomorrow?" "You'll be in the interrogation room, and I'll feed the recording into the system as if it were coming through the cameras in the room. Even if anyone watches it live, they'll see our recording." All very neatly planned. God, it was never going to work. "But there's nothing to edit that interrogation out of." Warrick nodded and sat down at the screen. "That will be the most difficult part. How long does the recording need to be?" Toreth thought about it, looking at the silent Marian. "Twenty minutes is the shortest half an hour would be better. I need time to prep her and then get on to an accidental overdose." Traditional for an annex death. "That'll look most convincing. I can screw the calibration on one of the injectors while I'm in the interrogation room with her and you're running the recording." No response to his words. When he looked round, he saw Warrick staring down at the controls, his hands still. "There's no other way," Toreth said, guessing what was wrong. "There must be." "Jesus fucking Christ, how many times do I " Toreth caught hold of himself. Trying to browbeat Warrick was an exercise in futility. "If you can think of something else, I'll happily give it a try. Fucking with I&I systems isn't my idea of fun, anyway. I don't think there's a chance in hell this is going to work." Warrick looked up sharply. "Of course it will! There is absolutely no technical reason why " He stopped, then smiled, lopsided. "Very good. However, you're right there is no other way. Shall we proceed?" ~~~ Things did not go as smoothly as Warrick had predicted. It took them nearly three hours to produce the material to pad out the first two interrogations fifteen usable minutes of nothing more exciting than Marian saying nothing. Still, by the time they were done Toreth was willing to concede that Warrick was indeed a pretty good actor. It took another hour for Warrick to splice the new pieces into the material from the original interrogation recordings. Toreth watched the two doctored recordings. To his surprise, they looked pretty damn flawless. An I&I interrogation analysis programme might still pull out discrepancies in the prisoner's behaviour. However, as there was no reason for anyone to run one, he allowed himself to feel moderately confident about it. Then they moved on to the final session thirty minutes of original interrogation and the real problems began. Neither he nor Warrick were patient men at heart; his attempts to coach Warrick into responding correctly to the ineffective drugs and neural induction probe, on top of matching Marian's speech patterns, brought them virtually to blows. Eventually, after two hours had yielded no usable recording,

Marian went limp in the chair and Warrick reappeared by the controls. "Wait here," he said, then vanished again. Toreth sat on the virtual chair and waited as patiently as he could. He wished not for the first time that he hadn't applied for the higher-level waiver. Ten years at I&I should have taught him about the dangers of ambition. If he started running, what were the odds that he could make it beyond the reach of the Administration? For some reason he never trusted his watch to tell the right time in the sim. However, it said nearly an hour passed before Warrick reappeared. "Where the hell have you been?" "Recalibrating neural induction settings and tearing out safety overrides. I'll deal with the SimTech security footage tomorrow." He walked over to the array of equipment and picked up one of the neural induction probes. "This one is now fully functional up to about half power. That's as high as it'll go before it trips safety systems that I can't disable." "What about the drugs?" "The pharmacy is locked; unfortunate, since relaxants would appeal right now. I've set up a response filter to mimic the physical effects of the drugs." He looked at Toreth's expression and added, "That means " Lecturing again. "I'm not interested, as long as works." "Very well." Warrick vanished and Marian lifted her head. "Let's try it." Toreth shrugged, then moved over to where a ghostly outline of himself indicated the place the recording ended. A disorienting moment passed as the sim translated his body into the exact position, and they were ready. He picked up the live NI probe. Wishing to test the realism, he set the control to the right level, then activated the probe. The prisoner arched back in the chair and screamed once, badly out of character. When Toreth switched the probe off there was a silence before she said, in Tanit's voice but with Warrick's inflection, "Christ, that hurts." "That's pretty much the point. I don't think this " "No. I wasn't expecting it, that's all. How many times are you planning to use it?" Toreth considered the fewest that would look passably convincing. "Maybe three or four." "That I can handle. Start again." This time he started with a question. "Who paid you to discredit the sim?" "A corporate. I don't know who." "I want a name and verifiable details." "I can't tell you what I don't know." Tanit writhed in the chair as the probe activated, and Toreth found it hard to remember it was really Warrick he was hurting. "You're lying. Who paid you to discredit the sim?" "I don't . . . please. I don't know." "What do you know?" "I've told you, I . . . please."

"Tell me again." He listened with half an ear to the stumbling words, impressed by the performance, watching the mock monitors displaying their convincing results. Those readings too would be faked and fed into the I&I system. Could Warrick really do it all? " I don't know who he represented. I don't know." Toreth used the probe far more than four times, and he had to admit a grudging respect for Warrick's persistence. Or was Warrick enjoying it on some level? Toreth had never consciously focused on that element of the game they had played. However, Warrick was satisfyingly responsive to slaps and arm twisting. Perhaps he would appreciate a little more pain for its own sake, as well as a tool to emphasise control. "I'd tell you if I knew. Please, I swear I'd tell you if I knew." On and on, like so many interrogations he'd conducted, except that from time to time they'd stop and repeat a section. Finally, Warrick called a halt and Toreth laid the nerve induction probe down on the instrument bench. As he did so, Warrick stood up from the interrogation chair, his body separating from Tanit's, and strolled over to the table to check the console. A minute or so later Toreth realised that the restraints were still fastened. The sim, and Warrick's control over it, didn't often disturb Toreth, but for some reason that did it. Warrick was fucking with sim reality, but also with something so familiar to Toreth's own reality, without even noticing he was doing it. Maybe Tanit had a point after all. "Toreth?" He turned to find Warrick standing by the table, obviously impatient. Had Warrick said his name a couple of times already? "What?" "Check this through. It's only a rough cut I'll do it in detail later." A few adjustments, and Toreth pronounced it acceptable, and then they reached the final hurdle. Marian's death. When the moment came, he thought Warrick would balk, but in fact it was almost the easiest thing they'd done. A convincing hiss from the fake injector, a few seconds for the drug to take effect with Marian growing still in the chair, and then a few more for it to stop her heart while he turned his back long enough not to notice. Turn round again, register the scene, fake a little shock for the record. A classic annex death, if only Warrick had known it. Toreth hit the comm, called for the medical techs, and was almost surprised to realise that meant the performance was over. They wouldn't come; there was no corridor outside the door, no I&I. "Warrick?" He waited, seconds stretching out, then touched Marian's still face. "Warrick?" "Over here." He spun round to find Warrick sitting next to the control panel, checking the screen. He looked absolutely calm and composed, but then there was no reason he shouldn't. Toreth wondered what he looked like outside the sim, under the concealing mask. "Did that do it?" Toreth asked. "Have a look for yourself."

It was perfect, thank God, meaning that there was nothing left for him to do. He left the sim while Warrick was still splicing together bits of the recording. The technician had long gone, so he had to work his arms out of the restraints to free his legs and remove the visor. Standing over Warrick's still body, he thought briefly about exactly how much trust he was placing in the other man to pull this off. Briefly was all he allowed himself. Before today, if pressed, Toreth might have conceded to trusting Sara. Chevril was something like a friend, as were one or two of the other paras, but trust was a rare quality at I&I. The very idea of depending on an outsider unnerved him. An outsider, and a corporate at that, whom he'd known for only a few weeks. Not merely trusting him, but trusting him with his career and no denying it his life. However unpleasant it felt, he could still see no alternative.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Unlike much of Int-Sec, I&I was a public building in the sense that it was possible for citizens to visit it. They simply rarely did so voluntarily. However, as the respectable face of Administration internal security, I&I was equipped with a reception desk, publicly available contact numbers and, indeed, entire sections devoted to dealing directly with the people to whose protection it was dedicated. An appointment was usually advisable, but during the week, if a visitor had the name of someone they wished to see or some information they wished to give, even that could be bypassed. On a Sunday, however, an appointment was mandatory, so Toreth was forced to book Warrick's visit in officially. When Toreth arrived at lunchtime, the office was reassuringly quiet. The fewer people around, the better. However, after consideration, he called Sara in. He didn't like to involve her, but he needed her to ensure Warrick wasn't disturbed. As he sat on her desk, letting her description of the wonderful day he'd ruined pass over him without hearing a word she said, he saw Belqola across the office. Had he decided to try working for a change? Too late, if he had. "Belqola!" The man looked round. "Para?" "My office." In the office, Toreth sat down behind his desk, leaving Belqola standing. "I thought I ought to give you some notice when this case wraps, I'll be sending you back to the pool. With the reference you deserve." He watched Belqola's face slipping from shock to disbelief to anger. "You're throwing me out? You can't!" "Really? News to me. I've sent the order down already." Belqola's eyes narrowed. "I did exactly what you wanted." "Hardly. I wanted a junior para who didn't mess up all the damn time. I gave you more than one chance. You screwed them up." "You know what I mean." "The fuck was your idea, not mine. Incidentally, I'm not disputing that you suck cocks like a professional. But I'm running an investigative team, not a brothel." Belqola flushed with anger, rather than embarrassment. "You said " And he stopped dead. Toreth smiled. "Yes? What did I say?" "Okay, you implied." "I'm not responsible for your assumptions. A tendency towards making assumptions is a bad habit for a para-investigator. You ought to keep an eye on that." "You fucking " The junior clenched his fists, and then slowly relaxed them. "I know I screwed things up, Para. Give me another chance. A real chance. Please. You can have . . . well, anything. Whatever you want." "I already have. Once was more than enough. You'd need to be a lot better than that to fuck

yourself a place on my team." "You'll be sorry you did this. Sir." Toreth always loved the empty threats. "If you want to make yourself a laughingstock, go right ahead and lodge a complaint. Tell everyone why you thought the only way you could keep your assignment was taking it on your knees in a toilet. Seniors will be queuing up to sign you on after that." No answer from the junior, but there didn't need to be. The rage and humiliation, plain on his face, said it all and warmed Toreth's cock nicely. Pushing his chair back from the desk, he smiled. "I'll tell you what one more blowjob, and I'll write you a nice transfer reference. How about it?" Belqola hesitated, and then shook his head firmly. "Suit yourself." Toreth turned his attention to his screen, dismissing the junior. "If you change your mind before the end of the case, you know where I am." Without another word, Belqola stalked out of the office. ~~~ Reception called up at twenty past two to tell Toreth that he had a visitor. The call produced an unexpected kick of relief he'd begun to worry whether Warrick would go through with it or not. Toreth told Sara Warrick was on his way and then kept the comm open. After a few minutes, he heard his voice. "You must be the inestimable Sara. My name is Doctor Keir Warrick." A pause, then Sara said, "I'll tell him you're here." When the door opened to admit Warrick, he looked completely and reassuringly calm. Exhausted, though far more so than that night at SimTech when he'd shown Toreth the key to the murder contained in the computer code. His face was hollow-eyed, with deep lines around his eyes and mouth. He couldn't have slept much the night before, if he'd slept at all. "I'll need as much access to the system as you can give me," Warrick said without preamble, as he sat down at Toreth's screen. "It will save a great deal of time if I don't have to find my own way through the security." Toreth had already drawn up a list of his own access codes for the I&I systems, as well as an assortment of other people's codes that he'd acquired here and there. He handed the list to Warrick. Might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb. Not the most comforting of metaphors right now. Warrick looked down the list, his eyebrows creeping up as he read. "Is that going to be enough?" Toreth asked. "Oh, certainly." Warrick glanced up and smiled. "More than enough, I should say. Now, if I could have a little peace and quiet, I'll see what I can do." Warrick worked quickly, intent and absorbed. Toreth managed to sit still for a couple of minutes, then gave up and paced aimlessly, trying not to hum. Warrick didn't seem to mind, or even to notice. This was it. Up until now the danger had been theoretical, if he ignored the basic stupidity of involving Warrick at all. Now they were creating the evidence that could see both of them arrested, and in all probability annexed. With half of his attention on Warrick's face his eyes locked to the screen, the occasional frown gathering, then clearing Toreth passed the time cataloguing all the crimes they had committed or were about to commit. Unauthorised access to I&I systems, attacks on systems security,

perjury, falsifying evidence, conspiracy to do all of that, and murder to top it off. Finally, Warrick sat back. "Everything is in place." "Right. I'll get downstairs." "You should check the recordings first. If the doctored ones pass muster, then today's should work too." Trying to delay the inevitable? "We don't have time." "At this point I could probably undo what I've done and leave the system none the wiser. It would be a pity to to go through with the plan, and only then discover that the tampering was obvious. Rather too late at that point to consider other options." Toreth checked his watch, and then shrugged. "Okay. Move over." He ran the recordings through the highest level of the interrogation analysis systems, while Warrick watched over his shoulder. The system would pull up any discrepancies in the prisoner's behaviour or indications of tampering in the record. If anyone questioned him, Toreth could claim he ran the analysis to check for tell-tales of interrogation resistance aids. After an agonising wait, the recordings came back clean. What he would have done if they hadn't, he had no idea. The feeling of relief was short-lived they still had most of the plan to go. Toreth stood up and headed for the doorway. He paused there for a last run through the plan, as much to steady his own nerves as because he thought Warrick needed the reminder. "You don't have to watch," he said, "but keep the audio link open until it's done. I'll be back as soon as I can afterwards, but I'll have things to do first don't panic if it takes me a while. Whatever you do, don't go anywhere. Right?" Warrick nodded, already back in his place at the screen. "Good luck," he said absently. ~~~ The silence stretched out in the room. Marian sat in the chair, twisting her wrists mechanically against the restraints, which made her think of the sim. How many times had she watched the technicians tightening those straps, on herself or others? She saw her hands moving, but they felt distant, unconnected. A stranger's. It reminded her too of her training days of standing by, listening to the direct neural reeducation guinea pigs pleading for their memories, for an end to the pain, or simply for death. Perhaps there was nothing she could have done even if she had tried to help them. She hadn't tried. She'd run away, grateful to Psychoprogramming for the easy escape. Maybe this was her welldeserved punishment. A night and a day and a night. It hadn't occurred to her that she would be back here. It ought to have done. She had told the para-investigator everything, but of course he didn't know that. The idea of what had to come of how long it might take to satisfy him intensified the fear that had kept her awake since the last interrogation, until she felt herself beginning to shake. Twisting against the restraints. Stupid and pointless. What would she do if they broke? There was no way out. The para-investigator stood not far away, filling injectors and occasionally glancing up at the watching cameras. Where had he been for all this time? Checking her story? How?

Eventually, unable to bear the silence any longer, she had to speak. "What do you want?" Toreth finished the last of his preparations, moved to sit at the table. "Nothing. I'm just killing time." She heard the smirk in his voice. "So to speak." She lifted her head, curiosity sparking. "What?" "We're all done with confessions now. You put up a good show even if you'll never know." She thought about it for a minute, but after three sleepless nights, she couldn't focus. Memories of her shameful performance kept intruding. She had blown her last chance. Psychoprogramming would leave her to twist in the wind now, and she deserved it. "I don't understand," she said eventually, hating to admit it, wanting to know. He looked back at her, bored on the surface, tense as strung wire underneath and she knew he was debating whether to explain. She felt a tiny, improbable surge of hope. Why would he be nervous? "It's nothing that you need to worry about," he said. "You made the wrong confession, that's all. Two of them, in fact. So I fixed that, with a little help, and now you're not going to have a chance to make them again." "Help?" she asked, forcing herself to think, to try to see how it could be done. The image came back to her of Warrick and Toreth in the sim. So comfortable together. "Warrick," she said, and as his eyes narrowed she knew she was right. Then he shrugged. "Yes, Warrick. It doesn't really matter if you know now, does it?" If he didn't care about that, if he was willing to tell her what he had planned, then there really was no way out. All she could think to say was, stupidly, "You're going to kill me?" He nodded. "We already did, in the sim. Accidental overdose. It looks very good. Very convincing." "Warrick wouldn't use the sim like that." "It was his idea." He looked up at the camera. "Wasn't it?" For a moment she didn't understand what he meant to show her, perhaps because the idea was too horrible to accept. For all Warrick's faults, for all his overattachment to the sim and his blindness about it, she'd always respected him. She felt bereft at the mere idea that Toreth could have persuaded him to do this. Warrick wouldn't have thought of it himself. Not even to save SimTech and his own neck, and the neck of the sick, twisted excuse for a human being who sat here and watched her and smiled. But if it was true then Warrick really could be somewhere nearby, looking at a monitor, waiting to see her die. "Bastard," she whispered, hopelessly, not even sure which one of them she meant. He laughed. "Don't get all fucking morally superior with me, Dr Psychoprogrammer. Don't tell me you never killed anyone before you took it up as a hobby, because I've read your file. The only difference between us is that you lost your nerve and bottled out into a nice, cushy corporate job." The contempt, the careless cruelty, gave her back some focus. "Psychoprogramming is a perversion of medicine, like this place is a perversion of justice. You " "Save your breath " brief grin, " for what it's worth. I've heard it a hundred fucking times from resisters. Your version pays better, though. What did Mindfuck throw your way to bring you back into the family?"

Anger flared. "That wasn't why I did it." "No?" A tell-me-another tone of voice. "No. I had to stop the sim being commercialised Psychoprogramming provided a tool to do it. People are going to get hurt, badly hurt." Was Warrick watching them now? If he were, this might be the last chance she ever had to try to make him see reason. "The tech isn't safe for everyone. There are vulnerable people out there who will suffer. Lots of them. Addiction, lives destroyed by overdependence, and the Administration doesn't give a damn because it will keep people trapped in fantasy worlds that won't threaten them. And more serious effects Tara won't be an isolated case. There will be illegal copies of the sim, probably even more dangerous. By the time it's recognised, it will be too late to stop it. I didn't want to kill innocents. I didn't want to kill anyone, but sometimes the price of saving lives is " "So you decided to hand it over to the kind hearts at Mindfuck instead?" Yes. That was what she'd decided, although she'd seldom forced herself to look at it so starkly. All she had in defence was the justification she'd used for all these months. "Better a tool for them, than damaging indiscriminately. Once they have control of it, they'll never let it into general use." He shrugged. "Actually, I don't care." He didn't, of course. She hoped Warrick would see that, at least. The para-investigator looked at his watch, came over to the bench. "Time to get started. Or finished." He pressed the injector against her arm. She felt the brief pain and then the icy heat of the drug flooding through her, making her stomach heave and her vision swim. Someone else might have said, 'it won't take long', or 'it won't hurt'. He simply watched her dispassionately. The strength drained out of her and her head dropped forward. Toreth lifted her chin, tipped her head back against the chair. "How's that?" he asked. A moment before she realised he wasn't speaking to her. He nodded, answering an unheard instruction, and moved her head a fraction to the left. Posing her. She tried to fight it, to ruin their plan, but her muscles weren't responding to her commands and she could manage nothing more than rasping breaths. She tried to focus, eyelids suddenly heavy. He wasn't even looking at her now. His gaze moved steadily between his watch and the monitor beside her as he counted out seconds under his breath. "Fifteen." Slowly suffocating, every breath a desperate struggle. "Please, no . . . please, God . . . don't . . . I don't . . . Warrick . . . Warrick, please." "Twelve." "Warrick, please you have to . . ." Warrick, listening and watching somewhere. What could he do for her now, even if he finally heard her? "Ten." So many important things that she'd never told him, that she had never been able to make him hear. "Eight."

And now she never would, because she couldn't breathe, not noticing the moment when it finally became impossible. This is how it must have been for them, how they must have felt. "Five." Silent terror, her heartbeat stuttering to an end and the room greying to a narrow tunnel focused on him "Three." on his lips shaping the words. "Two." The final words, going down with her into the darkness at last. "One. Kill it."

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
It took him almost an hour to get away from the interrogation room. Toreth called for an emergency team, started the resuscitation he knew would be futile, waited around as the medics took over and finally pronounced the prisoner dead. Then there were the initial reports to file, a statement to make. All standard procedures, marking out an agony of waiting and worrying about what Warrick might be doing. When he made it back to his office, Sara looked anxious. "I heard what happened." Of course she had, even on a Sunday. Sometimes he wondered how the admin gossip network functioned so efficiently. Wanting to go right past and into his own office, he stopped, sat on the edge of her desk. "No big deal," he said calmly. "Everything by the book. Everything inside the waiver. No need to look for another boss just yet." She grinned. "Thank fuck." Suddenly she looked over her shoulder. "He's still here. Doctor Warrick. I haven't told him anything because you said not to go in until you. . ." The sentence trailed off and she looked back at him, her eyes narrowing. "What's going on?" she said quietly. "Nothing." "Don't give me that I know you. What's going on?" "Sara, don't ask. I mean that. It's much better that you don't know." He saw the mutiny in her eyes. "I wouldn't want you to have to lie to anyone about it. Do you understand?" Then he saw that she did. "You k " Her voice rose, then dropped again. "Wasn't she annexed?" "Yes. That's what the rep was here for." Calculation on her face, trying to work out what was wrong if it wasn't the death itself. Then she glanced at the door to the office. "He knows?" "Sara." She sat back in her chair, staring at him in bewilderment. Then, like a seamless computer morph, she was Admin Sara again. "Do you want to me to take your comms?" "Yes, please. And do me a transcript of the interrogation just up to the prisoner's death. Send it through as soon as it's done. Get a couple of coffees first." Warrick would probably need one, and so did he. What he really wanted, in fact, was a huge fucking drink. Maybe later. Toreth took a deep breath and went into the office. There was a horrible moment when he saw the empty desk and thought that, somehow, Warrick had gone. That maybe the session hadn't been fixed. That he'd been recorded talking to Marian and All that went through his mind in the second it took him to register the vacant chair, and then Warrick standing by the window, looking out into the courtyard. Warrick didn't look round, and after a moment Toreth went over. "It's done. All we need now is " "I should have listened to her," Warrick said, almost too quietly for Toreth to hear him. He moved closer. "What?"

"I should have listened to to Marian." Not good. "About what?" After a long silence, Toreth cautiously put his hand on Warrick's arm, with a view to turning him round, but Warrick pulled away sharply. In the brief contact, Toreth could feel him shaking. Really not good at all. "Do you know what I've been doing?" Warrick said suddenly. "Reading a diagnostic medical dictionary. Through your system. I hope you don't mind. A little research, rather too late." "Into what?" "Marian told me about you. Or to be precise, about para-investigators. That you were. . . sick. She said that you they were recruited on the basis of their psychological profiles. Personality disorders. The word sociopath cropped up." He had an urge to ask if she'd mentioned his mother. "So? Listen, everything is going to be fine." "They don't see people as people. They only interact with their own projections on the world. She said " In the window he caught a shadow of a frown as Warrick reached for the memory. "'People like Toreth are dangerous. They charm you and make you think they're something they're not.' You don't care. You can't." Why the hell hadn't he set it up so that Warrick wouldn't see her die? "You're tired, you didn't like what you saw fine. But we stick to the plan. We go through the interrogation transcript. You " "No." Warrick turned abruptly, and Toreth saw his face clearly for the first time: corpse white, with red-rimmed eyes. "I'm going. Now." Fear flooded him, with anger right on its heels. If Warrick left in this state, if he was stopped . . . Jesus, if he was questioned. "Don't be so fucking stupid." Toreth caught Warrick's arm as he started to move. "What the hell are you going to do if you run out now? She's dead, and you can't change that, can you? But she's no deader than she would be after the Administration executed her. And no deader than Kelly, or any of the rest of them. You'll stay right " "No!" Carelessly, he lost his grip as Warrick pulled away, and Warrick made it halfway across the room before Toreth caught him, barely managing to grab his sleeve. Experience told him Warrick would fight, which he did, with a ferocity and skill than caught Toreth off guard. "Will you shit!" Toreth twisted, trying to dodge a punch, and Warrick's fist caught him in the ribs instead of the solar plexus. He grabbed for Warrick's free hand and missed, getting a sharp blow to his arm in return. Only ingrained training made Toreth tighten his grip on Warrick rather than release him. The risk of sabotage kidnapping ensured that most corporates were at least trained how to break a hold and run. With his right hand occupied with Warrick's left arm, Toreth was at a definite disadvantage it was only a question of time before Warrick broke free. Toreth closed, unbalancing Warrick and bearing him back and away from the door. It took another minute of thankfully quiet struggle before he had Warrick against the wall, holding on to him securely. "Let go." Warrick's voice rose as he twisted futilely, his face flushed with anger and exertion. "Let me go."

He abandoned approved restraint technique and shifted his grip, getting his hand over Warrick's mouth. If the bastard bit him, he'd break his neck and worry about the explanations later. "Shut the fuck up and listen," Toreth snarled, voice low. "Do you want to fuck everything up? Do you want to end up down on level C, where she was, spilling everything for one of the others? You want to commit suicide, go ahead and do it on your own fucking time, but you're not taking me with you. We're sticking to the plan, to the letter. You'll stay in here long enough to make it look good, whatever it takes. I'm not going to risk ending up dead, just because you're too fucking gutless to stick it out. It was your fucking idea, so get a fucking grip." By the time he ran out of steam Warrick had at least stopped fighting, although he was still pale and shaking, his breath hot against Toreth's hand. Breathing quickly, now that Toreth took the time to notice. Almost panting, in fact. Not surprising, Toreth thought, when he considered the position they were in: full body contact, serious restraint, and danger real danger. Everything the game required. He smiled, unable to help it, feeling himself harden. Relaxing his hold a little, he uncovered Warrick's mouth. Then, before Warrick could say anything, he pulled him close for a deep, bruising kiss. "No!" Warrick said through the kiss, then jerked his head away. "Stop it." Toreth pulled him back and did it again, feeling Warrick's lips twist as he struggled to break free. Maybe he'd forgotten the safe word maybe he thought it wouldn't apply here. Toreth felt no obligation to remind him. Part of Toreth was still calculating, working out how to use this to his advantage. However, the overwhelming idea of having Warrick here, now rapidly swept that cold consideration aside. He held Warrick's shuddering body against his, smothering his protests until he stopped fighting and his mouth opened, hungry. Then Toreth manhandled him towards the desk, keeping his grip tight. Partly because he didn't want to risk him bolting for the door unlikely as that seemed right now and partly for the exciting feedback from Warrick's own excitement. Turning Warrick, Toreth pinned him against the desk, although now there was no need. As he opened the drawer one-handed he felt Warrick struggling again this time to unfasten his own trousers before reaching back to free Toreth's cock. A brief scrabble in the desk drawer produced hand cream. An even briefer pause before he thrust inside Warrick, honestly trying to take it slowly at first, but losing the fight between his own fierce arousal and Warrick's urgent movements. The screen on the desk still showed the interrogation room, now empty and silent, but Warrick wasn't looking at it. Or if he was, it had no dampening effect. He braced his hands on the desk, pushing back frantically towards Toreth, making a noise Toreth hadn't heard from him before harsh, sobbing breaths, pure need and desire. Shifting his grip, he held Warrick tight, driving into him harder, having trouble controlling the amount of noise he was making himself. A few more deliciously deep strokes, and Warrick bucked under him, but Toreth didn't register the strangled gasp as he came, because he was coming too. He crushed Warrick against the desk, pressing his face into Warrick's shoulder to muffle his own cry, for once the louder of them. A tiny sound pulled him back to awareness of the room around them. Out of the corner of his

eye, he caught sight of the door closing quickly. He'd forgotten Sara and the coffees, although she usually knocked or called through. Ah, well Warrick hadn't noticed, so no harm done. Made a mess on the desk, though. Finally Warrick shifted, and Toreth moved back far enough to let him stand up and refasten his clothes. Still sufficiently close, however, that when Warrick turned Toreth could indulge an unexpected and uncharacteristic urge for a kiss. It had an odd sweet-salt flavour, strangely satisfying, that reminded him of their first dinner and the steak. When he finally pulled back, he saw the bright red on Warrick's mouth, like smeared lipstick. Warrick touched the back of his hand to his lower lip, inspected it and licked away blood. "Bit my lip. It seemed preferable to letting the whole office know what we were doing." A deep breath. "Although I didn't think I'd done it quite that hard." At least he sounded calmer. "Feeling better?" Toreth asked. "I " Warrick hesitated, the answer clearly a surprise. "Actually, yes." "Good." Toreth found a tissue and wiped his own mouth, then the desk. "Now did the recording work?" "As far as I could tell." Warrick took another breath, ran his tongue over his lip and winced. "Everything went smoothly, nothing unexpected came up that I couldn't handle. I faked a technical glitch in the system to cover the link between the sim and the genuine recording. The picture synched perfectly with the medical monitors, which was always going to be the hardest part." "Then we've got one more thing to do, that's all. Go through the files with me, check everything's solid, and then it's all over." "All over." Warrick looked at him for a moment, expression closed, then nodded. "Let's get on with it." Toreth touched the comm. "Sara, I'll have that transcript and the coffees now." When she brought them in, Toreth was worried that she might say something about what she'd seen. Warrick wouldn't find it funny. To his relief, she gave no sign at all that she'd seen them. "I had a call from Internal Investigations about the prisoner's death," she said as she set the coffees down. Toreth caught a tiny, quickly controlled movement from Warrick beside him. "And?" Toreth asked. "They said that, considering the waiver, unless something else comes up or you want to tell them anything, they'll process the enquiry without an interview." "Tell them that's fine. Transcript?" "I'm just authorising it. I'll send it through when it's done." When she had gone, Warrick said, "Internal Investigations?" "Int-Sec watchdogs." With big, nasty teeth. "It's a formality. Just paperwork. I told you they expected her to die." Warrick shook his head. "Everyone knows, you know." "Every who knows what?" "Everyone knows that deaths in custody are often deliberate. Why do we all collude in the

pretence that it doesn't happen, do you suppose?" The question seemed to be genuine curiosity. "It isn't as if the Administration doesn't execute people anyway. Criminals and resisters." Not a good line of conversation. "It keeps things running smoothly. Saves a lot of messy, expensive trials and keeps a lot of nasty secrets. Like this one." "Doesn't it seem wrong to you?" Warrick didn't wait for an answer before he shook his head again. "No, I suppose it doesn't." "Not really." Toreth picked up one of the coffees. "Do you want sugar?" When Warrick declined, Toreth passed him the mug and had a sip from his own while he organised his thoughts. "Right, let's get on with it." It took them an hour to go through every file, every change Warrick had made to the system, until Toreth was convinced there was nothing there that might cause Internal Investigations a moment's doubt. For one thing, he wanted to be sure there would be no need to ask Warrick to come back in. Although, oddly enough, he wasn't that worried the panic had clearly passed, and Warrick was enough of a control freak not to let things slip again. Nevertheless, as Warrick was leaving, Toreth stopped him at the door and put his hands on his shoulders, feeling Warrick tense. "Everything's going to be fine. Say goodbye to Sara on the way past, walk out of here, and go home. If anyone asks what's wrong, remember it's fine to tell them that Marian died, as long as you don't say anything more than 'under interrogation'. That's reason enough to be upset. Everything's going to be okay. Okay?" Warrick nodded. "Good. Go on." Then, as Warrick hesitated, hand on the door, Toreth added, "I'll be in touch." Warrick opened the door without answering, and walked steadily away across the office.

CHAPTER THIRTY
First thing Monday morning, after an unexpectedly restful night, Toreth dropped a note to Tillotson explaining the weekend events and started the paperwork. Sara handled the negotiations with Justice while Toreth tidied up as many loose ends as he could, and prepared the case for submission to the Justice Department's evidence analysis system. That computer system would proclaim the final guilt or innocence of the prisoner, although acquittals were rare enough that they counted as a black mark in the file of the para directing the case. Toreth was relieved and almost surprised that he found no fatal flaw in the case. It was half past three when the call from Jenny finally came, summoning him to Tillotson's office. A long time for an important case. Toreth wondered whether Tillotson had spent the day talking to people, and if so, who. Tillotson kept him waiting outside for almost ten minutes before he called him in. When Toreth walked into the office, the shock almost stopped him dead. Tillotson sat behind his desk, with a pot of coffee and two cups on a tray. Behind him, back to the window, stood a man, his features made indistinct by the bright sunlight behind him. The one clear detail was his hair, a bright ginger. Toreth's stomach knotted was it the same man he'd seen coming out of Tillotson's office on the first day of the investigation? Fuck. If Internal Investigations was here . . . but if they'd been found out, surely he'd have been arrested or worse by now? They'd told Sara they were processing the prisoner's death. What the hell had gone wrong since yesterday? He crossed the room to the section head's desk and stood with his hands behind him, as casual as he could manage to appear. The stranger said nothing, and Tillotson didn't introduce him. In fact, for all the attention Tillotson paid either of them, he might as well have been alone in his office. While Tillotson read something on the screen in front of him, then read it through again, Toreth stood and tried not to fidget. He could glean nothing useful from Tillotson, who seemed absorbed by the screen, frowning slightly. An occasional glance towards the window not being curious would be more suspicious revealed nothing either. Eventually the section head looked up. "Is this transcript accurate?" As an apparent afterthought he added, "Sit down." Toreth took the indicated seat. "Of course it is Sara checked it. It's authorised and ready to go to Justice, with your approval. Have a look at the session recording if you want to check." Tillotson grimaced. "No, thank you." "Is there a problem, sir?" Toreth glanced at the interloper. "A problem?" Tillotson shook his head slowly. "Not insofar as it goes, no. But that isn't far enough. The motive is very thin and there are a lot of questions . . . I'm disappointed with this result, Toreth. The deaths were high profile. A solid result would have been good for the section, as well as for you." "She did it. I'm absolutely convinced she did; the confession's good and all the evidence backs it. It has to be corporate someone supplied her with the toxin and the interrogation resistance drugs. If you want my opinion, odds are it's tied into LiveCorp somehow. P-Leisure is the biggest sponsor of SimTech, and Teffera was the biggest corporate target. But it was all arranged through third parties

and anonymous messaging, so she didn't know any names. I'd say get Justice to wrap it guilty, corporate sabotage. If it were up to me, that is." Tillotson continued to stare at the screen, flicking his thumbnail against his front teeth. "I can keep the case open, of course," Toreth added. "You never know something might turn up to show who was behind her." Finally, the man by the window moved, a single step into the room, which attracted attention although it didn't show much more of his face. "I have some questions, if I may?" he said, in the same voice Toreth had heard in Tillotson's office before. The last thin thread of hope that he might not be in deep shit snapped. Toreth looked at Tillotson. "Sir?" he asked softly. "Go ahead." "Who " "Just answer the damn questions, Toreth." Fuck. He settled back in the seat, crossed his legs, and looked over at the stranger. "What do you want to know?" He knew he must sound wary, but that was hardly grounds for suspicion anyone would under these circumstances. As far as he could tell against the light, the man smiled. "This confession is not quite what some people would have expected." "If you've got some additional information, of course I'd be interested." "I'm afraid that it isn't quite that simple. We have information, but not evidence. That information makes the details of the confession . . . surprising." Now he ought to ask what the surprise was, and the conversation would grow more detailed and trickier until Toreth said something to give the whole game away. Not the way to play. Instead, he sighed. "Okay, who the hell are you?" There was a pause, and the man said, "I beg your pardon?" "If you're going to stand there and tell me I can't do my job, then I want to know what your job is." Tillotson started to say something, but the man cut him off. "It's a fair question. My name is Alan Howes. I work in the Research Section of the Psychoprogramming Division." A punch in the face couldn't have stunned him more. The man offered an ID badge, and Toreth took it, seeing nothing beyond the picture. Ginger hair. Once the first shock faded, he wondered how he could have missed it. Ginger hair the one-line description he'd told Warrick was useless. Marian Tanit's Mindfuck contact. He wasn't any less fucked, though. If Psychoprogramming had found another way of getting at SimTech and wanted his cooperation, that was almost as bad as being caught. Tanit's murder and the wiping of the files had tied him to Warrick, for good or bad, and Warrick wouldn't go down without a fight. Toreth would go down with him. At least he'd had one piece of luck. He hadn't gone to Tillotson when Tanit had spilled the beans. If he had, he might be dead already. He returned the ID, hoping that whatever reaction had shown on his face could be put down to

reasonable surprise. "Mindfuck? What's your interest?" The nickname was always a reliable irritant, and Howes frowned. "The reason for our involvement isn't relevant, although one part of it is that Marian Tanit trained at the forerunner to the PD." "I know someone had it wiped from her security file." Silence. "I understand why you had it scrubbed." The mindfucker tensed, then relaxed as Toreth continued. "Bit of an embarrassment to the division. But the odd one can always slip through psych screening. If it's a question of that not coming out, I could redo the Justice submissions to " "No," Howes interrupted. "Our concern lies in the process of investigation and particularly interrogation." "I've got IIPs that tell you in long and tedious detail why I arrested Tanit in the first place. Everything that happened in that interrogation room is recorded." "I'm aware of that." "So you think I did . . . what? Tampered with the files somehow?" The following silence was far too thoughtful for Toreth's liking, and in the end Howes didn't answer the question. "We are satisfied that her guilt is not in question. Only her motives." "I did everything I could. I even brought Doctor Warrick in to review the transcripts. He couldn't find anything to suggest she knew who the backers were it's all in the file. She had nothing left to give; I'd stake my career on that." That drew a brief, cold smile from Howes. "No doubt. But the anomalies remain to be explained and we hoped that you might be able to do so." "Then you'll have to tell me what those anomalies are, because I can't see them. It's a solid, legit result. If you don't like that, then I'm afraid it's way too late to change it." Another thoughtful stare. "Yes, indeed it seems to be. From the point of view of discovering the truth, the death of the prisoner is unfortunate." "She was annexed on a level eight waiver that I didn't even ask for. If that was a fuckup, it was Justice's, not mine." Toreth stood up. "I don't have anything else to tell you that isn't already in a file, except that I'm not carrying the can for someone else's cockup. If you promised some corporate a nice result, that's not my problem." "Toreth, sit down and " Tillotson began. "I don't object to finding what I'm supposed to find, but I'm not a fucking mind-reader." "Toreth, that is enough." Tillotson was crimson. For once Tillotson was probably right, so Toreth sat, muttering, "Well, for Christ's sake." Howes stood in silence for a moment, arms folded, fingers tapping, and then said, "Now, Senior, I'm going to ask you directly, once more. Do you know anything about Marian Tanit's motives that you haven't included in the investigation report?" "Everything's in the files." "And is there anything else about the conduct of the case that might show up unfavourably in an Internal Investigation enquiry?" Toreth suppressed a snort. Raising the spectre of Internal Investigations didn't frighten him.

They wouldn't dare bring them in, not when the pair of them had been responsible for Nissim's death. "No. Nothing at all." "That is you final answer?" "Yes." Toreth couldn't quite hide a smirk. They had nothing on him. He was home, free and clear. "A pity. There is one more matter . . ." Howes took a step back, yielding the field to Tillotson. Playing slimy cop, weaselly cop. Tillotson frowned at his screen. "There has been a suggestion of, ah, professional misconduct. That you have been personally involved with a witness a suspect without declaring it." Ice water drenched his spine. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. After a moment he realised that his mouth was open. Just as he managed to close it, Tillotson looked up. "Do you deny it?" "Of course I fucking deny it!" Tillotson shook his head. "I have evidence. A member of your team is willing to give a statement to the effect that he saw you having numerous personal conversations with the suspect in question. And witnessed at least one instance of intimate contact." Belqola, no doubt, which explained the lack of a knock on his office door yesterday. The devious, spying little fuck. "He's lying," Toreth said, without much hope. Howes shrugged. "Immaterial. The evidence is sufficient for a charge of gross misconduct, to throw the evidence from the case into doubt, and also sufficient for Internal Investigation to obtain a damage waiver for your interrogation." He smiled for the first time. "After, that is, you have visited 'Mindfuck'." Thank God he'd followed Tillotson's order and sat down. Howes was still speaking, but Toreth couldn't hear him, the words lost in a vision of the future. His future. It would be a whitewash. First he'd tell them the truth, give them Warrick and everything else, and then after that he'd say whatever they wanted him to say. Mindfuck could make sure of that. Then, finally, they'd annex him. Tillotson looked round at Howes, who nodded and said, "Your section head has already asked me to give you one last chance to make a full confession, before you're formally arrested." Toreth glanced at Tillotson, who coughed. "I don't want to have to do this to you, Toreth. Not just because of the embarrassment to the section and the division. We've worked together for a long time, and " A tiny gesture from Howes, and he stopped. "Cooperation from the beginning would be in your best interest," Howes said. "We may be able to arrange a deal with Internal Investigations if you decide to be sensible." "I don't " "Consider carefully, Para-investigator," Howes said softly. Toreth thought of all the prisoners he'd watched sit and think their way through this exact dilemma. Folding now was so fucking tempting, although the mindfucker was probably lying about any deal. The pair of them had been responsible for the death of a Legislator, and Toreth knew that. They'd want him dead, and so would he by the time they'd finished with him. Toreth looked Howes in the eyes. "I don't have anything to say. I'm sorry, I can't help you. Believe me, I'd love to. But what was in the files is all there is." The denial would start the long journey through Psychoprogramming and on to an interrogation

chair at Internal Investigations. In an odd way, it felt good knowing that when the crunch came, he'd done it. Fucking hell. He'd really done it. Toreth stayed seated, unable to move, as Tillotson called a security guard in. The man had to help him up from the chair before Toreth regained enough self-control to walk out of the room unaided, without a backwards glance. As the guard escorted him towards the lift, the numbness lifted a little and he began to struggle for a plan. For some chance, however slim. If fucking a witness was Howes's best card, he couldn't have any hard evidence that they'd faked the confession record, however much he suspected. That would all change with his own inevitable confession, but right now Warrick was still free. However personal it felt, Howes's real target was SimTech Toreth was just in the field of fire. So look at it from that angle. Warrick was his only realistic hope, and he'd certainly proved resourceful enough in the past. At the very least, if Warrick ran, if he could get away, that would cut the evidence against Toreth dramatically without Warrick the original recording might never be retrieved. All Toreth needed was to get away from his escort for a minute or two. At least he knew how to make it look good. Measuring the distance to his target along the corridor, he summoned the images. Water, closing over him. Pouring down his throat. Choking and vomiting. Diaphragm spasming, a buzzing in his ears as his lungs struggled against the flood. He was drowning, and he couldn't force his way to the surface. Gagging in his memory, and now in real life too. "'Scuse me," he gasped, and pushed past the guard into the toilets as they passed them. It had worked too well, which proved to be lucky. As he collapsed on his knees in one of the cubicles, retching, he heard the door behind him open and then close again. When he looked round, there was no sign of the guard. Wiping his mouth, he fitted the comm earpiece with shaking hands and called Warrick. "We're blown." Toreth said as soon as Warrick answered, almost surprised to find that he still had the presence of mind to subvocalize. "Get out if you can. I can't " "What's happened?" "Don't argue, just " "Toreth, shut up." The sudden authority silenced him. "Now, again, slowly," Warrick said. He sounded far too calm, and for a moment, Toreth wondered if he could somehow be involved. Then he dismissed the idea. Right. Slowly. "Mindfuck Psychoprogramming are here, with Tillotson. They don't buy it. And they've found out we're fucking. Were fucking. That gives them enough leverage to interrogate me." Silence, then Warrick said, "Will you talk to them?" "Warrick, I won't have any fucking choice." The truth of that made his stomach lurch again. "Well, don't tell them anything yet. Do you think they'll intercept this call?"

"I " Toreth pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to focus. "No. I don't think so. Tillotson wouldn't draw attention yet with a request to monitor my comm." "Good." Warrick still sounded as calm as though he were running through a sim protocol. "Do you have a name now?" Toreth frowned. "A what?" "A name of someone at Psychoprogramming. Someone involved." "What are you going to do?" "Do you have a damned name?" It was almost a relief to hear Warrick's poise fracturing. "Yes. It's " His mind blanked. "Howes. He said Alan Howes. From Research. He had ID, which doesn't really mean much except . . ." Except it was better than nothing. "Thank you. I'll do what I can. Try not to panic." Easy for him to say. Toreth gripped the toilet seat and took a deep breath. "I'm not fucking panicking." "Then it won't be a problem for you, will it?" Toreth heard the door open again and he cut the connection, bending over the toilet and coughing while he stuffed the earpiece back into his pocket. "Sorry, Para," the guard said as he entered. "We've got to go." He sounded genuinely apologetic, and as they started down the corridor Toreth decided not to have the man disciplined for leaving a prisoner alone. In the unlikely event that he ever had the chance. ~~~ This was it. After the call finished, Warrick sat back in his chair and stared blindly at the screen. Despite his confidence to Toreth, he'd never honestly given the plan more than a sixty percent chance of success. He'd made contingency plans, and he liked those even less than the original. Run, that was the first option. Wipe the systems as thoroughly as he knew how and run. He had tickets, and a borrowed identity that he hoped would get him outside the Administration. He wasn't confident even of that. This wasn't something he'd ever had to do before. There were files ready to go to Justice and I&I stating that his fellow directors had no knowledge of what had happened; whether that would do any good, he had no idea. His complete severance from the corporation might help the founders' clause invoked at last, in circumstances none of them could have envisaged. Other files to go to Asher and Lew, with everything he dared tell them. Enough to give them the best chance possible to defend SimTech, although the odds of their being able to salvage anything from the mess were small. Perhaps they could at least forgive him. A message for Dillian, so far away on Mars, explaining as best he could. Saying goodbye, and saying sorry, for what little it was worth, because the Administration weren't kind to the relatives of political criminals. His own crimes should count as corporate, but with Nissim's death to be explained away, anything was possible. Mud would splash and stick, in any case. He had scant hope of ever seeing Dillian again anyway, or anyone else he knew, whether his flight succeeded or not.

Contingency plans, which had been too hurriedly laid to be reliable. How long would Toreth be able to hold out? Assuming that he would try in the first place, that the seed of hope he'd tried to plant just now would take, and that was a major assumption. Expecting Toreth to trust him over that or anything was optimistic, to put it mildly. He easily could be talking to them right now, spilling everything, in which case sitting here was stupid, bordering on suicidal. Toreth's panicked, mutually incriminating call must have come from I&I, in which case it might have been monitored. Guards could be on their way to SimTech now. Every minute of delay might count. He closed the files on the screen slowly, watching them disappear one by one. SimTech work plans for the commercial production of sim units, which he'd only just begun to hope might again be possible. The future of SimTech. His future everything he loved. Run. That was the sensible choice. ~~~ Toreth found himself thinking about two things, going back and forth from one to the other as restlessly as he paced across the holding cell. Two memories. Fucking Warrick in his office yesterday, so beautifully hot and desperate. Warrick, jerking back against him as he came, as they both came maybe the last fuck of their lives. Then Sara's face when he'd come back from killing Marian. She'd guessed something, and that might be enough to doom her along with himself and Warrick. The thought of Sara in an interrogation room hurt more than he would have imagined. Maybe they wouldn't ask him about her. Maybe if they did, he'd be able to hold it back. Questioning interrogators was notoriously difficult. He'd done one himself once, but Internal Investigations took most of them. Soon, they'd have him. Please, don't let them drag Sara into this. Warrick had sounded so calm. He had to have a plan, or more probably just a good escape route. No he'd said that he'd do what he could. It would have to be fast, whatever it was. How long would it be before guards from Mindfuck arrived at I&I to take him? Not long, if Howes moved quickly. Once he was in their hands, he couldn't imagine anything Warrick could do. Hell, he couldn't imagine anything he could do now, either. Back to Warrick again, to the feel of him, the smell of him, the taste of blood on his lips, and Sara bringing them coffee. Oh, Christ. Sara. When the guard returned, it seemed like ten minutes. Normally he had a good sense of time, but checking his watch showed almost an hour had gone by. Exactly the opposite of the SMS, he thought vaguely. The guard escorted him out and down the corridor without a word. No handcuffs yet. The lift took them up again, passing the ground floor, which meant he wasn't being transferred. The overwhelming intensity of the relief shocked him, forcing him to lean against the wall for support. Back in Tillotson's office again, Tillotson and Howes were waiting for him. Howes had seated himself on the edge of Tillotson's desk, and he gestured for Toreth to sit in the chair before him. Below him. Toreth shook his head in silent refusal, standing beside the chair with his hands behind his back. No one spoke. Why, Toreth wondered, were they doing this here? Why not down in detention? No point lying to himself by pretending that wouldn't have intimidated him. Tillotson would know that, even if Howes didn't. If they offered the deal again, what would he say? Trust Tillotson, or trust Warrick?

Management or corporate what a fucking choice. At least the men in front of him had the authority to let him go, to try to buy his silence instead of enforce it, which was more than Warrick had. 'I'll do what I can'. Bizarrely, inexplicably, there was no question who he trusted most. Toreth watched the bright squares of sunlight creeping infinitesimally across the wall. He paid them more attention than he would have under other circumstances. If I chose wrong, he thought morbidly, it might be the last time I see the sun. Finally Howes nodded, apparently to himself, and turned to Tillotson. "The final decision is yours, of course." Tillotson merely grunted agreement. "Thank you for your cooperation," Howes said to Toreth, with only the mildest hint of sarcasm. "Good afternoon." With that, and to Toreth's utter astonishment, he simply walked out. After the door had closed, Toreth said, "Sir?" "Close the case." Tillotson looked up, his manner suddenly brisk. "Send it on to Justice, just as you said corporate sabotage. I don't appreciate Psychoprogramming telling me how to run my section. With the level eight waiver and annex, there's no problem with the death." Relief swept over him again before boiling into anger. They hadn't even said there'd be no enquiry. The bastards hadn't said anything. They'd just dropped the whole fucking thing, as if it had never happened. His hands clenched, nails digging into his palms as he fought the urge to punch Tillotson. An hour in that fucking cell, and then nothing. It must have been a bluff all along trying to scare him into saying something. Tillotson's nose twitched. "As for the other matter . . . there'll be no official reprimand placed in your file, but if I hear about the slightest hint of of impropriety in any future cases, you'll be out of your office and demoted to junior before you can blink. Understood?" "Yes, sir," Toreth ground out, through gritted teeth. "Thank you." As he turned to go, Tillotson added, "Call Doctor Warrick and tell him the damn case is closed. Do it as soon as you get back to your office." With that, Toreth knew it hadn't been a bluff after all. ~~~ The effort of containing his anger, all the way back to his office, made him feel he might explode. Sara half stood as he crossed the room, then sat down again when she got a better look at him. He slammed his office door with a noise that would set the entire section talking, and then looked for something to throw. Nothing came immediately to hand, so he kicked his chair into the far wall, scattering the pile of the JAPI by the window across the floor. Then he sat on the edge of his desk, fuming. Why he should be so angry, he didn't know. The idea of Tillotson showing any loyalty to him or anyone else in his section was something he'd given up on long ago. How big a bribe had Psychoprogramming sent Tillotson's way? Toreth couldn't see him fucking with corporates, even small corporates, for free. Cash, and favours to be repaid, no doubt, and plenty of both. Still, it hadn't been big enough that Tillotson had felt the urge to pass any of it on to him. An hour in that foul fucking cell and all because Tillotson was too fucking tight to share the goodies. He'd let Toreth run the investigation without telling him anything. Perhaps he'd assumed that

Toreth would dump the case as a career-busting flop, or at worst swallow Tanit's story whole if he caught her. Or perhaps Tillotson simply thought Toreth knew the game well enough not to need to be told the desired result. Maybe he ought to feel flattered, but he didn't. He felt used. Used, betrayed, lied to, and sick of the whole thing. Sick of the investigation, sick of fucking Tillotson, sick of Int-Sec and its treacherous rivalries and politics. For a moment, he indulged himself in the old fantasy of handing in his notice. Of walking back into the section head's office without waiting for a summons, telling Tillotson exactly what he thought of him and of the rest of Int-Sec, and then leaving the building forever. Right now, it didn't seem like a bad idea. With his savings, he could buy out the remains of his training debt to I&I. But after that moment of freedom, where would he go? The only option was selling himself into a corporate contract. Or, much as he disliked the connotations of ownership, taking a personal contract with some rich corporate looking to improve his security. A corporation would be no better than here. The same time-wasting political bullshit, but with less security and more boring work. Toreth rested his forearms on his thighs, letting his hands dangle between them. Resignation was already blunting the hot edge of fury. He knew what he was doing dusting off the usual justifications, and finding them, as always, good enough. Para-investigation was his job and he was proud of how he did it. More than that, it was his life. I&I was all he had. He belonged here as he would be able to belong nowhere else. With Chevril and the rest of the paras, who were people like him, and with people like Sara who knew what that meant. While he didn't care what it said about him in some psych file somewhere, he recognised the practical consequences. Warrick's outburst after Marian's death hadn't told him anything he didn't already Warrick. Shit he hadn't called Warrick. From the way Tillotson had said it, Warrick had to be behind Mindfuck's abrupt change of heart. What Warrick could possibly have done in such a short time, he had no idea, but it was the only explanation that made sense. This time, he fitted the earpiece with a rather steadier hand. If he was careful what he said, there was no reason not to put the call through the I&I comms. He called SimTech, hoping that Warrick would still be there. Warrick took the call on voice only interesting choice. "Doctor?" Toreth asked. He had a momentary panic that Warrick might say something stupid. However, his voice was perfectly calm. "What can I do for you, Para-investigator?" "I'm calling to let you know that the case has been closed. We're submitting everything we have to Justice." Silence, but he could almost taste the relief flowing over the connection. "Excellent news," Warrick said finally. "May I enquire as to the conclusion?" "Up to the Justice systems, but I recommended ascribing all the killings to Marian Tanit, motive corporate sabotage. I see no reason why that recommendation won't be accepted." "I see. Well, deeply regrettable though Dr Tanit's, ah, involvement is, I'm sure the sponsors will be relieved to hear that the matter is closed. No blame has been attached to the sim?"

Neat touch just what Warrick ought to be asking. "None at all." "I'm very glad to hear it. And perhaps, if I could trouble you, some official statement to that respect would be very welcome." Pushy bastard back to his usual self, no doubt about that. "No problem. I'll have something written up for you right away." "Thank you." Warrick hesitated briefly, and then said, "Is that all?" "Yes." No. How the fucking hell did you do it? "Perhaps " The door opened, and he knew without looking round who it was. Sara, timing as perfect as ever. He closed the connection. "What do you want?" he asked her, more harshly than he'd meant to. "I brought you a coffee, that's all," she said. She handed it to him, then retrieved his chair. "How was Tillotson?" Anger surged back at the name. Seriously tempted to throw the mug, or kick the chair again, he sat down heavily, just managing not to spill the coffee. "Tillotson was his usual tossy self." Her hand rested on his shoulder, her fingers rubbing ineffectually over muscles tensed like stone. "I heard they sent you down to detention. For an hour. What went wrong?" "He didn't like the result." "Making trouble over the death?" "No. Tillotson agreed it's all inside the waiver. Wanker." She looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, and then glanced at her watch. "It's ten past. Want to leave the coffee, and go get something stronger?" "Not really." "Come on." She squeezed his shoulder. "Case closed. You ought to celebrate." Well, it was probably better than sitting around here until he worked himself into a good enough mood to go back and strangle Tillotson. ~~~ When they'd bought drinks and found a secluded seat, they sat in silence for a while. Eventually Sara reached over the table and put her hands over his. In the moment before they tightened, he felt them shaking. He stared at her fingers, the rings concentrating the dim bar lights into points. "All right," Sara said. "What's going on?" "Sara, I can't " "I don't want a transcript. I just want to know if I should arrange for someone to come and feed the cat, that sort of thing." "You don't have a cat." "Well, I was thinking about getting one." A quaver sounded in her voice now, before she cleared her throat. "What I mean is . . . are we expecting Internal Investigations to show up? And if they do, what do you need me to tell them?" Brave front notwithstanding, she was absolutely fucking terrified. Toreth looked up, suddenly wrenched into an outside perspective on the events of the last few days. "God, no. Nothing like that's going to happen." I hope. "It's "

Taking hold of her hands, he tried to think how much to tell her. "I found something out from Tanit that I shouldn't have done. Division politics major, serious stuff. Warrick fixed it. Tanit's dead now, so nobody's going to find out everything's fine." From Sara's expression, she didn't believe it any more than he did. "If it's over, what's wrong?" He shook his head, not sure himself. He didn't usually brood. "I nearly blew it. The whole thing. I was this bloody close. I should've seen it coming. You even asked me, what if it wasn't corporate? It was obvious and I didn't see it. I don't know maybe I was too fucking focused on a big case. I should know better. If it hadn't been for Warrick . . . why the hell didn't I let it go?" She looked at him with the same strange expression she'd worn when he'd asked her what Warrick had to do with anything. "You didn't blow it, though, did you?" "They could've killed me." Her as well, maybe. Now it was all over, that felt suddenly, overwhelmingly real. "But they didn't," she said. "No, they didn't. And they aren't going to, now. I don't know why I'm so . . ." She shrugged, freeing her hands from his and picking up her glass. "Sounds like you had a bloody nightmarish few days. Why the hell shouldn't you be?" They sat in silence, slowly working their way down their drinks while he thought it over. The problem was . . . the problem was it didn't feel finished. The bullet had missed, and he had not the faintest idea why, or how, or whether another one would be fired. He couldn't leave it like this he had to know. "Toreth?" "Um?" He focused on Sara to find her looking at him with open concern. What had he said? "I need to make a call." That didn't seem to surprise her. "I'll get some more drinks." When she had gone, he pulled out the comm earpiece, hesitating for a moment with it in his hand, for some reason he couldn't name. It wasn't as if he didn't have a perfectly good excuse. "Doctor." "Hello again." Warrick's voice was more guarded this time. "Is there a problem?" "No, no problem at all. However, there are one or two points I would like to discuss with you, if you could spare me the time for a meeting." "Points?" "Yes. About how things were . . . finally resolved." "Is there any official compulsion for this request?" "No it's completely unofficial. Just to satisfy my personal curiosity, really. It's entirely up to you whether you'd like to meet or not." The brief silence nicely conveyed the idea that Warrick was thinking about the offer, and Toreth almost hoped someone was listening in so there'd be an audience for the performance. Or maybe he really was considering whether to say no. Finally Warrick spoke again, his voice cool. "In that case, since it's unofficial, perhaps we should meet outside working hours? Perhaps for dinner? Are you free later this evening?" "That would be fine."

"The Renaissance Centre? Two hours?" "Fine." "I shall see you then. Goodbye, Para-investigator." Toreth put the earpiece away, finding unexpectedly that he was smiling. He didn't notice Sara approaching until she set the full glasses down on the table. "So he said yes, then?" she asked as she sat opposite him. "What?" "Never mind. Do you want to make a night of it? Get a meal, go see a film?" "I'd love to, but " She smiled. "Say no more."

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
At the Renaissance Centre, he found that Warrick had booked a room a suite, in fact and left a message with reception for him. Warrick clearly had no concern about the 'personal involvement' then, and Toreth was willing to concede that a private room was a better place for discussions than a public bar. About to go up, he detoured to the bar to pick up a bottle of something expensive (even though he didn't feel like trying to get this one past accounts) and two glasses. As the door to the suite closed behind him, and he saw Warrick stand up from one of the deep armchairs, Toreth found himself wondering what to say. How much of the debt should he acknowledge? By the time he'd crossed the room and set the glasses and bottle on a table, he still wasn't sure. In the end, the direct approach seemed best. "How did you do it?" Toreth asked. Warrick smiled fleetingly, and Toreth wondered if he'd made a bet with himself over the opening words. And whether he'd won. "I kept hold of Marian's confessions," Warrick said as he sat down again. "The details of Psychoprogramming's plan to destroy SimTech and cheat the investors of their rightful returns. In addition, I took the liberty of borrowing a few other files from the I&I system. A copy of the results of her interrogation resistance screening, a selection of the rest of the investigation files. I hope you don't mind?" Toreth shook his head. He had a horrible sinking feeling as to where this was leading. "Should anything untoward happen to me or to you then the information will be released. It will go to the sponsors and a number of other corporates. Automatically and unstoppably. I made quite sure Mr Howes understood that when I spoke to him." Exactly what he'd been afraid of. Toreth dropped into a chair, not entirely voluntarily. "Jesus. Warrick, that's insane." "No, but it is dangerous. Blackmail always is. That's why it was the last resort. It would've been far better for them to think their plan had merely failed for reasons unknown." "I&I will just show them the faked confessions. Why would the corporates believe you?" "For one reason, because we generic corporate we are always afraid something like this will happen. For another, because the sim-created interrogations have a signature encoded in the recording. An encrypted signature, the key to which is with the rest of the information. If the Administration produces the faked recordings as evidence, the corporates will know." He hadn't come up with all that in an hour. "You set this up in advance? Right from the beginning?" Warrick nodded. "Before Marian. . . before I came to I&I yesterday morning. I finished the details today. I threw in the budget information and the rest of the evidence against Psychoprogramming you'd gathered as well. A statement from Le Tissiet that Psychoprogramming approached him." He smiled. "I think it makes a nice case, all told." 'Could be useful if carefully handled'. His original assessment of Warrick had been somewhat inadequate. "Why the hell didn't you tell me?" "I'm sorry." No hint of an apology in his tone. "I didn't think there was any need to bother you

with it unnecessarily." "To bother fucking hell." An hour in that bloody cell. Was this Warrick's idea of revenge for his own wait in Toreth's office after Marian's death? Except Warrick couldn't have known what Tillotson and Howes had planned. "Get me a drink." Warrick picked up the bottle and examined the label, eyebrow lifting. "I'm not sure a celebration is really appropriate." You're the one who booked a suite with a bed the size of my fucking flat. Toreth closed his eyes. "Just open the fucking thing." The cork popped softly as Warrick worked it off, and after a moment Toreth heard the hiss of pouring champagne. Cool glass touched his hand, and Toreth drained it, the acid bubbles burning his nose and throat. Blinking, he held the glass out for a refill and Warrick complied, wincing very slightly. Toreth downed half of the second glassful. When his eyes had stopped watering, he said, "Mindfuck will never let this go." "If everything goes right 'Mindfuck' will never find out." Warrick sat down opposite him, leaning forwards with his elbows on his knees. "Howes won't tell anyone what happened." "But what if he does?" "Then probably we're both dead." Warrick's tone didn't change. "However, I'm confident he'll keep quiet. Think about it." "I'm not in the mood for twenty fucking questions." Warrick lowered his head slightly, looking at up at him thoughtfully through his eyelashes, and then nodded. "Very well. Personally, I doubt that the Administration at the top level would ever approve a plan involving the frank destruction of a corporation simply to avoid paying technology licenses. However, that isn't relevant. If everything came out, the Administration would start looking for sacrifices to appease the corporations. The upper echelons of Psychoprogramming would direct the blame downwards to whoever came up with the plan, and they in turn " "Would swear it was a few rogues, acting without approval. Howes. Tillotson. Fuck me, even." Warrick nodded. "Quite so. And once they were tied to Nissim's death no one would be inclined to help them. As the liaison with I&I, Howes's would be the first neck on the block. Very probably, he's the only one at the Psychoprogramming Division who knows exactly what happened at I&I today. What do you think the odds are of him passing my threat, and his failure, too far upwards?" "Pretty fucking small, I suppose." Self-interest was a motive Toreth liked even more than money. "If I were him, I would inform my superiors that Marian simply refused to cooperate at the last moment. That for whatever reason she changed her mind about destroying SimTech. In fact, that's what I suggested he say." "Why the hell didn't you do this straight away? No I'm being stupid. You didn't have a name." Another nod. "And now I do a name I made quite sure is all over the documents the corporations would receive, along with Tillotson's. Without the name, I would've had to threaten the whole of Psychoprogramming. Suicidal, to say the least." The trick to health insurance was knowing who to tell about it. Toreth leaned back in his chair, thinking over the plan and finding no glaring flaws. Unable to keep the admiration out of his voice, he

said, "Tanit was right. You're a natural fucking corporate, you know that?" Warrick paused, then said, "Is that a compliment?" "Not really." Another mouthful of champagne, and he added, "So it's over." "Indeed it is. I made quite sure that Howes understood that your safety was as important as mine. We're free to go about our respective lives." Toreth stared into the glass, watching the bubbles rise and die while he thought about that. He owed Warrick his career and his life. . . and Warrick owed him SimTech, and possibly his freedom. Not too much of an imbalance there, but a hell of an entanglement, something he always avoided at all costs. A mutual debt like this could never be wiped out. Still, as Warrick had said, there was no reason ever to see him again now the case was over. Provided, of course, that Warrick's blackmail plan held up, and Mindfuck didn't come after one or both of them, wanting blood. Maybe it would be sensible to keep tabs on Warrick for the time being. It wouldn't be too much of a hardship just fucking, in fact, finally cut free of the mess of the investigation. Time in the sim SMS and whatever other weird and wonderful things Warrick had available. Toreth wouldn't mind the occasional evening in the real world, either. Playing the game with someone else who didn't like to have too many rules. He stole a glance at Warrick, who was slowly twirling the stem of his glass between his fingers, quietly impassive. Fucking control freak, indeed. However, floating on champagne and relief at survival, Toreth found that he didn't mind making an exception to his principle of never openly doing the pursuing. Perhaps it was because when he asked the question, he was already sure of Warrick's answer. Toreth smiled, and Warrick lifted his eyebrows enquiringly. "So," Toreth said, "do you want to fuck?"

Unlucky Break
Four months after Mind Fuck . . . "God, it hurts. Hurry up." Toreth tried the lock on the cuffs again, without much hope of success. His pessimism proved justified. "Sorry, it's stuck." "Don't fuck around, Toreth." Anger temporarily masked the pain in Warrick's voice. "I'm not. I'm serious. They won't open. The lock must've fritzed when the chair went over. That's the problem with electronic controls. If I was at work, I'd be able to get the mechanical override key, but they're sign-out, sign-in and tagged so they can't leave the building." While he was kneeling there, he cast a professional eye over the damage to Warrick's wrists. In the four months they'd been fucking regularly this was the first serious accident, which Toreth considered to be a decent enough record considering Warrick's tastes in fun. All inside the damage waiver. However, this time things couldn't be glossed over with an analgesic spray and a long-sleeved shirt, which might prove awkward. Warrick shifted on the chair, and then swore under his breath. "Can't you break them?" Warrick asked. "No." Toreth stood up. "They're long-term restraint cuffs, designed to be left on unsupervised prisoners. If it was that easy, there'd be no fucking point using them, would there?" Warrick closed his eyes. "Think of some other way to get them open, then." "I'll have to call an ambulance. They'll be able to cut you free at Casualty." His eyes flew open again. "No! Can't you do something?" "Nothing I can think of, not unless you've got a hacksaw and a few hours. I can't chew through alloyed steel. We could always wait until your wrist swells up, the cuffs cut off the circulation, and you get gangrene." "Compared to being carried out of the hotel stark naked and handcuffed to a chair? I think I'll take the gangrene." Warrick stared down at the floor for a moment, then up again. "Yes, all right, call. Maybe I'll be lucky and I'll die of shock before they get here." "Of course you won't. You've broken your wrist, that's all." "All?" "Yes, all. It's not going to kill you." He found the comm earpiece, but before he could make the call, Warrick said, "Wait a moment. Couldn't you break the chair?" Toreth considered. The chair was solid enough that he'd thought it would be okay to cuff Warrick to it in the first place, although in the end it had proved rather badly balanced. However, it was only wood and therefore an improvement over the cuffs. He'd been looking at the wrong part of the problem. He moved back behind the chair and examined the structure. The linking bar of the cuffs went behind a thick brace between the legs. There was, however, an obvious weak point in the system.

"Grip the bar with your good hand." "I don't have a good hand." "Yes, you do. The left one's just bruised. Probably." Warrick's fingers closed tentatively around the wood. "Harder." Hiss of indrawn breath. "I can't do better than that." "Okay." Toreth put his hands on the chair back. "Now, tilt forwards just enough to take the back legs off the ground. I've got you, so you won't go over. Perfect." Unpleasantly precarious, actually, but Toreth wasn't the one with the broken wrist. "Right. I'm going to kick the chair leg away from me, and try to split the glue, or whatever's holding it together. The first one probably won't do it, but hold on as hard as you can, because when it breaks you don't want the bar pulling downwards. On three. Ready?" Silence. "Ready?" "Yes. Get on with it." "Okay. One, two, three." With a splintering crack, the leg gave a few centimetres, unexpectedly enough that Toreth almost overbalanced. He slammed the chair back down onto its legs, and Warrick screamed. "Jesus!" Toreth said. "Shut up!" "Sorry." Warrick breathed harshly, panting. After a few moments, he nodded. "I'm all right." "Good. If hotel security kick the door in, you can explain to them that you do this for fun." Warrick laughed weakly. "Carry on." He'd misjudged it, or the joint was weaker than it looked, because the bar was free. With one hand Toreth eased the splintered end away from the leg; with the other he slid the cuffs along it, taking it as slowly as he could. Warrick's heavy breathing modulated into whimpers of pain every so often, but he didn't scream again. "Right, you're free." Warrick stood up, and immediately headed for the bed. Toreth caught his shoulder. "Don't. Sit down on that and your hands'll end up pressed into the mattress. And if you lie down, you'll regret it when you have to stand up again." Toreth grabbed the second chair in the room, and helped Warrick into it, sitting him sideways to keep his wrists away from the back. He couldn't help thinking that Warrick looked pretty fucking good, even or maybe especially pale and sweating and biting his lip hard. Toreth crouched down beside him. "Okay?" "No. I don't think anything has ever hurt so much in my life." "Yeah, most people are surprised by how bad it is, even with small bones." "And you know that because . . . ?" Warrick asked with a glimmer of his usual iciness. Sometimes, the 'no mention of I&I' rule was a pain in the neck. Toreth shrugged. "You know how. Pull yourself together, and then we'll get you dressed and over to Casualty." Where there would be a lot of tricky explaining to do, if he was unlucky and anyone started

asking questions. "I'm going to need a few minutes, I think." Warrick shook his head. "And I thought I liked pain." "You do. More than you think, in fact." An idea occurred a challenge, rather. He loved a challenge. He reached up and smoothed Warrick's damp fringe back away from his face. "Actually, I bet you could get off on this, with enough build-up." Curiosity was better than painkillers where Warrick was concerned. "Do you really think so?" "Yeah. Or at least, possibly. Much more difficult starting from this point of course." Toreth gave it a few more seconds' thought, then said, "Close your eyes." "What? Why?" "Because I'm going to make you come, and it'll never work if you've got your eyes open." "Come?" Warrick snorted. "Rubbish." "Want to bet? Loser pays for dinner at the place of the winner's choice?" An extremely sceptical look, then Warrick closed his eyes. "Very well." Toreth stood up and moved round behind the chair. He closed his eyes briefly, pulling up a game voice, then said, "I know I'm going to win, because I know you've thought about this kind of thing before, plenty of times." "I don't " "Shut up. I wasn't asking a fucking question, I was telling you. Don't think I don't know what you get off on. Don't think I don't know why it matters that it's me. I know what you fantasise about. This is just games, it's not what you dream about, is it? How does it start?" Silence, but Warrick's breathing was already easier, and faster. "All right, I'll guess." He crouched down again. "I ignore the safe word, don't I?" Quick intake of breath, cut short, and Toreth smiled. "I told you I knew." It had been a guess, but a likely one. "I hurt you, I go too far, and then I ignore the safe word. You tell me to stop, and then you beg me, and it does no fucking good, does it, because the only reason I ever stop is because I want to. If I didn't, there's not a fucking thing you could do about it. Especially not now. Right now, you're mine, and you're exactly how I wanted you." He ran his palm gently down his unbroken arm, but the reflexive jerk jolted Warrick's wrists and he swore softly. Toreth leaned closer, mouth nearer Warrick's ear. "So, when you're lying there on your own, thinking about begging for your life while I rape you, are you already tied up, or do you get to fight back? Tell me." No response, so he moved his hand to the injured arm, resting it lightly on Warrick's upper arm. "Tell me." "It depends." Warrick's voice was deliciously controlled. "If I want to make it last, then forcing me into the cuffs, or . . . whatever, is part of the fantasy." Pity the control didn't reach everywhere. "You're getting hard already. I'm going to win my bet." He shifted round, sliding his hand down Warrick's chest, hair slick with cooling sweat. "Just from hearing about it. That's nothing." Warrick whimpered as Toreth's fingers closed round his cock. The impromptu scene meant that he had nothing worked out, and under the circumstances,

improvisation was best kept limited. Fucking Warrick, while incredibly tempting, offered too many ways of things going wrong. Still, no reason not to make use of the idea. "I can do whatever the hell I want to you, and you can't stop me. Bend you over that chair, have you kneeling on the floor. Make you beg for it. You can't fight me, not like this. Not that you ever could. I'm stronger than you, I'm trained what could you do? Scream?" Warrick moaned, and Toreth lengthened his strokes. He was hard himself now, although not any harder than Warrick. Much too easy. "I could really give you something to scream about, if you like. If I like. I could put you on your back on the bed and fuck you, lying on your wrists. And keep you quiet while I do it there's a gag in the bag. Add some cloth, just to make sure, because I don't care if you fucking choke. If you pass out, I'll just bring you round . . ." Warrick was sweating again, pale except for the flush of arousal in his lips and spreading over his chest. Every involuntary twitch, every shiver, jolted his wrist. They needed to finish soon, or it would aggravate the fracture too badly. Luckily, it wouldn't take much longer. Toreth leaned down, licking salty skin, tongue tracing over a nipple, and Warrick gasped. "Clench your fists," Toreth whispered. "I can't." "Don't argue. Do it." "I " Warrick's eyes flew open, lashes glistening. "Ah, fuck. Fuck." A glance down showed Toreth his instruction was being obeyed. He began to move his hand faster, fisting tighter around Warrick's cock. He twisted his other hand into Warrick's hair, pulling backwards. "More. You can do better than that." "I can't." His head went back, tears wetting his face. "Please . . . stop. Enough." "Do it." No threat, no compulsion required. The muscles in Warrick's arms tensed, and he nearly screamed, choking the noise back. God, how tempting to drag him off the chair and fuck him. However, there were limits to how much pain could still be erotic, and they were on the edge of it now. "Please," Warrick gasped. "Stop. I can't " "If you relax, I'll break your other wrist," Toreth breathed. "No! Please, I Christ. Ah, Christ." Pain modulating into ecstasy as his shoulders went back and he jerked up out of the chair. Toreth released his hair, steadying him with an arm across his shoulders. Another scream and Warrick came hard, shuddering against him, sobbing for breath. Toreth sat back on his heels, giving Warrick a few minutes to recover. And it took minutes, shivers running through him occasionally as he leaned sideways against the back of the chair. Still looking good, Toreth thought. Incredibly fucking good, in fact. Eventually, when he judged there might be a chance of an answer, Toreth asked, "Well?" "God." Warrick's head hung forward, his breathing heavy. "Oh, God, that hurts. Sometimes . . . that's so wrong. That shouldn't happen. I knew how much it hurt and it still . . . so much. Crossed wiring, somewhere." He breathed out slowly. "You were right. I didn't think I could but . . . God.

Crossed wiring." "Good?" "Unbelievable." Warrick looked up, lashes still wet with tears. "Amazing." "Better than the SMS?" "A great deal." Toreth laughed. "You have no idea how hard I am. I should make you get down on your knees and suck me." Warrick shook his head. "Plastic duck." A brief smile flickered, composure returning. "Sorry. Selfish, I know, but this really is spectacularly painful, now I'm in my right mind again. I think a hospital is an excellent idea." The easy confidence that, previous scene notwithstanding, Toreth would respect the safe word, made him smile. "I can wait. It'll pass the time at the hospital, once they've given you something to take the edge off." ~~~ As they walked through the main hospital doors, Warrick said, "Pull my jacket up, would you?" The best they'd been able to manage for Warrick was dressed from the waist down, and a jacket over his shoulders. At least that hid the cuffs they'd garnered enough stares on the way through the hotel as it was. "Want me to sort things out?" Toreth offered. "It's quite all right. I'll talk to them." Toreth took a seat in the well-appointed waiting area as Warrick made his way over to the reception desk. It would, on reflection, look better if Warrick did the talking. Now that they were here, the worries he'd had earlier were back. Justice would love this. An I&I senior, doing something both technically illegal and pruriently entertaining, and doing it with stolen I&I property. No chance of them letting that one go past. Fucking Warrick was great fun, but it wasn't worth screwing up his career or worse. Too late now to do anything other than hope Warrick could sweet-talk the staff. The positive side was that this was a corporate hospital, and they had to be experienced at keeping things quiet for their clients. Warrick wouldn't want this information out and about any more than Toreth did. "Mr Toth?" It took him a moment to respond to the name. Then he looked up to find a uniformed young man. "Yeah?" "This way, please." They were escorted to a small, private room no wards or thin curtains here, naturally. The escort settled Warrick onto a chair, while Toreth leaned against the wall and inspected the decor. Considerably better furnished than any hospital he'd ever been treated in. "What does this place cost a night?" he asked when they were alone again. Warrick shrugged, then paled. "Mm. No idea. But they recognise the SimTech insurers, so that's good enough for me." He sighed. "This will do my premiums no good at all. Although I don't recall a box to select for dangerous sexual practises, so they can't complain about incomplete disclosure."

Time to mention the potential problems, since there was no reason for Warrick to spontaneously develop a concern for Toreth's promotion prospects. "Warrick, when they ask you about " The door opened. One reason Toreth didn't like hospitals was that a couple of years ago he'd begun to notice how young some of the doctors had become. It disconcerted him to be dealt with by someone younger than himself, even though most doctors were little more than skilled technicians following the dictates of the expert systems. The woman who entered looked to Toreth barely old enough to have completed a school first-aid course. Not a good start. He'd been hoping for someone old and world-weary enough not to want the hassle and form-filling generated by reporting an assault to Justice. Maybe she wouldn't be too keen. From her frosty expression, he was shit out of luck. Her first words were, "Excuse us, please." Toreth considered arguing, but in the end he simply nodded and left the room. The door closed firmly behind him. He lingered outside for a while, listening and not bothering to hide it, but all he could make out was a low murmur of voices. After a few minutes, he heard a yelp of pain. Well, they'd obviously got past the level one interrogation phase and on to the examination. Whether that was good or not, he couldn't tell. As a distraction, Toreth went in search of something to drink. The restaurant made him wonder briefly if he'd wandered out of the hospital and into a leisure complex. The food smelled good enough that he was nearly tempted into buying a meal, until he saw the prices. Clearly not subsidised by the per diem charges. He examined the room. Rich patients and rich visitors, but no staff eating in here no doubt they had a less salubrious place somewhere else. A few minute's searching found it. A sign on the door barred entry to non-employees of the hospital, but, of course, with the right attitude of confidence, no one questioned him. He'd planned to have dinner with Warrick after the fuck, and he was ravenous, so he bought a plate of chicken and bacon sandwiches to go with his coffee. The food in here was a step up from the I&I canteen. As he ate, he wondered how long would it take them to cut through the cuffs, assuming that they couldn't find a way of forcing the lock. Depended on whether they had the appropriate kit to hand. He couldn't imagine that corporate hospitals had to deal with many pairs of jammed long-term restraint cuffs. The doctor had obviously evicted him so that she could quiz Warrick over exactly how he'd ended up there. Toreth was torn between hoping that Warrick would come up with some convincing lie (although what that might be, he had no idea) and that he'd simply tell the truth and make it sound very consensual. After that, it all depended on her attitude. Nice of Warrick to remember Marcus Toth, but if the woman decided to involve Justice, a false name would provide little protection. Ah, well . . . if he was about to be arrested, he might as well enjoy himself while he could. There was time for another coffee, anyway. When he returned to his half-eaten dinner, he found a woman sitting at the table. As he slowed down by the table, she looked at the plate, looked at him, and said, "I'm sorry I thought whoever was here was finished." Toreth gave her a basic three-second appraisal. She scored well on the fuckability scale: nice height, nice weight, with short, wavy brunette hair and a relaxed, friendly openness to her voice. Her face was nothing special, but that was more than compensated for by the pleasantly curved body

beneath the blue technician's uniform. He smiled. "Please, don't move." He sat down quickly, not giving her a chance to retreat, although she didn't look like the bolting type. "I'd like the company." While he poured milk into his coffee, she studied him, not hiding the scrutiny. "I don't recognise you," she said when he looked up. "It's a big hospital." "Where do you work?" He thought about spinning it out, but in the end he couldn't be bothered. "Not here, actually the Department of Medicine. My name's Marcus Toth." "Carri Fenwick. Why are you in here, then?" He lifted his cup. "I couldn't afford a drink in the patients' place." She paused, smile hovering on her lips, then said, "No, I meant in the hospital." "I was fucking a guy, and I broke his wrist." Her eyes widened, and he shook his head. "It was an accident. He fell off a chair. Actually, the chair fell over, and he was handcuffed to it. Still an accident, though." "Oh." Her shoulders relaxed. "How embarrassing!" He grinned, trying to project honesty and casual friendliness. "Not for me." "I suppose not. Is he all right? Apart from the wrist?" "As far as I know, yeah." A short silence before she said, "You don't seem very upset about it." He shrugged. "We're not serious it's just sex. Besides, accidents happen, especially if you like the kind of thing he gets off on." "So what do you get off on? Breaking wrists?" He considered his response while he drank some coffee. "Not really. I top for him, and with other people I usually just fuck. Male or female." She raised an eyebrow. "Flexible." "Oh, yeah. Very flexible." "Was he still in the chair when you brought him in?" "No, luckily. But I bet you've seen a lot more entertaining than that, working here." She smiled impishly, which improved her face no end. "Oh, you should hear some of the stories." He took a small bite of the sandwich and leaned his elbows on the table. "Go on." "I shouldn't really, but . . . okay. Last year we had a couple in. They had some kind of game going him dressed as some kind of superhero, I forget who and she was tied to the bed." Toreth raised his eyebrows, and she grinned again. "I know you'd think he'd be dressed as a villain, but there you go. Anyway, he'd jumped from the top of the wardrobe onto the bed. He slipped as he jumped, horrible crunching noise when he landed on her this is what they said and he cracked a couple of her ribs and did something to his back. He'd had a muscle spasm, but he thought he'd broken it. They couldn't move, so they just lay there until his wife came home." Toreth laughed. "Really? What did she do?" "Called the medics. I'd have left 'em there, myself."

"Heartless woman. Go on tell me another one." He listened with half an ear, commenting when necessary, making plans for the rest of the evening, assessing as she moved from friendly to interested. He definitely wouldn't mind something to relieve the tension from the interrupted fuck. Eventually, she finished her last story and sat back. He took his cue. "Listen, it's been great, but I've got to go. He'll be wondering where the fuck I got to." And I need those bloody cuffs back. She sipped her tea. "Do you want my number?" "Sure. Or " He paused, considering, finally deciding that Warrick wouldn't be in the mood for anything more tonight. "What time do you finish?" Carri raised her eyebrows, but all she said was, "Nine." "Know any good bars near here?" "A few." She was smiling now. "But I'll have to go home and change first. Have a shower." "Suits me. I'll wait for you in the main entrance, shall I?" She hesitated a moment, then nodded. ~~~ When he reached Warrick's room, the door was still closed, so he took a seat outside. No point barging in and upsetting the medics. Eventually, a technician carrying a scanner case came out of Warrick's room and walked down the corridor, without giving Toreth a second glance. A few minutes later, the doctor emerged, stopping when she saw him. "He'd like you to go back in." Her manner, although still cool, seemed slightly friendlier, which Toreth took as a good sign. The continued non-appearance of Justice added to his optimism. Warrick was sitting up on the bed, arm encased in a protective plastic sheath and held across his chest in a sling. Judging by his colour and the set of his shoulders, pain relief had been administered a while ago. Toreth looked round the room shit. No cuffs. "Looking for these?" Warrick lifted his good hand, revealing the mangled cuffs concealed in a fold in the sheets. "I slipped them under there while everyone was busy. I thought you might like them back, bearing in mind their provenance." Genius. "Too fucking right." Toreth examined the cuffs completely ruined, with both bands cut in half. "What did you tell them?" "The truth, minus the bet." Warrick adjusted the sling slightly. "Awkward in places, but it seemed by far the easiest, and she was sympathetic enough." "She didn't mention Justice?" "Once or twice." His mouth twitched. "And an abuse counsellor. And after that, a psychologist." "Fuck. Listen, if they " "Don't worry. Persistent cheerfulness on my part seemed to put her off the idea. Ideas. She did mention that she wouldn't like to see me back in here, and I promised to be more careful in future." "Thank fuck."

"Easy for you to say. I'm going to have a fascinating entry in my medical file." Toreth almost said, until you get home and fix it. However, Warrick's overfamiliarity with Administration systems was almost as forbidden a topic as interrogation. He glanced at his watch five to nine. "Right, I'll be off," he said. "I've got a date." Warrick's eyebrows shot up. "A date?" "Yeah. Met her while I was sneaking a coffee in the staff canteen." "Good God." Warrick's half-smile mask was firmly in place. "Is there anywhere you can't find an opportunity for casual sex?" He didn't sound at all happy. Toreth lingered, knowing that when he walked out Carri would be waiting for him. It was quite irrationally enjoyable."Did you want to carry on tonight, then?" "Not really. But " Warrick shook his head, then leaned back. "Never mind. Off you go." "Do you want to cancel next week?" Warrick considered, looking down at his hand. "No, I don't think so," he said eventually. "I'll call you if I don't feel up to it, but it's not a bad break " He grimaced. "Allegedly, anyway, and it should be a lot better by then." "Good." He dropped the cuffs into his pocket. "Because, in case you'd forgotten, you owe me a fucking expensive dinner and a blowjob."

Friday
Friday, late afternoon. Warrick had an end-of-the-week feeling, something relatively new. Since the foundation of the corporation, weekends had been simply the days when it was quieter at SimTech and he could get some work done without a constant stream of employees, suppliers and investors eating into his attention. Also the days when he spent a little time with friends or family, although sometimes he found himself resenting even that much distraction from work. In essence, the weekends themselves hadn't changed that much. The difference was Friday evenings. His evenings with Toreth. Not every Friday, but regularly enough that he'd begun to find himself distracted on Friday afternoons. At first it had annoyed him, and he'd tried to force himself to concentrate. In the end the effort hadn't seemed justified by the benefits, and he'd given up. Instead he simply scheduled things that required less attention. Winding down, preparing for the evening. Another element of ritual that, he had to admit, added to the experience. Friday wasn't the only day. Occasionally one of them would set up an extra meeting. A couple of times a month they'd also do something in the sim, either a genuine trial, or his own, unofficial experiments into translating his real-world experiences with Toreth into the virtual realm. Unsuccessful, so far, although the failures had been very enjoyable. It was something that the sim couldn't do, and he even knew what was missing. Fear. The touch of fear he sometimes felt with Toreth, the knowledge of what he was: dangerous, ultimately uncontrollable and addictively good at fucking. At giving Warrick what he needed. A slightly unhealthy attraction, possibly, but the danger was undeniably and desperately arousing. There had been no call from Toreth today to announce that he was too busy, or simply to say he wasn't coming, without any reason supplied. That didn't mean it was definitely on. Three or four times over the last seven months he'd arrived at the hotel, waited for an hour or so and then gone home, annoyed and unfulfilled. Toreth would call, or he'd call Toreth, and they'd set up another meeting. No apologies, no explanations. Thinking about it, he checked the place and time again, just to make sure a new hotel, with dinner beforehand this time. Not long now. A few hours, time slipping away, seeming to pass more slowly with every minute until it would be almost a shock when the bedroom door closed behind them and the game started in earnest. What would it be tonight? Warrick glanced at his watch and smiled. Daydreaming time away, and at SimTech, too, something he wouldn't have believed possible this time last year. Not quite the end of the working day yet, though. He had another meeting, which ought to have started fifteen minutes ago. Cele was late, which didn't surprise Warrick at all. She shared Toreth's erratic timekeeping, although Cele's applied as much to work as to social appointments. At least this time she'd called SimTech to say she'd been held up at the studio. While he waited for her, he considered what he was going to say to her. Business-wise, he had everything planned out. It was the personal side that filled

him, if not with dread, then with a certain degree of apprehension. She had always been his sister's friend first, and his second. But when Dillian had left for Mars, she'd made him promise to keep in touch with Cele primarily, he suspected, so that Cele could keep an eye on him. In the months before she left, Dilly had tried to persuade him to go on a string of dates with acquaintances of hers, all of which he'd declined. The last thing she'd said to him at the 'port was, "Don't spend all your time in the sim, will you?" Well, now he certainly wasn't spending all his time in the sim, which ought to make her happy. On the other hand, he'd hardly mentioned Toreth in all the times he'd spoken to Dilly over the last months. Partly it was the investigation and Marian. Dilly had been contacted by I&I and questioned (although not, he thought, by Toreth in person), and so he'd had to tell her something about it. Not, of course, about how things had ended. He didn't want to get into a conversation about Toreth that would lead too close to dangerous topics. In addition, there was the difficulty of knowing what to say about him. A weekly or biweekly dinner and fuck (or often plain fuck) wasn't what Dillian would consider a relationship, and in truth Warrick agreed. Just sex, however good, didn't qualify, whatever Marian had thought. While he found it very satisfactory, he doubted Dilly would understand. It would be easier to explain it in person than over a time-delayed comm link. As for what they did, that was none of Dillian's business, or anyone else's, come to that. However, too-obvious bruises had already caused comment and necessitated some explanations to the SimTech staff medic, for one, and to one of his admins. Difficult conversations, but he understood their concern. The broken wrist three months ago had been the most awkward incident. In the end, he'd frankly lied and attributed it to a slip in the kitchen. Far more palatable than handcuffs and an accidentally tipped-over chair. The bruises had grown worse, lately, until he'd had to ask Toreth to concentrate his attentions on less visible areas. Toreth had agreed, and complied, mostly. Sometimes they both became too caught up in the game to remember. A case of overexuberance last week was the cause of the current fading marks on his lips and cheekbone. Cele was bound to notice them. She had an artist's eye for detail that picked up on everything. She would worry, as the other people had worried and he'd tried to reassure them that there was no need. Toreth would stop, if asked. His trustworthiness in this area, if in few others, was the reason the bruises were there in the first place. Trust made it work. When things went well, when he felt his own control starting to slip away, he trusted Toreth to know how far to take things and when to stop. Danger and trust. A paradox. There had been plenty of mistakes and misunderstandings, but sex was the one thing Toreth was always happy to talk about. Then, with the rules more clearly defined, the next time would be better. That there had been so many next times surprised him a little. He'd never imagined that Toreth's interest would last this long. Not that he was complaining in the least, but he'd spent so long braced for the day when Toreth would simply stop calling that the expectation had become ingrained. It was one more reason, beyond the nature of the relationship, that he didn't mention Toreth to other people. The comm broke the spell, reception calling up to say that Cele had arrived, so he told them that he'd be down to collect her. When the lift door opened, he spotted her at once. The sun caught her polished silver jewellery and picked out the reddish highlights in her brown hair as she leaned over the reception desk, talking

to Lillias Brinton. "Cele!" She looked round. "There you are!" She turned back briefly, patted Lillias on the shoulder, picked up a large folder from the desk, and crossed over to him with her usual quick, confident walk. They stepped into the lift, accompanied by a couple of SimTech staff returning from a very late lunch, deep in technical conversation. Warrick made a mental note of their names so that he could speak to them later about commercial confidentiality. He disliked having to circumscribe the SimTech staff's days, but they had a canteen in the building for people who had to talk about work while they ate. He doubted the discussion had started the moment the two stepped into the lift, or even into the reception area, which was still classified as public for corporate espionage purposes. As the lift rose, Warrick caught the scent Cele was wearing something musky. "Nice perfume," he said. "I should hope so. You gave it to me for New Year." She laughed at his expression. "Or did you?" Caught out, he had to smile. "All right, I confess. I was too busy to buy the presents before I got there. I did tell Mother to buy perfume; I just left the details up to her." "I should've guessed Kate. Much more her taste than yours." It was then, as she looked at him, that he saw her smile lock in place and her eyes narrow. No more was said until they reached his office. When the door closed, she said, "Come over by the window." The couple of people who'd asked already had taken a while to build up to it, but he hadn't expected anything indirect from Cele. He stood in the sunlight while she examined his face, turning it from side to side with impersonal fingers. He could smell oil paint and turps on her hands. "Where'd you get the bruises, Keir?" she asked. "From a man called Toreth, in an entirely consensual and mutually satisfactory fashion." Cele looked at his cheek for a moment longer, and then released him. "You've kept that quiet." One day he'd find something that would actually disconcert her. "I'm full of surprises." "How long's it been going on?" "A few months." She pulled a chair round the desk and sat down. "So, what's he like?" Warrick joined her, a little reluctantly. It was, he realised, the first time he'd talked about Toreth in detail to anyone. "Well . . . tall. Short blond hair. Blue eyes. Attractive." Feeling the description was rather too physical, he added, "Intelligent." Personality disordered. "Well endowed?" she asked cheerfully. "Good in bed? Go on skip to the important stuff." Somehow he managed to keep his expression deadpan. "I have no complaints." "No, you don't look like you do." Another careful examination. "In fact, I will admit you're looking good. Capturing the essential happy glow of the well-fucked individual, as one of my tutors used to say. Anyway, carry on. Is he fit?" "He certainly spends a lot of time in the gym." Cele raised her eyes. "Good Lord, it's like pulling teeth. Come on details, details."

Physique was always the part that interested her most. "Well . . . broad shoulders, slim waist, long legs. Looks like a swimmer he does swim, I think. Not overly muscular, though, not like a bodybuilder. Well-proportioned is probably the best way to describe him. Very good skin." Cele had a distant expression, as though there were an incomplete painting of Toreth hanging in mid-air and she was sketching in details as he gave them. "Thighs? Calves? Backside?" she asked. Now Warrick had an image of his own. "Mm. Definitely all of those." She laughed. "Sounds fabulous. Do you think he'd let me draw him? Or sculpt him, maybe. I'm looking for a really buff model at the moment." Would Toreth like to have an attractive woman paying attention to his body? Not a question that required much consideration. Or had it been an indirect way to request a meeting? "I don't know. One thing he doesn't have is a long attention span." For some things, anyway. "Oh, well. Right so he's good-looking, fit, smart, he's a great lay . . . and he hits you?" Inevitable that they'd get back to that. "Only on request." "Really?" Before he could answer, she lifted her hands, palms towards him. "I know, I know. But " She held up a finger. "Firstly, I promised Dilly that I'd look after you, even though of course you don't need it, and I only said it so she'd go off to Mars and not spend all her time there fretting over her big brother, screw up her job, and make some terrible engineering mistake ultimately resulting in the grisly deaths of thousands. And secondly " Another finger. "Yes?" She folded her hands in her lap and shrugged. "We lonely singles need to look out for each other." "I didn't know you were lonely." "Nope, sorry. We're not changing the subject." Now her tone was serious. "Go on, tell me once more. Humour me." He looked her directly in the eyes. "It's absolutely, one hundred percent, totally and in all ways consensual. He does what I want, no more." She smiled. "And no less?" "Definitely no less." "Good." She brushed off her hands. "Job done. Okay, I'm a happy camper now. So, when do I get to meet this kinky stud?" "You don't. The social element of the arrangement stretches to pre-sex dinners, and that's all." Cele pouted, which was always amusing but not so much so that he'd change his mind about keeping Toreth away from his real life. "It's not possible," he said firmly. "If you really want to know more, ask Asher. She met him during the investigation." "Investigation?" "Yes. He's " "Jesus!" Her eyes widened. "I thought the name sounded familiar, and then I thought it couldn't he's the para-investigator?" Only a few minutes ago he'd wondered what would surprise her, and now he knew. "That's him."

Now she didn't look so happy. "Ash told me all about him already. She said he had an aura." "Aura?" "Like he wasn't using extreme violence right that second, but the situation could easily change the moment you pissed him off." "Mm." Not at all a bad description. "That sounds a bit poetic for Asher." "I got the feeling he made an impression. She told me what happened to the psychologist as well." No, she didn't. "Marian died in custody." "You mean they killed her." Tactful, for Cele. He'd half expected 'your kinky stud killed her'. "No." Warrick managed to keep his voice level. "It was unfortunate, but it was an accident. An unforeseeable accident. We had a report from I&I." "An accident." After a couple of seconds, she nodded. "Well . . . accidents happen, I suppose." "Yes. They do." The memory of that morning at I&I, of watching Marian die, left a sour taste in his mouth. "So, does Ash know you're seeing him?" "I'm not seeing him. I told you that already." He couldn't keep the irritation out of his voice. "It's purely sexual, so there's no reason to tell her anything. Or anyone else. It's not as if anyone's ever going to meet him." Except, of course, they had here, at SimTech, when Toreth had come to use the sim. Even though the private sessions had been out of official hours, there was no way to keep them secret. For one thing, it would be breaking the rules he required others to follow. He wondered now how many people knew, or had guessed, and what they were saying about it. "So, does Ash know?" Cele asked again. "Probably. I didn't send her a memo, but I don't smuggle him in here under a blanket, either. However, Asher knows when to mind her own business." Cele was, predictably, utterly unabashed. "You're beginning to sound awfully defensive about this. Sure you want to stick to 'purely sexual'?" "Yes. Absolutely." "Fair enough. Have you told Dilly?" No point hedging around it. "No." "She's back soon." "In a fortnight, yes. I'll tell her about it when I see her. I'd rather you didn't mention it if you speak to her before then." She nodded slowly. "Are you going to tell her everything?" "I don't really see that it's any of your business." Her eyes narrowed. "Don't give me that shit. I've known you too long." "Very well. What I do with Toreth " he tapped the fading bruise, " is something apart from the rest of my life. I don't want you, or Dilly, or anyone, to get involved with it. Dilly doesn't need to know, and I don't want you to tell her. Clear enough?"

"Crystal, but I don't like it." "I'm not expecting you to. " Time to play his best card. "I'm just asking you, as a friend, not to tell her that one thing." Cele hesitated, and then said, "She'll see the bruises." "There won't be any by then." She shrugged. "Okay. I won't mention it." "Thanks." "But " She held her finger up again a warning this time. "If she notices anything herself and she asks me about it, I'm not going to lie for you. Not to Dilly." No more than he'd expected. "And I wouldn't want you to. Would you like some coffee?" When she nodded, jewellery ringing musically, he rose and crossed to the coffee machine. "Biscuits?" he offered. "Homemade. There's ginger or shortbread." "I'd love some. Both kinds. Hey, does this mean you're baking again?" He frowned at her over his shoulder. "Baking again?" "Yeah. I mean . . ." Her expression turned speculative. "You haven't done much baking in years. Since Mel left, in fact." He looked away. "I cook all the time." "Not to the extent of leaving tins of biscuits scattered around the place. I had to practically get on my knees and beg for the last lot of gingerbread." True, he supposed. "What on Earth does that have to do with anything?" "Nothing, nothing. Ignore me. Just thinking out loud." Obviously not true, but he didn't feel like pursuing it. He picked up the jug of coffee. "So, to change the topic, how's your love life? Did you genuinely mean you were a lonely single?" She waved her hand. "I exaggerated. Single, but not lonely. I've put my second lesbian phase on hold and I'm having a celibate year. Avoiding distractions." It was only when Cele exclaimed, "Whoa!" and pointed that he realised the coffee had overflowed into the saucer while he stared at her. Cele laughed. "Lord, it's nice to know what your friends think of you." He poured the coffee carefully back into the jug and tapped the saucer on the edge. "It doesn't, ah, seem quite like you, that's all." "Well, after the first three months I thought I'd make a virtue out of necessity. But really I haven't got time to look, never mind to get down and do the dirty." "You should make time. It's worth it." She shook her head, smiling, and took the offered cup. "Listen to you. The man who leaves work only to sleep and shower." "Not any more." Warrick checked his watch again. "I'm seeing him tonight, in fact, so . . . " "Hey, far be it from me to get in the way of the kink-a-thon." Cele set down the cup and opened her folder, bringing out a stack of large sheets of creamy paper. "Did you get the copies? I brought the originals anyway. I always think paper looks so much better than screens." "Luddite."

She grinned, unrepentant. "Do you want some cheap, autogenerated computer pretties, or do you want Great Art?" While she spread the sim room designs out on his desk, he stared into his cup, thinking about the coming evening. A lover he wanted to keep away from everyone he knew. A man who smiled while he hit him. A murderer. What the hell am I doing with him? Strangely, Marian's death was part of the answer, an unbreakable link between them, something that he could never walk away from. Refusing to see Toreth wouldn't bring Marian back to life, or undo the part Warrick had played in her death. Better to keep Toreth an enclosed, secret part of his life, as segregated as he could make it. Not as segregated as it had been, though. One more person who knew now a friend, not a colleague and Dillian was returning soon. The only certain way to stop this slow blurring of the line was to tell Toreth it was over, and that was simply unthinkable. It was too good to give up. He'd find a way to handle it, and to keep things in their proper places. Then he turned his attention back to work.

Pancakes
Toreth found Warrick waiting in one of the side booths. He'd already bought them both drinks, and Toreth knocked back a third of his before he sat down, or even said hello. Warrick looked at him enquiringly. "I've had the most fucking awful day," Toreth said with feeling. He slid onto the bench opposite Warrick and leaned back against the smooth wood of the booth, closing his eyes. "From the second I arrived it was one bloody thing after another. Sara went home sick and she managed to double-book me a room and lose half my files before she left. And, if you can believe it, Chevril offloaded two case's worth of prisoners onto me, as if I didn't have enough to do with the investigation. Tillotson is a complete fucking idiot. And they were both real bastards, impossible interrogation requests from Justice, no leeway at all for results. And I have to go back in tomorrow morning to finish the fucking job. Fucking Justice interrogations, on a Saturday! Sometimes I think . . ." A certain icy quality in the silence coming across the table finally pierced through his monologue and induced him to open his eyes. Warrick regarded him with an expression that might charitably be described as unsympathetic. "I'm not interested," he said bluntly. Toreth sat up, belatedly remembering where he was. "I was only " "You were talking about your job. Specifically, about interrogation. I don't want to hear about it." Warrick took a small sip of his drink and then set the glass carefully in the centre of the coaster. "You know I don't want to hear about it. I've told you that before. Several times. And yet you keep doing it." He looked up. "Why?" "I . . ." Toreth tried to think of an answer which wouldn't sound stupid, then gave up. He shrugged. "I forgot." "Mm." Warrick stood up, and picked up his jacket without putting it on. "My sister is arriving back from Mars tomorrow. I'll be busy for the next few days, so don't bother to call." And then he walked out. Toreth stared after him, too taken aback to react. He'd had the whole evening planned out, and the sudden wrench off course threw him utterly. When the fuck had Warrick started being the one who could walk out? By the time he'd started to stand, Warrick had pushed open the bar door and left without a backwards glance. So much for a nice stress-relieving evening's fucking, the prospect of which had been all that had kept him going through the afternoon's interrogation. At least Warrick hadn't finished his drink before he left. Toreth pulled it across the table and drank it. Then he leaned on one arm, watching the ice melting against the side of the glass. For a couple of minutes he tried to be angry, but he was too tired and generically pissed off to focus his resentment on Warrick. It was the perfect fucking end to his day. Toreth finished his own drink and thought about going home. But, quite frankly, he couldn't see the point. Even looking for another fuck seemed like too much effort. So he had another drink, and then another, and so on until the very last one just before the bar closed, when he was surprised to

discover that the tab was larger than it usually was when he was drinking in company. And that he was pissed. Very pissed. Very, very pissed, in fact. Out in the street, he leaned against a post and waved at passing taxis, and tried to recall the last time he'd drunk so much. He couldn't remember. Actually, he could barely remember his own address. Funnily enough, he found he could remember Warrick's easily, even though he'd never been there. He'd read it in his security file. And, of course, it would be in the old investigation files. So it wouldn't matter if he turned up uninvited. Not that he was going to. Warrick wouldn't want to see him. They'd had an argument, sort of, he thought, although the exact details lay drowned in whiskey. It had definitely been Warrick's fault, anyway. And Warrick had no right to walk out, either. No right at all. When a taxi finally stopped, Toreth wasn't quite sure whose address he gave. Luckily, or perhaps not, the taxi was new and the voice-recognition well up to the task of deciphering slurred directions, so he only had to give the address once. Since he didn't recognise the building it stopped at, he assumed it must be Warrick's. Quite a nice building, in what looked like a nice bit of the city. Nice. The first problem was that the building was large, and consequently had a large number of flats. Through the reinforced glass door, he could see a guard watching him, but he didn't feel like trying to explain what he wanted. There was a comm screen on the outside, though. After a couple of minutes trying to focus, he entered what he hoped was the number of Warrick's flat and pressed the button. No answer. He tried again. Hadn't Warrick said something about going away somewhere? Toreth leaned against the wall above the screen, resting his head on his forearm. Then he put his finger back on the button and held it down while he tried to remember what Warrick had said. Yes. He was going to see his sister. Oh, fuck. The cool night air had chased some of the alcohol from his mind, but his body was as pissed as it had been when he left the bar. More pissed, indeed, because the drink he'd had before he left would be filtering into his bloodstream faster than the earlier drinks were filtering out. Sober, Toreth was good at calculating drug clearance rates. In the state he was in now he was still trying to remember how many milligrams of alcohol the liver could process per whatever when the comm screen flickered into life. Toreth realised he still had his finger on the button, and released it. Luckily, he could see the screen from where he was. Letting go of the wall suddenly felt like a very bad idea. The screen showed nothing other than the number of the flat he had been buzzing for the last however long it was, but he couldn't mistake the voice over the speaker for anyone else. "What the hell are you doing here?" He couldn't see Warrick, but clearly Warrick could see him. Which sounded very metaphorical. Or something. "I " His tongue felt as though someone had injected an extravagant amount of local anaesthetic into it. "I jus' wanted to say, you don't have any right . . ." "Oh, for God's sake." There was a long pause. "Stay there. I'll be down." Toreth nodded mutely, then rolled round so that his back was against the wall. The full moon above swam in and out of focus. He had bed-spin, and he wasn't even in bed. Very slowly, he slid down the wall. Oh. Fuck.

~~~ By the time Warrick opened the door, Toreth had managed to rally slightly. He looked round, which wasn't so bad if he did it slowly, and smiled. Warrick stood in the doorway, completely and carefully dressed. He'd even taken the time to brush his hair, Toreth noted absently. Even so, he looked less than thrilled to see Toreth. "Since the odds are very heavily against my being able to carry you upstairs, you'd better stand up," he said icily. Toreth eventually managed to struggle to his feet as Warrick watched impassively. Once they were inside, he deigned to lend aid to the extent of an arm around Toreth's waist, waving the guard away when he approached. The silence as they went up in the lift was deafening, and continued until they reached the flat. After they went inside, Warrick propped him carefully against the wall while he closed and locked the door. Then he took hold of Toreth again and pointed down the other end of the hall. "What?" "The toilet is over there." "I don't " "Toreth, I have unpasteurised curd cheese in my fridge which is less green than you. If you throw up on my floor, you are going back out of that door. Now, move." He nearly began a protest, but whether it was the power of suggestion, or the change from the cold outside to the warm flat, or simply the night catching up with him, Toreth realised Warrick was right. He made a grab for Warrick's shoulder and missed. Warrick caught him before he fell, muttering something Toreth didn't catch, but which sounded uncomplimentary. "I think I'm " Toreth put his hand hastily over his mouth and swallowed heavily. "Oh, hell!" They made it the length of the hall just in time. Warrick stood around for a few minutes, making doubtless witty and biting comments which Toreth was too busy being miserably sick to appreciate. Then he left him to it. By the time his stomach had convinced itself there was absolutely nothing left to get rid of, embarrassment had begun to steal over him. He couldn't even remember why he'd thought it might be a good idea to come here. He leaned on the toilet wall for a while, trying to decide whether he was up to creeping out of the flat and finding a taxi. In the end he concluded that if he did he would probably end up spending the night face down in the street. Fine if you were eighteen. Not so good at . . . thirtytwo. Instead he made a poorly coordinated effort to clean up the toilet. It was the best he could manage but, he reflected, Warrick was unlikely to be a believer in the saying 'it's the thought that counts'. At least outside the sim. Toreth washed his hands and face, rinsed the taste of stomach acid and second-time-around whiskey out of his mouth, and went in unsteady search of his reluctant host. He found him sitting at a table in the kitchen, watching an antique coffee brewer. Steam was beginning to waft the smell of coffee across the room. For a moment Toreth hovered between feeling sick again and desperately wanting a cup. The need for caffeine won out, and he let go of the safety of the wall long enough to make it to a chair.

Warrick looked at him with the same lack of enthusiasm he'd shown outside. "Finished?" Toreth nodded. "Would you like some coffee?" Toreth thought about the question, which proved to be harder than it sounded. His stomach was still profoundly unhappy about the idea. "I'm not sure," he said eventually. The corner of Warrick's mouth crept into a tiny smile. "You should probably start with a glass of water. Or ten." Toreth rested his head on his arms, closed his eyes. "'M okay," he mumbled. "No, you aren't. Toreth? Toreth! Wake up." Insistent prodding of his shoulder eventually roused Toreth enough to sit upright. "How much did you have to drink?" Warrick sounded almost concerned. "Don't remember. Lots." There was something else. Something important. Oh, yes. "'S all your fault." Warrick shook his head. "Come on. Let's get you into bed." He bent down to lift Toreth, and then stopped, wrinkling his nose. "Undressed, and into bed." ~~~ Toreth opened his eyes to find the room blissfully dark. He lay very still, assessing the extent of the damage. Head: very bad. Stomach: worse. His mouth tasted as if particularly scrofulous pigeons had been nesting in it. At least he'd managed to get home in one piece. Or had he? Slowly, he became aware of the little presences and absences which added up to the realisation that he was not, after all, at home. He rolled over and moaned. The bed beside him was empty, and he wondered what time it was. "Warrick?" "Good morning, Val Toreth!" a female voice announced with grating cheerfulness. The windows began to de-opaque, letting an increasing stream of sunlight into the room. The computer must have been coded to Warrick's voice, because it ignored his pleas to stop. He squeezed his eyelids shut. "Warrick has gone out," the flat management system continued relentlessly, "but he'll be back. In the meantime, he says, 'look on the table by the bed, don't fiddle with the security systems, and don't use up all the hot water. Oh, and your clothes are in the washer.'" On the table beside the bed he found a large carafe of water with a glass over the top and two tablets set on a saucer, one buff-coloured, one orange and white. He took the tablets and then gathered pillows, propping himself up in bed. He sipped water slowly and ignored the churning in his stomach. His clothes were in the washer. Warrick must have undressed him, then. Toreth could imagine how happy he would have been about that. In fact, the entire mercifully hazy night must have royally fucked him off. He tried to think back, wondering how much of an apology would be required to smooth things over. He remembered the taxi, and the lift, and Warrick locking the door. Then things went blank. But he had an uneasy feeling that there was a fair chunk of time after that missing from his memory. He finished the first glass of water and refilled it. To his surprise, the edge was already fading from the hangover. He wondered what had been in the tablets, and where they had come from. At least

Warrick had been in a good enough mood to leave them for him. "How long is Warrick going to be?" he asked the empty air. The system stayed silent, but Toreth decided that he wanted to be up and dressed by the time Warrick got back. It would be easier to come up with a convincing apology with a little more dignity involved and the option of a fast exit. He sat on the edge of the bed and his foot touched damp carpet. Damp with water, he decided, rather than anything worse. But there was a very faint, sour smell of vomit in the air, overlaid with disinfectant, which reminded him of work. Fuck. He was late for work. From the look of the sun it had to be midmorning. His watch, on the tray beside the carafe, confirmed it. He showered quickly, remembering the admonition about the hot water, then started searching for his clothes. He found the washer in the kitchen, which seemed somewhat familiar, so he assumed he must have been in there last night. His clothes from last night were dry and, having been washed here, smelled like Warrick as he pulled them on. He refilled his glass from the tap and looked round the kitchen. It was larger than most Toreth had been in, with a real hob and an oven, and a refrigerator that seemed excessive for one person. Most people who could afford to live in buildings like this didn't bother with cooking. There was a surprisingly extensive collection of pots and pans, and the first cupboard he opened held a large assortment of jars and sealed packets containing what Toreth assumed were herbs and spices. More cupboards held an impressive array of bottles of oil and other ingredients. Interesting. Just went to show that you couldn't find out everything about someone from his security file. Of course, a detailed credit and purchase check would have got it all. Had he never bothered asking for one for Warrick? He closed the cupboard door and leaned against the edge of the work surface, admiring the collection of knives. The flat and its pricey contents helped explain the security Warrick had warned him about. And, of course, Warrick was a corporate sabotage target. SimTech would pay for all the electronics that incidentally protected his expensive hobbies from criminals. Toreth considered leaving a vaguely apologetic note and going to work, but the idea of being arrested trying to break out of a former murder suspect's flat was unappealing. Warrick had trapped him neatly. Still, he might as well make the most of it while he was here, so he started a tour of the flat. The rest of the rooms were as neat as the kitchen. Insofar as he'd thought about Warrick's home at all, he'd visualised it as being as messy as his office. Then again he almost certainly had service here. Toreth couldn't imagine anyone at SimTech daring to touch Warrick's office. The decor was tasteful and unostentatiously expensive. Primarily pale, neutral colours, including rather impractically light-coloured carpets. Most of the furniture was wooden; the sofas in the living room were beautifully soft grey-blue leather, toning perfectly with the large, thick-pile rug. It seemed familiar, and eventually he recognised it as the colour of the SimTech logo. Making a corporate statement, or did Warrick just like the shade? It wasn't by any means the most opulent home he had ever been inside. Indeed, in the course of various investigations he'd visited places in the rarefied heights of the corporate world whose inhabitants would consider a night here to be unbearable slumming. Still, someone wealthier than Toreth's usual run of acquaintances undoubtedly owned it. He'd always known, in an abstract way, that Warrick was relatively rich, but it was strange to see it made real. There were electronic gadgets and fittings everywhere, but no office. There was a locked room, with a serious-looking door, so Toreth guessed that would be the most likely place. It had its own security, with an iris scan and voiceprint as well as a keypad. Over the top at first glance, perhaps, but

not necessarily so, if he kept sim tech in there. It was only as Toreth idly started to open drawers in the living room that he wondered if the security system included video surveillance. It was likely. He looked round the room, found nothing obvious. That didn't mean anything, though. Never mind. He'd be out of here before Warrick could discover his impromptu investigation. Just then he heard the door opening, so he went to stand at the window, looking out at the sundrenched street. With the bright light full in his face, it occurred to him that his headache had gone completely. To his surprise, Warrick didn't say anything. He heard the door close and footsteps going into the kitchen. He waited, and the footsteps re-emerged, then disappeared into the main bedroom. At that point he felt sure Warrick would call his name, but instead, after a minute or so, he heard the shower start to run. He went up to the bathroom door. "Warrick?" "Ah. There you are. I've put some coffee on in the kitchen when the top part fills up, switch the heat off and stir the top bowl. I won't be long." He didn't sound angry. In fact he sounded neutral-to-friendly, which was oddly more worrying. And intriguing. Toreth went into the kitchen, where he noticed a new box on the table, but decided against looking inside. He'd pushed his luck with snooping far enough for one morning. Instead he kept an eye on the coffee brewer, as instructed, while trying to work out how the hell the strange thing functioned. He had a feeling he'd seen it before, last night presumably. Two glass globes, one above the other, with bits of glass piping between them it forced the boiling water up into the coffee grounds in the top globe, he decided in the end, then generated a vacuum that drew it back down through the filter. An expensive, fiddly toy to do something that could be done in a fraction of the time and with no effort at all. He'd just taken the coffee off the hob and started looking for cups when Warrick spoke right behind him, startling him. "What do you think of the flat?" Warrick asked. Meaning 'have you had a good look round'? No point in pretending otherwise. "You must earn a fucking fortune." "I believe in paying my employees well, so I don't see why I should stint myself. Excuse me." He started taking ingredients from the cupboard and refrigerator, and lifted a bowl down from the shelf. "Do you have time for breakfast?" Warrick asked. Toreth hesitated, thinking about breakfast and looking at Warrick. His hair was damp from the shower and he wore just a pair of loose black trousers. Bare feet, which was how he'd crept up so quietly. A more different look from last night he couldn't imagine. Toreth smiled. To his surprise, he did feel hungry, and he also remembered now why he must've wanted to come here after the bar. Whatever the hell those pills were, they were good. Regretfully, there were more important things in life than fucking. And interrogations, even for fucking Justice, counted as one of them. "No," he said. "I'm late for work. Very late." "Don't worry about it. I called I&I first thing this morning, when it became clear you were still

out for the count, and spoke to the inestimable Sara. Coffee cups are over there." Measuring by eye, Warrick began to mix up a thickish batter from flour and milk and a few other things. Culinary matters were entirely outside Toreth's experience, so after he had poured the coffee, he moved to stand beside Warrick and watched the operation with mild fascination. "What did you tell her?" Toreth asked as Warrick set a wide, heavy, flat pan on the hob. He left the pan to heat and returned to the batter, mixing with concentration. "I told her you turned up here at three this morning, unable to stand, woke me up, threw up repeatedly, and finally passed out in my bed without any exchange of bodily fluids occurring. She sounded entertained by the beginning, but disappointed by the conclusion." Toreth stared at him. "You didn't." "Oh, yes, I did." "All of that?" "Yes. Sara said she'd turn it into something acceptable for official consumption." His voice turned a fraction cooler and very precise. "She asked me to tell you that there's nothing worth coming in for this morning, because Justice are still arguing over the latest prisoners. They want an absolute guarantee of no deaths. She told them nothing is guaranteed at, ah, a level six, and if you want her to tell them anything different you should let her know by this afternoon." Oh, well done, Sara. Just the thing to put Warrick in a better mood. "Sorry about that." Warrick dribbled pale yellow oil into the pan, swirled the pan to coat it, and shrugged. "I called her at work. I can hardly complain if I heard something I didn't wish to. My problem, not yours." Now that was something Toreth could agree with, although he felt it represented something of a change of tune since the night before. But not one worth mentioning just now. Without spilling a drop, Warrick quickly poured three ladlefuls of batter into the now-smoking pan. They spread out to form three identically-sized, thick pancakes and after a few seconds they began to bubble. It was done with an ease that masked the obvious skill involved. Toreth said, "I didn't know you could cook." "I like to think there are a lot of things you don't know about me." There was an edge to his voice Toreth couldn't identify. Anyway, noticing a fading bruise on Warrick's shoulder distracted him. A dark, yellowish ring, still recognisable as a bite mark. Toreth remembered putting it there. He moved round behind Warrick, traced the bruise with a fingertip, considered putting a fresh mark on the other shoulder. Nice idea. Especially the thought of doing it here, in Warrick's own flat. He curved his hand over Warrick's shoulder, rubbing the bruise again with his thumb, his other hand moving without conscious direction to test the strength of the waistband of Warrick's trousers. He had a sudden, delicious image of turning Warrick round, forcing him down on his knees in front of him, of . . . his grip on Warrick's shoulder tightened. Muscles shifted under his hand. "Plastic duck," Warrick murmured, turning the pancakes with a spatula. They sizzled briefly, and the golden-brown side now uppermost began to steam gently. "What?" "I'm not in the mood. Actually, I never am in the mood before breakfast." "Oh." Toreth took his hands away and stepped back a fraction. It occurred to him that, until now,

he'd never seen Warrick before breakfast. "Sorry," he said absently, whilst examining this novel idea. "No need to apologise. You weren't to know. Unless it's in my security file, of course." Toreth blinked, temporarily caught out by the reference. "You must have read it," Warrick continued. "We've both been pretending otherwise, but now that you've turned up, blind drunk, at an address I've never given you, it's become too obvious to ignore." He stacked the pancakes on a heated dish, covered them with a teatowel, and then started pouring more circles of batter. "You can tell me you got it from the investigation files, if you like." Toreth, who had just that second opened his mouth to do precisely that, closed it again. "Your file doesn't mention anything about your preferred times of day for fucking," he said eventually. He caught Warrick's smile reflected in the steel backing of the hob. "I know." "What? How?" "Because I've read it. I've read yours as well." "That's illegal," Toreth said reflexively. Extremely illegal. "Of course it is. That's why I assumed you'd rather not know about it." He turned the pancakes, which proved to be a very slightly darker shade of brown than the first batch. "Damn. Burned them." They had strayed into one of Warrick's weirdly elliptical conversations, which always made Toreth feel as if he'd been taking some of the more exotic drugs from the pharmacy at work. Why the hell would Warrick tell him he'd been illegally accessing controlled personal files? Toreth could crucify him with it. "They look fine to me," Toreth said, meaning the pancakes. "You can have them, then." Warrick stirred the remaining batter in a careful figure of eight as the pancakes cooked. "What does it say?" Toreth asked, not bothering to specify the subject because non sequiturs were the basic style for this game. "It's very flattering, actually. They think a lot of you. Tillotson gives out more praise in secret files than he apparently does to your face." "Oh." Toreth felt pleased, but thought he managed to hide it rather well. "Sounds about right he's probably worried I'd want a pay rise. What else?" Warrick flipped the pancakes out of the pan and onto the stack, and poured more. He offered one of the allegedly over-cooked ones to Toreth, who took it, burning his fingers and then his mouth. "Fucking excellent," he said indistinctly, which it was. "Thank you." He adjusted the heat of the hob slightly. "I didn't read all of it." No, he wouldn't have done. There would be summary figures in there for the investigations and interrogations Toreth had carried out, and his success rate and death rate and very probably details of some of his cases. Served Warrick right for looking at it. "You've been recommended for a grade increase," Warrick added after a moment, lifting the corner of one of the pancakes to check the colour. "But it's been deferred until the end of your current investigation. There is a cross-reference from that deferral to a file I tried to get hold of but couldn't.

At least not yet. It's in the Corporate database at Int-Sec, in one of the ultrasecure sections concerning corporate sabotage." Toreth stared at him. "I only mention it because it suggested, to me, unfriendly corporate interest in the outcome of whatever you are currently working on. I thought you might like to know." "What the hell were you doing in my file in the first place?" "Old business." It took him a moment to realise what Warrick must mean. "Tanit?" A second of stillness, then Warrick nodded. "Keeping an eye out for signs of activity on the part of Mr Howes and any of his friends. Investigations begun into you or me, interest in the case files, and so on." "And?" "And everything was fine." He flipped the pancakes, studied the result. "Better. I'd let you know at once if it wasn't." "Even though you didn't tell me you were looking?" Warrick ignored the question. "I check every month or so. I might make it less frequent from now on." "Why?" "Howes has resigned from Psychoprogramming. He has an offer of a corporate contract. Once he's gone, I think we're clear. I thought you'd like to know that." Even though Warrick had to realise it already, Toreth said, "If you get caught inside Int-Sec systems, you'll be more thoroughly fucked than I can even begin to explain." "Don't worry, I won't be." Caught, or fucked? Toreth wouldn't have cared, except that he could be in big trouble himself if Warrick were found out. He was the one who had opened the door to Warrick's explorations in the first place. The Administration's Data Division was very proud of their security and the idea of it being violated tended to send them into hysterics. He filed it under 'things to worry about later'. Leaving the pancakes, Warrick opened the box on the table and took out a large bag. From it he spilled oranges out over the work surface. Toreth caught one as it rolled towards the floor. He held it up, fascinated by the vibrant colour. Warrick must have bought them when he went out. Of course, this sort of residential area would be littered with shops selling corporate delicacies; the oranges weren't even plastic-wrapped. He scored the skin with his thumbnail and smelled the unfamiliar, bitter scent. To have fruit any fresher, Warrick would need to keep a tree in his living room. Warrick transferred the latest batch of pancakes to the plate, wiped the pan, and added some more oil. "Do you know how to use a juicer?" he asked. Toreth, who didn't really believe in food that didn't come out of a packet or ready-presented on a plate, shook his head. "Then you'll have to do the pancakes. Just pour the batter in and keep an eye on them." "I'll make a mess." "Then I'll wipe it up after you." Warrick smiled serenely. "I'm in practise." Toreth stirred the batter and poured while Warrick sliced oranges in half with one of his

wickedly sharp knives, releasing their sweet, sharp smell into the room. Then he took out a juicer that looked to be about the same vintage as the percolator. It had an inverted cup for crushing the oranges, and a long handle. Toreth watched as Warrick worked his way through the oranges, collecting the juice in a clear glass jug. "Pancakes," Warrick said after a while. Toreth carefully turned the mildly misshapen pancakes to find them exactly the right shade of golden brown underneath. "How do you do that?" he asked. "Cooking is very like programming. It requires a sound understanding of basic principles, the patience not to cut corners, and " he grinned briefly, " a great deal of talent." In a modest mood today. Looking at the jug of juice reminded Toreth of something. "Where did you get those pills? And, more to the point, what were they?" "Standard electrolyte replacement and detox, plus something extra from work. Anti-nausea and so on for the sim. A bad sim experience is somewhat like a hangover, so some genius discovered that the drugs are as good for one as for the other." "I've never felt like that after the sim." "You're lucky. Most people do at least once or twice. Maybe it'll happen to you eventually." Toreth drank his coffee and watched the pancakes cooking as Warrick set the table. The shopping box also produced fresh bread, real butter, and pastries. "They should be done now." Toreth brought the pancakes over to the table and sat down. Warrick sat opposite and lifted his glass of orange juice. "Your continued good health." Then he yawned, obviously catching himself by surprise. "Did I keep you awake?" Warrick helped himself to pancakes and began to butter one carefully. "In a way. The spare bed isn't very comfortable. And I kept getting up to take a look at you, anyway." Toreth couldn't remember him doing it. "There was no need." "I had no idea how much you'd drunk, and I thought it would look bad for SimTech if a naked para-investigator were to be discovered dead in the bed of one of its directors," he said mildly. "You were throwing up with monotonous regularity for the first few hours, or I'd have tried to get you sober." "More drugs from work?" "No, reminders of a misspent youth. Probably quite out of date, even if you could have kept them down." "Sorry." Warrick shook his head. "Stop apologising. Or try to sound as if you mean it. One or the other." He stretched, then winced and tilted his head, rubbing at his neck. "You could give me a massage before you get off to work, if you'd really like to say sorry." "Oh." Toreth considered the idea while he chewed a mouthful of bread, then shrugged. That would be an easy enough apology. "Okay." Warrick smiled. "Lovely. But let's finish breakfast first."

~~~ Massages didn't play a major role in Toreth's sex life. He usually found them deeply boring, and tending to get in the way of business proper. After the leisurely breakfast, though, he found he didn't mind very much. It fitted the mood of a stolen morning off work. He wondered about Warrick's sister, and her return from Mars, but decided not to bring it up. Breakfast over, they adjourned to the bedroom, where Warrick surprised Toreth not at all by carefully covering the bed in towels to protect the sheets from the oil. Then he stripped off and lay down. Given Warrick's concern for the sheets, Toreth felt he could use the excuse of not wanting to have to wash his clothes again to justify stripping himself. As it was, no justification was required. Warrick simply watched him undress, smiling slightly. Toreth was pleased to find the oil wasn't scented, which he hated. Massages were bad enough in themselves, without ending up smelling like a brothel afterwards. His lack of practice was more than compensated for by a thorough knowledge of anatomy. As usual, Warrick was responsive to his touch, but in a different way from their normal games. Mapping out these new reactions, finding which touches produced sighs or murmurs of appreciation, filled up a reasonable amount of time. It wasn't even unarousing, in a relaxed way. Toreth helped that along, touching himself whenever he had a hand spare. Warrick had been right about the towels the oil got everywhere. He kept half an eye on his watch on the bedside table. Eventually Toreth decided that he had apologised adequately for the previous night. He slapped Warrick on the arse, just hard enough to get his attention. Warrick rolled onto his side and opened his eyes, focused up at him. "Is that it?" "Half an hour. That's all you're getting." "Bored?" "Yes." Warrick smiled lazily. "Well, come down here and I'll see what I can do about that." He lay down, and Warrick pressed up close, slipped a thigh between his, and began to rub against him. Trapped between them, their cocks rubbed together, surrounded by hot, oil-slick skin. After a few seconds Toreth caught the rhythm and began to thrust back. "I thought you weren't in the mood," he said after a moment. "Mm. No. I said I wasn't in the mood before breakfast. We had breakfast." "You always have an answer, don't you?" "Not always. But often. Now, shut up." Toreth shut up and tried to remember the last time he'd done anything like this, and couldn't. It made a very pleasant change from their usual more energetic fucking. He kept his eyes open, watching Warrick, his face only centimetres away. His eyes were closed, long lashes fluttering occasionally, and his lips were slightly parted. It made Toreth think about the first time he'd seen Warrick, when he'd noticed his mouth straight away. It was beautiful. "Kiss me," he said, surprising himself. Without opening his eyes, Warrick leaned forwards and brushed their lips together. "More," Toreth murmured into the soft mouth.

He felt Warrick's lips curve in a smile against his. Another kiss, still just lips, a teasing touch. He closed his eyes. "More." This time Warrick's tongue swept lightly across his own, startling him into a moan. "More." Warrick laughed softly and complied, kissing him thoroughly and deeply. "More," Toreth said indistinctly when there seemed to be a danger of his stopping. "More." Eventually the kisses faded out and there was nothing but the slow, steady movement, building pleasure in deepening layers. Beautiful, blissful, but as the minutes stretched slowly past Toreth felt a faint stirring of unease. It was like the sim in a way: timeless, dreamy, and cut out of normal life. Yet not like the sim, because there was no distance, no awareness of another world somewhere else. It felt sickeningly intimate. There was no plan, no protocol, no roles, and no game. There was no safe word, because this didn't need one. Words meant what they said here. All he had to do was say 'stop', and it would. Without really meaning to, he tried to pull away. Warrick's hand slid down his spine, pressing into the small of his back to keep him in place. The movement made them both moan on the same breath. Warrick drew his breath back in deeply, then pressed his face into Toreth's shoulder. Toreth could feel quick, hot breath against his skin and realised he was breathing faster too. In fact, somehow, he was getting close to the edge, which was ridiculous because they hadn't even done anything yet. How long had they been here? "Warrick " "Shh," Warrick whispered against him. "Just . . . shh." Toreth didn't want it to stop, anyway. He nodded and the hand flat against his back pressed him closer, acknowledging the surrender, urging him to move a little faster. Not much, just enough to change close to the edge into right on the edge and then tipping, slowly, deliciously over into orgasm. As Toreth came, he found himself biting his lip, trying to keep quiet, somehow not wanting to spoil the moment. Warrick must have been pacing him, holding back, because he came only a breath behind, not crying out either but just stiffening in Toreth's arms and then, gradually, relaxing completely against him. Neither of them said anything. Warrick lay against him, breathing slowing, heart settling down to a slower rhythm against Toreth's chest. Part of Toreth's mind, irrationally unsettled, wanted to get up and leave, right now. In the end, the rest of him ended the debate decisively by pulling him down into sleep. ~~~ The sound of a drawer closing woke him. He found Warrick standing near the window, fully dressed and packing clothes into a small suitcase. Toreth propped himself up on one elbow and blinked at him. "Uh?" he managed. Warrick looked round and smiled briefly."I have things to attend to, as I think I mentioned. I shall miss Dillian's shuttle if I don't go now. I've set the system to lock the door after you, but it won't let you back in again, so take everything with you." Toreth nodded. Warrick looked at him for a moment longer, then finished packing the last few bits and pieces. He zipped up the bag and turned to leave, pausing briefly in the doorway. "I'm going straight on to

Mother's house with Dilly, and I'll be away for five days. When I get back you may call me, or not, as you wish." He hesitated, considering, and Toreth might have guessed the next words even if he hadn't said them. "I should like you to call." Toreth nodded again and lay back down. By the time the outer door of the flat had closed, he was asleep once more. ~~~ Hours after Warrick's departure, Toreth woke up to silence, and sunlight slanting onto the pillow beside him. He felt warm, relaxed, and deeply contented, lying there and watching flecks of dust dance in the sunbeam as he breathed. The unscented oil on his hands now smelt of Warrick, and so did the pillow, and the whole bed where they'd . . . where they'd fucked. Where they'd fucked. And the contentment drained away, leaving something cold. He felt slightly sick, as though he was standing next to a long drop with no safety railing. That was the hangover coming back. He showered and dressed quickly, and then, when he got home because it was too late to go in to work he had another shower. After that the soap-scent on his skin wasn't Warrick's. More water and something to eat didn't chase the queasy feeling away. So he decided to try hair of the dog instead and went out to a bar he liked coincidentally, one he'd never visited with Warrick. During the course of the evening he picked up an attractive woman with dark hair whose name he'd forgotten by the morning. They went back to her flat and she proved a very effective distraction from the things he wasn't going to think about anyway. The next morning Toreth felt fine, until he got in to work and thought: only four days until he gets back. ~~~ Toreth didn't call. The five days went past, and in that time he discovered Warrick had been right. There was corporate nastiness somewhere at the back of his latest case. Toreth backed off from the investigation as far as he could without raising suspicions and waited to see what crawled out of the woodwork. He wanted to be very sure what answer he was supposed to find before he found it. The success of the Selman case had entirely cancelled out the fuck-up with Psychoprogramming, and Tillotson seemed once more happy to send the nastiest, trickiest cases his way. Warrick had mentioned there was a file, and he'd said he hadn't managed to get hold of it 'yet'. Had he done so now? He should be back from his little family visit by now. But Toreth didn't call him. He didn't know why, and he didn't think about why, any more than he thought about what had happened in Warrick's flat. I should like you to call. If Warrick liked it that much, he could call. Toreth had his days filled with Chevril's offloaded prisoners, explaining to Justice representatives why it was possible to seriously interrogate prisoners or it was possible to guarantee they wouldn't die, but it wasn't possible to do both. Or rather that the guarantee wouldn't make them any less dead if things went wrong, which was why he sure as hell wasn't putting his name on it. The representatives listened, and nodded, and went back to their superiors and returned the next

day with a carefully reworded demand for exactly the same impossibilities. Fucking annoying internal politics, which put him in a filthy temper and made him snap at Sara over nothing. He had to put up with it for the five days Warrick was away, and for a couple of days after that, until finally he managed to get the case transferred to someone else. Chevril had had the right idea, because as far as Toreth could tell the prisoners stood every chance of dying of old age before they saw the inside of an interrogation room. It had been an insane waste of time and money all round. Still, it had kept him busy, during the day at least. At night he found other things to keep him occupied, one night blurring into another. ~~~ Then, on the first day free of Justice irritations, Sara's voice came over the comm, sounding intrigued. "Warrick wants to speak to you. Shall I transfer him?" She was wondering, no doubt, why Warrick hadn't called him directly. "No," he said without thinking about it. "Tell him I'm out." "Oh. All right." Now she sounded piqued. She'd probably been planning to listen in. An hour or two passed, and then a file arrived unexpectedly on his screen. It had a password requirement, which read: One guess only. Clue? What don't you want to hear? Toreth thought it over, imagining the words in Warrick's voice, then smiled and entered 'plastic duck'. It proved to be the file Warrick had mentioned. Very interesting reading it made, and best of all, it told him the answer he was supposed to find. When he tried to take a copy, the file vanished, deleting itself so neatly and thoroughly that he could find no trace it had ever existed. Fair enough. He'd been the one who had warned Warrick against getting entangled in Int-Sec files. Warrick had taken a risk to get it, and a risk to send it. So . . . it would only be polite to say thank you. He got as far as putting the call through to SimTech. Then he cancelled it. 'What don't you want to hear?' He dismissed the thought. He had a lot to do. ~~~ Sitting in his own office across the city, Warrick waited, unable to concentrate on anything else until the message came back that the file had been read and safely deleted. Interesting, since Toreth was allegedly out of his office. Deciding to carry out a small experiment, he called I&I once more. "Sara? It's Keir Warrick again. Is Toreth back yet?" He waited, counting seconds, until her voice came back. "Still out, I'm afraid. Do you want to leave a message? I can take it, or " "No, no message, thanks. No, wait. Just ask him to call me, please, if he has time. Thank you." He cut off the call. She had been gone for twenty-seven seconds. Longer than she would need to make sure Toreth was out, but plenty of time for him to tell her that he was. His original hypothesis was now confirmed, or at least strongly supported. Toreth was avoiding him. Warrick leaned back, watching his system running a final check to make sure that his illegitimate presence in Int-Sec had evaded notice. He was well aware of the dangers involved,

although if he hadn't been confident of success he wouldn't have done it, not even for Toreth. He considered that phrase for a moment. 'Not even'. Mm. He started to plan things out. He'd call again tomorrow, after lunch. Then once more, in the evening of the next day, perhaps. And after that . . . After that the sensible thing to do would be to drop it and not try again. He smiled wryly. Somehow it felt a little late in the day for being sensible. Five days away, surrounded by people he loved, and he had missed spending time with Toreth. They'd gone without seeing each other for much longer than that before. Something had changed. He could put his finger on the exact moment the change occurred: as he stood in the darkened bedroom, looking down at Toreth in the light from the door and realising that he liked it. Liked seeing him asleep in his bed. Liked the idea of watching him wake up. Liked the way that the flat felt different, warmer and more alive. And he'd felt a sudden need to make pancakes, which was a clear warning sign. The last time he'd felt it had been with Lissa. It meant an incipient urge for domesticity, and this time with such an unlikely object. After all the trouble he'd taken never to extend an invitation to the flat, it had been a strange experience. Before that morning, he'd thought that he didn't want his time with Toreth and the game they played intruding into his home. He'd thought it was better kept separate. Apparently, he'd been wrong. He didn't mind admitting his mistake, especially when the process of discovering the error had been so very pleasant. Still, it was definitely not sensible. In fact, it came very close to impossible. Was it worth pursuing? Standing there in the semi-dark, he'd thought so, and so he'd called I&I to tell Sara that Toreth wouldn't be in. Investigation and Interrogation that was one part of the impossibility. The rest of it was simply Toreth. Impossibility didn't even begin to describe the idea of trying to have anything that might reasonably be called a relationship with him. However, was it impossible to want something more than . . . whatever the hell they had? Eventually he realised that he was staring blankly at the screen, where a message informed him the checks had been completed and no problems reported. He was daydreaming and planning to build on foundations which might not even be there any more. For now, it was simple. He wanted to see Toreth again. If it was over, then he wanted to hear it, not have things dragged out into a growing list of unreturned messages. And if it wasn't . . . well, he'd have to see. If the comm proved fruitless, he would find another way. ~~~ Anonymous dark hotel room, not one of Toreth's regular places. Anonymous hands on him, anonymous cock inside him. He liked it. He wanted it. Doing, not feeling. A safe, familiar thing and it was good. Or at least it stopped him thinking. When they had finished and were dressing, the man whose name he hadn't asked said, "Tell Warrick I said hello." Toreth nearly choked. "What?" "After hearing his name so many times, I feel like I know him." He didn't have an answer to that.

~~~ Sara had been unnaturally polite and formal all week. It was probably something to do with the fact that he'd forced her to come in over the weekend, when he knew she had other plans. If he'd had to come in to work, now that his case was active again, he didn't see why she shouldn't. Then, on Wednesday afternoon, she put her head round his office door without knocking and asked, "Are you doing anything tonight?" "I was planning on going out." "Well, I'm stunned. Makes a change from the last fortnight. But the married men and women of New London will just have to manage without you. I've got tickets, for the theatre." He looked at her blankly. She rolled her eyes, then produced a bunch of lurid pink flowers, which she'd been holding out of sight of the doorway, and said, "It's your birthday." They had an arrangement about birthdays. On Toreth's birthday, Sara would buy him some flowers, because he hated them, and take him out to some suitably weird venue for the evening, usually a strip club of some kind. On Sara's birthday, Toreth would forget to arrange anything at all, so she would do it for him and he would pay. For her birthday they usually went somewhere classier and considerably more expensive than they did for his. Every year he complained, and every year she told him that if he wanted something cheaper he should organise it himself. This year he'd managed to forget his own birthday as well as hers. "Why the hell are we going to the theatre?" "Good question. The mood you've been in I don't know why we're going anywhere. But a friend had some tickets and couldn't make it. So I'm getting a bargain. Pick me up at seven." ~~~ "Are you ready to " Toreth stopped dead inside Sara's flat doorway and sniffed. "What's that smell?" Sara appeared out of the bathroom, wearing a robe. "What smell?" she asked unconvincingly. He pointed to the hall behind her, where the door to the bedroom had opened silently. "And what the fuck is that?" "It's a cat, of course. What does it look like?" Toreth studied the apparition from a safe distance. "It looks like a badly-stitched-together traffic accident in a scabby black fur coat two sizes too large. Why are its teeth sticking out like that?" "I think he must have been malnourished when he was a kitten." Toreth doubted it. Nothing could grow to that size on an inadequate diet. A more likely explanation seemed to be that it had evolved in some deserted back street in the old city to hunt something large and slippery. Wet dogs, perhaps. Sara picked it up and kissed the top of its head between its tattered ears. "Were you, sweetie-pie? Were people cruel to you when you were a baby? But it doesn't matter, does it, 'cause I'm going to feed you from now on." The cat looked profoundly embarrassed, then started to purr. "It's living here?" "He is, yes." She proffered him the cat. A near-visible miasma of unneutered tomcat surrounded it. "Here, stroke him. He's really friendly." Toreth backed away. "No, thanks."

"He hasn't got fleas or anything like that." "I believe you. They wouldn't be able to stand the smell. Where the hell did it come from?" "He was waiting by the door when I got home from work on Monday. I've asked around the building and no one knows who he belongs to. Apparently he's been hanging around for ages, poor thing. I think he must have wandered away from home and got lost." "Or its owners moved to get away from it." "Don't be so horrible. I think he's lovely." "I think you're completely fucking insane. It's repulsive. What's it called?" "Dunno. I haven't chosen anything yet. Come on, stroke him. Say hello." Dubiously, Toreth reached out in the general direction of the thing's head, hoping that a quick pat would be sufficient to satisfy her. Ears flattening, the cat lashed out and opened a set of four neat parallel cuts from his wrist to his knuckles. By the time they started to bleed, the cat was back in its original position in Sara's arms, yellow eyes fixed on him. The purring revved up a gear. "Fucking hell! You fucking evil bastard!" "Oh, dear." Sara hugged the cat. "You must've frightened him." He licked his hand and the blood welled up again at once. The scratches were surprisingly painful. "Does it look frightened?" "He's never done that to me." "So now it's my fucking fault that it's psychotic?" And, from her expression, it was. But all she said was, "You should go and wash that." "Really? I thought I'd just stand here until I died of blood poisoning." Sara put the cat down. "Go on. I'll get dressed; we don't want to miss the start of the play." Put that way, being maimed by the cat didn't seem so bad. In the bathroom, Toreth ran water over his hand, watching the faint wisps of blood vanish away into the drain. A couple of minutes later Sara appeared, wearing a rather eyecatching red dress and carrying a bottle of disinfectant and a large drink. "I'm sorry," she said. "He just needs some love and proper attention, that's all." "It needs putting down. Ouch! Watch what you're doing with that stuff." Sara slopped more disinfectant over his hand. "Then stop saying things like that. I tell you what, you can choose a name for him." "What?" "To make up for the scratches. You can choose his name." He sipped the whiskey while he thought it over. Since she was feeling guilty, it would be a shame to waste the opportunity by choosing Fluffy, or whatever the fuck people called their cats. "Got it," he said eventually. "You Fucking Evil Bastard." "No!" Sara looked gratifyingly appalled. "I can't call him that." "You said I could choose. So I'm choosing." Toreth downed the remains of the drink. "You Fucking Evil Bastard. Might as well let people know what's coming. You can call it Bastard for short." ~~~ The play was better than Toreth had expected. He didn't pay attention to the plot. Instead he

watched the actors. He liked masks. It was entertaining trying to read the casts' real feelings towards each other underneath their assumed emotions. About three-quarters of an hour in, he could feel Sara shifting next to him, bored. He leaned down and whispered, "The lead's fucking the woman in the purple dress. What do you think?" After a couple of minutes he heard her giggle. "Yeah. And the guy in blue isn't happy about it." Toreth hadn't noticed that, but a few minutes' observation convinced him she was right. Sara was good at spotting that sort of thing. He'd told her a few times that she should apply for a late entry into the investigator training programme. She said she was happy doing what she did, which was fair enough. But in all honesty she was wasted there, however much easier she made his life. Warrick had said the same thing after he'd met her, although he wouldn't Toreth realised where the thought had ended up and squelched it. He checked his watch. Only five minutes until the interval. ~~~ The bar and foyer were crowded. By making a rapid exit, Toreth managed to get a drink for himself and Sara before the horde descended, but they finished them quickly and he wished he'd bought two each. Perhaps Sara would agree to skip the second half and they could move to a more usual birthday venue. Looking round the room, Toreth assessed the crowd. Mostly middle-aged and solidly respectable citizens. Here and there were groups of corporate types on an evening out. Plenty of money around, anyway. He wondered which one of Sara's friends had bought tickets and been able to afford to give them away. He thought back to the last office event but the only details he could summon for her escort that evening were that he had sandy hair and an annoyingly nasal voice. Rich, though, or at least rich enough to keep Sara's semi-exclusive interest. He ought to ask her if he was the one who'd funded this evening. Then he saw Warrick. Toreth was slightly surprised by how easily he picked him out of the crowd, even with his back towards them. He stood with a group of people Toreth thought might be from SimTech. One arm rested casually around the shoulders of a dark-haired woman standing next to him and he had his face half-turned towards her, listening. His arm rested comfortably, familiarly, over her shoulder and Toreth felt a twist of something tight and angry in his gut. "Who are you looking at?" Sara asked, then followed his eyes. "Oh, hey." "Don't " Toreth said, too late. "Hey! Warrick!" Sara followed up with a whistle, which attracted the attention of Warrick and a fair proportion of the rest of the immediate area. Solidly respectable lips thinned in disapproval. Warrick looked round, lifted a hand in acknowledgement, said something to the group, and then turned towards them. Toreth glared at Sara and made dire silent threats about her next performance assessment. "Well, this is a surprise," Warrick said as he walked up. Toreth wasn't quite sure what to say, but Sara, naturally, had no such qualms. "Hello, Warrick," she said brightly. "You're looking good." Warrick bent to kiss Sara's cheek. At the last moment she turned her head to catch it full on the

mouth. She developed the kiss into something rather more than was socially required before Warrick broke it off. "Very nice to see you again, too. You look beautiful. I should call " He looked over his shoulder, but the woman he'd been with was already approaching. Seeing her properly now, Toreth felt his mouth drop open slightly. "Ah! You're here." Warrick stepped aside a little to make room for her. "Come and meet the inestimable Sara, who may or may not possess a last name. And this is Val Toreth." The woman returned Toreth's's gaze with frank interest, while Toreth tried to slam his brain back into gear. "Delighted to meet you," she said. "Both of you." Warrick gave the situation a moment to develop before finishing the introduction. "And this is Dillian Avens. My sister." Of course, Toreth thought. She couldn't possibly have been anyone else. Sara chuckled. Warrick raised an eyebrow. "You're very alike," Sara said, which Toreth knew full well wasn't the reason she'd laughed. Dillian smiled politely. "So we've been told." Looking between them, the resemblance was startling in detail, but oddly less compelling in overall effect. They had the same dark eyes and thick dark hair, the same sharp cheekbones and chiselled mouth. The main difference was in their noses. Dillian's was a petite tip-tilt, which he was ninety-five percent sure owed more to a skilful surgeon than a lucky divergence of genes. They were also much of a height, Dillian being only a couple of centimetres shorter, and her voice was low for a woman's, dark and rich. Yet, all features taken together, he was undoubtedly masculine, and she feminine. It was an odd effect, which Toreth found triggered some arresting and hard-to-ignore images. Too fast to be censored, the questions flickered through his mind. Would she taste like Warrick? Smell like him? Would her hair feel like his? Would she scream like he did when she came? All the things he hadn't been thinking about jostled for his attention, escaping into consciousness now that this excuse had presented itself. Toreth realised he had been staring at them for the best part of a couple of minutes. Warrick was occupied in talking to Sara, but Dillian was looking back at him with a sharp, assessing intelligence which also reminded him of Warrick. When she caught his eye, she smiled, and it was exactly Warrick's cool smile. She held his gaze until Warrick touched her shoulder. "Would you like a drink, Dilly? The crowd's thinned out a bit." "Please." "I'll get one, too," Sara said. "Toreth?" "What? Oh, yes." The two of them headed over to the area where the wooden front of the bar made a sinuous curve across the plushly carpeted room, leaving Toreth and Dillian alone. "So," Dillian said, after a slightly awkward pause, "Keir told me you met during the business at the Centre?" For a moment the familiar name threw him, then he nodded. "I was in charge of the investigation, yes." She shuddered delicately. "A horrible thing to happen. Awful for Keir."

As understatements went it was fairly comprehensive, so he changed the topic. "What do you do?" "I'm a structural engineer, specialising in low-gravity, sealed environments." She laughed at his expression. "I've never understood why that should come as such a surprise to people, but it does." He smiled in response. "It's because structural engineers aren't usually so . . . prepossessing." ~~~ Warrick and Sara joined one of the queues for the bar. She looked back across the room. As she'd expected, Toreth looked hypnotised by Dillian. She could appreciate the fascination. Knowing Warrick only slightly, as Sara did, his sister was still a fairly interesting sight. "How are you enjoying the play?" Warrick asked. She looked round. "Boring as fuck," she said candidly. Slight smile. "Then you're doing it wrong, because the play is very tedious." She laughed. "Boring as not fucking, then." "Mm. I'm sorry I spoiled your evening, but Dilly wanted to see it." "And Dilly always gets what she wants?" The question came out with more of an edge than she had intended, but Warrick didn't seem to mind, or didn't even notice. "Probably more than is good for her. However, in this case I felt like indulging her. We don't get to see each other very often she's only on Earth for a few months this time, then she's off to Europa to build something else. Besides, this was the best venue I could think of. The most plausible, if not the most entertaining, I'm afraid." Sara waved the apology away. "I don't mind. As long as it puts him in a better mood." "Better mood?" "Christ, yes. He's been in a strop for days, which I expect is all your fault." Warrick smiled ruefully. "Possibly." "Yeah, well, you should think about other people for a change. He's being an utter bastard at work." "Oh? I thought that was his job." "Being one to me isn't, no." "Mm." That seemed to mark the topic closed. Sara began to wonder exactly what Warrick was hoping to get out of the evening. This had seemed like such a promising plan when Warrick had proposed it, the objective being, she'd thought, to get them back in bed together and consequently make her life better. She realised that she wasn't even sure why they needed getting back together at all. Warrick had said . . . no, actually, she'd assumed that they'd had some kind of row which had interrupted their exotic round of simming and fucking. He hadn't said anything specific at all. There was something going on that she didn't understand properly, and it worried her. She looked back across the room. Toreth's attitude had shifted from mesmerised to prowling. Dillian watched, smiling broadly, as Toreth related some story that required extravagant gestures with both hands. Then she shook her head and laughed. Sara nudged Warrick with her elbow. "You ought to be keeping an eye on your sister."

He studied the scene and seemed to find it amusing more than anything else. "Dillian can recognise trouble when she sees it." "She looks to be having fun to me." "Oh, no doubt. She's working her way round to asking the two of you to join us for dinner after the play." "She's in on it, too?" "Well, I wouldn't say 'in on it', but it occurred to me on the way here that she would be much better at persuading him than I would. If he doesn't agree, the whole exercise will have been a waste of time." "Why the hell didn't you just call him?" "I did, if you recall, and he declined to speak to me." "You could've called him at home." She decided to plumb his motives with a little strategic gossip. "Not that he's there much." "No?" "No. As far as I can tell he's been spending all his spare time fucking his way round the city. I get the latest scorecard at morning coffee. The only wonder is that he can still walk." Warrick merely smiled again. "I shall be sure to bring it up in conversation." "Don't you dare." She looked at him closely, wondering if it was worth saying anything more. Almost everything she knew about him came from the case, or from Toreth's colourful accounts of screwing him. Seeing him standing there, cool and self-possessed, most of what she'd heard seemed, to put it mildly, unlikely. All she knew about him personally was that he'd always been polite when he'd spoken to her at I&I, which said something because not everyone thought it was worth being civil to admins. She'd met him once or twice away from work when he was with Toreth and they'd seemed, well, happy enough, for two people in a relationship comprised entirely of semi-competitive sex. And, of course, he had gone to the trouble of setting up this silly excuse to see Toreth, including buying the tickets and offering to pay for dinner. Corporate or not, that was a significant investment. There must be something there. "Listen," she said, before she could change her mind, "this is going to sound incredibly bizarre, I know, and it's none of my business, but be careful with him." From his icy expression she saw straight away that he'd misunderstood. "I don't need " "No, sorry. That came out wrong. I mean, um, please don't hurt him." He stared at her for a moment, astonishment replacing irritation. "Hurt him?" He sounded as if the idea had never occurred to him, which it probably hadn't. The possibility hadn't crossed her mind until very recently. "Seems unlikely, yeah. But he's human. It could happen." She ploughed on, determined to finish now that she'd started. "I wouldn't exactly call him a friend but, glaring faults and all, I like him. Whatever you've half done to him, undo it, or get it done properly. Before I forget what a good boss he is normally, put in for a transfer, and end up working for someone who won't look the other way when I leave early every Friday." The people in front of them turned away from the bar, murmuring apologies as they squeezed

past, and Sara noticed that they had reached the head of the queue. She watched as Warrick ordered for the four of them. He handed two glasses to her, her own and Toreth's. "Well?" she challenged. He took the other pair of drinks. "I'll bear it in mind," he said blandly. Smooth bastard, she thought as she followed him back. And then: suits Toreth, I suppose. She decided to forget about her misgivings for the night and just enjoy herself. They were old enough to play their games without a referee. When they reached Dillian and Toreth, Dillian turned towards her. "Sara, I wondered if you would like to join us for dinner afterwards? I'm sure we can change the reservation. But Toreth said that since you're in charge of the night out, he really ought to let you decide." Sara smiled, enjoying the thrill of conspiracy. "Sounds lovely!" she said, without looking at Toreth. ~~~ The restaurant was one that Toreth had never eaten at before. Still, merely walking through the door gave him the idea that it was likely to more than wipe out any savings occasioned by the free tickets. Sara was paying, though, so what did he care? To his surprise, he enjoyed himself. Dillian made good company: witty, fun and relaxed. And so very like her brother that once or twice he almost called her by the wrong name. With Warrick there, he entertained himself by walking the fine line between interested conversation and flirting. Not that it was particularly any of Warrick's business what he said to her. Warrick talked mostly to Sara, but Toreth caught him looking at the two of them more than once, and he enjoyed that, too, without bothering to analyse why. Eventually Dillian looked at her watch, covering a yawn. "I'm awfully sorry, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to call it a night. I've still not really adjusted back from Mars time and I'm supposed to be meeting clients tomorrow. If I don't get some sleep I shall probably end up agreeing to build them something that breaks the laws of physics, never mind the structural codes." Toreth tried to catch her eye, but she cut him out, turning to Sara. "Are you a night-owl like these two, or would you like to share a taxi back? If I remember New London properly, I believe I'm on your route home." Sara grinned. "Sure." She finished her drink and stood. "Ready when you are." Dillian stood up with her. "See you later, Keir don't make too much noise coming in. Goodbye, Toreth. It was lovely to meet you." She didn't sound entirely convinced of that. Warrick watched them go, then turned back to Toreth. "More coffee?" Toreth shrugged. "If you like." "Mm. Perhaps not; it is getting late." Warrick nodded at Toreth's injured hand. "That looks nasty." "Sara's new cat." Toreth rubbed his thumb over the scratches, which despite the disinfectant were red and slightly swollen. "It's fucking psychotic. But apparently I scared it, so it's all my fault." "Really? Somehow I'm not surprised." Warrick glanced round briefly, as though looking for a waiter, then fixed his gaze back on Toreth. "So. What do you think of Dilly?" "I think . . . she's very nice." And I want to fuck her, because she looks like you. Warrick looked as if he'd caught the first half of the thought, if not the second. "Do you want to

know what she said about you?" Yes. "Not really." "She said you were charming, considering what you do for a living." He seemed to find that rather funny. Toreth smiled nastily. "Maybe I should give her a call. What do you think?" Warrick looked at him for a moment, serious again, then shrugged. "I think I'm not sure whether you want me to warn you off from her, or her off from you." Too wound up to even try to decode that one, Toreth snapped, "Why should I give a fuck what you think?" "Well, apart from the fact that you just asked me, there is absolutely no reason at all." Toreth sat and fumed for a moment, not understanding why he felt so angry. "Sara told me it's your birthday," Warrick continued. "Which I knew already, actually. I apologise for not sending a gift, but I wasn't sure whether you would " He paused, then said, "Toreth?" He looked up, looked into Warrick's eyes, and suddenly the anger was gone and he wanted him. It took his breath away, dulled the noise of the room around them. A drug hit, delivered straight into a vein and flooding his whole body at once. He fought the feeling down until it was only unbearable, then stood up. "I have to go." He couldn't think of a reason to give, so he just repeated it. "I have to go." "Toreth " But he was already walking away, somehow putting one foot in front of the other and ignoring the sound of Warrick's chair scraping across the floor as he stood up. At the door he almost turned back, but he pushed his way through and into the street. As he stood there, trying to attract a taxi, he wondered what the hell he was going to do if Warrick came after him and why the hell he didn't know if he wanted him to or not. ~~~ Back at home, he went to bed and couldn't sleep. The air-conditioning was on the blink again, and the room for once was too hot for him. He opened the window and lay on top of the sheets, pretending he could feel a breeze from the still July night outside. Even after the room cooled a little, sleep seemed no more likely. Lack of sex and an unusually early night, he decided in the end. His body had grown used to the excesses of the last couple of weeks. Well, the extra sleep might do him good, and the first part of the problem he could solve on his own. Rolling onto his back, he tried to fantasise about Dillian, but every time his concentration slipped, she morphed into Warrick. Eventually he gave up and thought about Warrick. Not the sim, or their D&S games, but about the leisurely not-quite fuck in Warrick's flat. 'Just . . . shh. ' He put one hand up to his shoulder, to the place where he could almost feel Warrick's mouth against him. The other hand he pressed flat on his cock, trying to duplicate the smooth slide of Warrick's body against his. Unsatisfying and lonely by comparison, but less so, surprisingly, than having another body there who wasn't Warrick.

'Shh. Just . . . shh'. He focused on the words, remembering, murmuring them out loud as his hand moved faster. Feeling, not thinking. Warrick moving with him, burning hot skin under his hands, so close. He could taste him now. Soft, generous mouth against his. So close, nothing separating them, wonderful and frightening at the same time. Yes, feeling the same fear he'd felt before, but able to ignore it because this was like the sim, distance dulling the edge. It was only a fantasy. Tomorrow he could tell himself he hadn't done this, or that it didn't matter. And that it didn't matter if he said Warrick's name, over and over, wanting him to be there with him as he came, because there was no one else to hear it. Then he fell asleep and slept better than he had done since he had been in Warrick's bed. ~~~ Maybe it was the good night's rest, but as he walked in to work, he had an idea, which seemed so blindingly obvious that he was sure it had to be wrong. "'Morning, Sara," he said cheerfully. She looked up. "Christ, what happened to you?" He sat on the edge of her desk, picked up what was probably an important piece of paper, and started to fold it into a bird. It was the one thing he knew that both qualified as a party trick and could be performed in polite company. She watched him without further comment. "Sara, who gave you those tickets?" he said eventually. "Which tickets?" she asked, and he knew he was right. "For the play. For my birthday." She struggled with the temptation for a couple of seconds. Then she said, "Warrick." "Why?" "He said he had a couple spare." Toreth contemplated the finished bird sitting in the palm of his hand. "Lying cunt," he said, watching Sara's eyes widen with shock. Then he crumpled the figure up, dropped it in front of her, and went off into his office to think about what to do. ~~~ Once inside the office he stood by the window and stared blindly at the tiny enclosed courtyard below, feeling the rage build. Part of him almost welcomed it: familiar and focusing, something he understood. Very neatly planned. It had all been very neat and he had to admit that even as his hands tightened on the window frame until the knuckles whitened and the scratches stood out lividly against his skin. He felt like going back outside and taking it out on Sara, but a tiny voice of self-preservation said: not in front of the rest of the office. Sara helping Warrick set him up. And Dillian, of course, because she'd been the one who'd asked them to go to dinner. Thinking back, she'd also taken Sara out of the picture at the end of the night. Yes, the two of them had gone off very conveniently so that Warrick could . . . what? Something he couldn't think about clearly because remembering made the dizzying mix of fear and lust he'd felt last night return to catch him like a hammer blow in the chest. He closed his eyes, willing it to go

away. He wasn't scared. He didn't want Warrick, right now, here. No. He was angry. Very angry, because he'd been played like a fucking fish and he hadn't seen it at all. And by Sara, of all people. The anger washed the metallic taste of fear out of his mouth, allowed him to concentrate. He couldn't let this go or he couldn't let it go on and that meant seeing Warrick and finding out what the hell he'd been playing at last night. Letting him know how very fucked off he was. He put a call through to SimTech, his hands shaking almost too much to fit the comm earpiece. On another day he might have asked Sara to call for him. No doubt she'd just love the chance to fucking interfere again, the treacherous conniving bitch. When Warrick answered Toreth somehow managed to bite back the anger sufficiently to sound, if not friendly, at least not homicidal. He fixed his gaze on the wall, trying to listen to the words without hearing Warrick's voice. "I'd like to see you. Yes. That's fine. I'll see you there." Warrick hadn't sounded at all surprised to hear from him, either. Bastard. ~~~ Somehow, he made it through the day. After he'd gone outside and explained in low but serious tones that Warrick had better not hear anything about this, Sara went home with a headache. Toreth did paperwork at random, and then went to the gym and lifted weights until the blood rang in his ears and the monitoring system made him stop. In the bar that evening, Warrick was waiting for him, looking so relaxed and unconcerned that Toreth felt a near-irresistible urge to punch him. Instead he said, "The inestimable fucking Sara told me about the tickets." Warrick smiled. "I thought she would. Too much fun to keep it a secret. I hope you aren't too angry with her." Toreth sat down and Warrick pushed a drink over. He ignored it. "I feel like strangling the bitch." That produced a pause before Warrick said, "I think she suffered enough having to sit through the play. She was only trying to help." "Help?" He clenched his fist, the scratches stinging as the skin stretched. "What the fuck does that mean?" Warrick shrugged. "You'd better ask her." "I'm asking you. Don't try to pretend it wasn't your idea." "All right, I won't." He looked away for a moment, then looked back, his gaze very direct. "I wanted to see you. I remembered your birthday and I thought it would be a perfect opportunity." He raised an eyebrow. "I really didn't think that you'd mind." We play games all the time, his tone implied. Toreth met his eyes, still managing to hang on to the anger that had carried him through the call and got him here. "So why the hell did Sara think I needed help?" "She told me that you had been keeping yourself occupied with, as she put it, fucking your way through the city. All night, every night." Warrick shrugged, his tone overly casual. "She seemed to

take it as a sign that you were unhappy about something I'd done." "And what did you think?" Toreth asked, even though he didn't want to. What he increasingly wanted to do was walk out before something awful and irrevocable happened. He was going to kill Sara tomorrow. "Well, it's hardly untypical behaviour." Warrick grimaced. "All that sets your recent endeavours apart is a certain grandeur of scale. And the fact that I no longer feature in the line-up." "It's none of your fucking business. You " "Isn't it?" Toreth ignored the interruption. "You don't own me. You don't have any rights over me. And you sure as hell don't have the right to tell me that I can't fuck anyone else." Warrick shook his head, exasperation replacing the restrained discomfort. "When, exactly, did I tell you not to fuck anyone else?" This question stopped Toreth dead. He thought it over, and began to suspect that quite soon he was going to feel like an idiot. "You've never been exactly thrilled about it." "No, I haven't. Why would I be? Would you be delighted to hear from me what a great fuck the latest arrival at work had been? Or, if it comes to that, to hear from a third party that I'd been out bedding anything with a pulse?" Far from fucking delighted. In fact, if he did hear Warrick had fucked someone else, he'd want to hunt them down and kill them, a realisation which did nothing for Toreth's melting self-esteem. Warrick watched him for a moment, then, when Toreth said nothing, he continued. "Tell me when I expressed any expectations of, or made any demands for, exclusivity." "Never," he had to admit. "You didn't." "Right. So what have I done or said that made you think I had?" "Nothing." It's nothing to do with what you want. "Well, then I think we have the situation straightened out," Warrick said crisply. "I don't think I own you. I don't want to own you. I just want some of your free time and the occasional use of your body." His voice softened. "And anything beyond that is entirely up to you. No demands or expectations." Toreth nodded dumbly. Silence seemed by far the safest option. Warrick looked at his watch. "And now I have to get home. I promised Caprice Teffera I'd speak to her sometime this evening. Have fun." Toreth watched him leave and then rested his head in his hands. He'd been dead right. He felt like a complete fucking idiot and on top of that he never wanted to see Warrick again, because it would only remind him of how big an idiot he'd been. He looked round the bar, at the men and women in various stages of inebriation and availability. Have fun. Except, of course, that now that he had permission, he didn't want to. The very idea of Warrick presuming to give him permission for anything should have made him furious, but he found he didn't care. And he didn't particularly want to think about what that meant. It was the first, basic lesson in interrogation training. No prisoner can resist forever. The absolute best they can hope for is to die, and victories don't come much hollower than that. Otherwise, the only possibility is to hold out for another minute, and then another one, until they reach the minute when they can't bear it any more. Everyone gets to that point in the end.

After long and careful consideration he decided: what the fuck. It was easier to break, and he should know. He sat in the bar for half an hour, to give Warrick time to finish his meeting, or pretend to finish his meeting, whichever was the case. Then he caught a taxi. ~~~ Warrick took one look at him, standing on the steps of the building, and shook his head."No." No? "Warrick " "I meant, not here." They went to a hotel, not speaking on the way. Despite his frenzied nightlife of the last weeks Toreth felt as if he hadn't touched anyone for months. He watched Warrick sitting quiet and still, looking out of the window of the taxi, and he could've fucked him right there, he wanted him so badly. "Why wouldn't you let me into the flat?" he asked, thinking about what they could be doing this minute if he had. "Dilly's staying there. She's very broad-minded, but," Warrick said, his smile reflected in the glass, "I doubt she really wants to overhear in that much detail what her brother does for fun." For fun. 'Have fun.' Oh, yes. At the Renaissance Centre the same hotel where they'd first had dinner and first fucked there was already a room reserved. 212. He planned this, Toreth thought. He knew that I'd come back to the flat tonight. That ought to have bothered him, but it didn't. Maybe tomorrow, when he could think about something other than how much he wanted the man walking beside him through the endless hotel corridors. Once the door to the room closed behind them, Warrick turned and looked up at him, his eyes bright with anticipation. "So. What do you want me to do?" Lots of things. More than Toreth could put into words. Instead he said, "I want to hear you say it." And he did, surprising himself by how much. Warrick put his hands on Toreth's shoulders, half smiling. "Want me to say what? That I want you? That I want you to fuck me?" His eyes darkened as he listened to himself, a shiver transmitted through his hands and all the way down Toreth's spine. Toreth smiled back, pulled him close and kissed him. He tasted even better than he'd remembered. "Yes. All that. Again." He made Warrick ask to be fucked, and then to beg him for it, over and over again, until it stopped being a game and he was hoarse and panting and they were both almost ready to come just from hearing it. The clearest image he kept from the night: Warrick pressed against him, beneath him, clinging to him, shuddering with desire, bucking against him with every touch and whisper, stumbling over the words. "Please. Toreth, don't. I can't . . . not any more . . . I need . . . now. Please. Now." Begging for him. Wanting it almost as much as he did. Wanting him. Wanting him. After that everything was too fast, and the overwhelming need made him clumsy. He thrust in too quickly and too hard and heard Warrick gasp with pain and didn't care because it felt so good.

Another deep thrust brought another protesting sound, and Warrick's shoulders knotted as his fists clenched in the pillow. Toreth slipped his arms round Warrick's chest, buried his face in his sweet-smelling hair and managed to stop moving, because it was going to be over too quickly. He held still for just a few seconds and then he couldn't, couldn't stop himself. Mine, he thought, and maybe even said out loud. Mine. Oh, yes, Warrick. Mine. He'd never wanted to possess anyone like this before, to make them completely his. He wanted it to last forever, not just the few more short, hard strokes until he came; it felt better than the sim, better than the SMS, more intense than ever before in his life. He was eventually roused back to awareness by Warrick, still pinned beneath him and wheezing quietly and unobtrusively. After a couple of attempts he managed to roll off him. Warrick filled his lungs and let the air out on a long breath. Then he rolled over onto his back, sucked his breath in sharply through his teeth, and moved onto his side. Toreth thought back, decided he ought to ask. "Did I hurt you?" "Yes. Not much." "Sorry." Warrick shook his head. "Heat of the moment. I understand. Still, I'd rather you didn't do it again. It takes the edge off, somewhat." Toreth looked down and realised Warrick was still half-erect and nowhere near sticky enough to have come. He didn't want to move, but pride forced him to. Without saying anything he wriggled down the bed, steadied Warrick's hip with his hand, and took him in his mouth. Warrick gasped sharply, and his fingers tangled in Toreth's hair before sliding down to his shoulder. It was something he'd never done to Warrick outside the sim, Toreth reflected, and wondered why. Warrick tasted different from the sim, which was strange at first. But, of course, this was really him, not a statistical average or an old memory electronically stirred into life. Real and better. He pushed the thought aside and concentrated. He kept it light and shallow until Warrick was hard again, and breathing hard, and then he finally moved to take him more deeply into his mouth. Warrick moaned and his hips pushed forwards. "Ah. God, yes." Toreth found that, although this was something that usually bored him a little, he was enjoying himself. It was incredibly satisfying to do this and listen to Warrick's reaction, to his rich, low voice, still a little hoarse from earlier and getting ragged again now. The realisation nearly made him laugh, which might have had unfortunate consequences. He pulled away, relishing Warrick's protest and the hand tightening reflexively on his shoulder, pushing him down. Obeying the direction, Toreth closed his eyes, listening, trying to drive the dark voice past words. Warrick's fingers dug sharply into Toreth's shoulder, his other hand clawing handfuls of the sheets behind him. "Yes. That's good. That's good. That's . . . mmh. Don't stop. Don't . . ." And he didn't. ~~~ Toreth woke up (or almost woke up), turned over, and groped out with one arm. The bed beside him proved to be empty, which pushed him close enough to real wakefulness that he registered the shower starting to run. He moved over further, onto the other side of the bed still warm and wished he'd woken up a few minutes earlier.

For a moment, he felt a flutter of something like panic starting. Fuck off, he told it firmly. I was only stretching. And it's just a coincidence that I've got my face in his pillow. Happy now? Happy or not, the feeling went away. He lay for a while, wondering whether it would be a good idea to follow Warrick into the bathroom. From what he remembered, it had a fairly spacious shower. After last night, though, he didn't think he'd be able to put any of his pleasantly hazy plans into action. By the time Warrick came back into the room Toreth was nearly asleep again. All except his stomach, which growled loudly enough to make Warrick look over. "Was that you?" With an effort, Toreth propped himself up on his elbows. "Mm-hm. I'm starving. What time is it?" He couldn't be bothered to move any further and look for himself. "Probably too late for breakfast, although we might manage it if you can be a little late in." "No. I have to be there before Sara." Warrick finished dressing. "Well, if you need to get going you should probably get up before I leave. You'll be asleep again in a minute. Everything's paid for, by the way," he added. He came over to the bed and looked down at Toreth whilst putting on his watch. "You really aren't a morning person, are you?" "I'm barely a fucking afternoon person." Toreth finally managed to drag himself upright and sat on the edge of the bed, trying to summon the energy to have a shower. He could happily have stayed in bed all day, and that thought made him remember that the next day was Saturday. Fuck his case, he deserved a day off. "What are you doing tomorrow?" Warrick grimaced slightly. "Nothing too strenuous. Why?" Just say the words, don't think about them too much. "I thought I might invite myself round for pancakes." Warrick smiled. "Why not?" ~~~ When Warrick let himself into his flat he could smell something burning, so he knew Dilly must still be there. He found her in the kitchen, using a boning knife to scrape the carbonised remains of something from the bottom of a pan. She looked round as he came in and smiled sheepishly. "Sorry!" He removed the abused utensils from her hands without comment. With more optimism than expectation, he ran them under the tap and inspected the damage more closely. The knife had suffered nothing that a good sharpening wouldn't cure, but the pan looked to be a fatality. Whatever she'd been cooking was both unidentifiable and welded to the surface. "What were you trying to make?" he enquired. "Scrambled eggs." "Scrambled . . . I'd ask how this was possible, but as I know from experience that you can burn water, I won't." He took out another pan. "Why don't you make some coffee and I'll do breakfast? Assuming you can do that without immolating anything else." "I'll do my best." They worked in silence for a while, then he said, "I thought you had a meeting."

"The office left a message to say they'd rescheduled. Just by a couple of hours, in fact, but long enough for me to wreck your kitchen." "Apparently. Right, done." He set the plates on the table, then, forgetting, sat down altogether too hard and winced. Dillian unsuccessfully attempted to change a laugh into a cough. "It's not funny," he snapped, bothered as much by the speed of her deduction as anything else. "No," she said with an almost straight face. "Of course not." He kept the glare up for a moment, then started to laugh. She sat down opposite him, also laughing, and poured the coffee. "No need to ask if last night went well, then," she said. Fortunately, he'd only picked the cup up, not taken a sip. "Dilly!" "Oh, honestly, Keir. How old do you think I am? I mean taking him to a hotel, for goodness sake! I should hope you had fun after going to all that trouble." She poked the scrambled eggs with her fork. "They're sloppy." "They're supposed to be. We go through this every time. Just eat them and stop . . ." She paused, fork raised. "Stop embarrassing you?" "Yes." She tried a mouthful of egg, and nodded. "Mmm. Good." "Of course they are. Finish them before they get cold." "You never blush, you know," she said thoughtfully, buttering toast. "Mother either. Aunt Jen does, and I do. Do you suppose it's genetic?" "No. Actually, I'm sure I used to. It must've worn out over the years, thanks to you." Warrick counted nine seconds until she looked up again. He sighed. "If I have to. Yes, everything went very well. Yes, we sorted everything out. Yes, we " "Fucked like rabbits," Dillian supplied, in her most refined voice. The embarrassment, which had been fading, returned in full force. "Where do you get that language?" "It's a hazard of the profession, I'm afraid. Talking to construction workers." Her expression became more serious. "Are you sure about this, Keir?" "What?" he said, hedging and hoping she'd take the hint. "Him." Her mouth twisted slightly. "Toreth." "What's to be sure about? It's not that serious. We just . . . " He looked at her patient, concerned face. Damn her. "Yes, I am sure. Don't you approve?" "Honestly? No, I don't." She shrugged. "But you knew that, and it's not my place to approve or disapprove of who you choose to sleep with. If you're happy, I'm happy for you. You know that, too." He nodded, because he did. "So the real question is, are you happy?" "Yes." The speed and confidence of the answer surprised him a little. "Then just be careful with him. Please?" He'd heard that before. From Sara, who didn't want him to hurt her friend. And Marian

murdered Marian who had worried about quite the opposite. Now Dilly made it two to one in favour of Marian's view. Warrick looked down at the scrambled eggs congealing slowly on the plate in front of him. "Oddly enough, people keep saying that to me," he said, trying to keep his voice light. "Then, well . . . maybe you should listen to them." "I am careful. Always." Because I know he's dangerous, which is at least part of why I want him. He thought of the chill he'd felt when Dilly told him Toreth was charming. If his and Dillian's positions had been reversed, what would he say to her? 'Be careful with him' would be the mildest possibility. Fortunately, Dillian couldn't read minds. "Then everything will be fine." She reached across the table, touched the back of his hand. "And if you ever need me . . ." He looked up again, smiled. "You'll be on Europa." "I'll come back, for you." "Thanks." "Don't worry about it. I love you, that's all." She finished her eggs, then looked at her watch. "Oops. I have to go." "Good luck with the meeting." She stopped in the doorway and looked back, her eyes twinkling. "Before I go, do you want me to get you a cushion?" Before he could find anything to throw, she had gone. ~~~ Sara was late for work. She'd woken up early, but then spent an hour composing a transfer request. It had been successively revised down in tone until the screen no longer blistered, but it was still somewhat forthright. Once she got in she'd have another go at it until it was suitably bland, and then send it to Tillotson. Considering all the times she'd covered for him in the past, she'd better get a damn good transfer reference from Toreth. She was so busy enjoying her foul mood that she didn't see the flowers until she was halfway across the office. The rest of the senior para admins in the section were watching her expectantly. She said a general hello and went over to her desk. It was a huge bouquet and every single blossom was real. The calculation of cost was fast and automatic and gave an impressive result. It took her a while to find the message amongst the profusion of flowers. When she did it read, Sorry. Hands landed on her waist. She looked down and saw the vivid scratch marks on his skin. "For calling you a lying cunt, that is," Toreth whispered. "Really, very sorry." The rest of the room watched the scene with undisguised fascination. Sara looked up at him over her shoulder. She knew he wasn't sorry, of course, and that this was just a belated realisation that he'd gone too far. That didn't matter, though. "You're forgiven," she said. He grinned and let her go. "Excellent." She turned and examined him more carefully. God, he looked pleased with himself. There could

be only one reason why. "And I'm sorry," she said, "about the tickets." The grin broadened. "No need. In fact, call the flowers a late thank you for that, as well as an apology." "Oh?" "Yes, 'oh'." Sara decided that, thank God, she wouldn't be needing the transfer letter. As Toreth turned to go back into his office she asked, "Do I get to hear all about it at coffee?" He paused. "No. No, I don't think so." Another pause, another smile. "Well . . . maybe," he said, and the door closed behind him.

Surprises
Conversation Taste Test I May Forget Birthdays, But . . . Conversation (Reprise)

PART ONE: CONVERSATION

Sara had taken a long lunch, even by her standards. She'd been gone from her desk when Toreth came back upstairs from the morning's interrogation and he didn't see her until well over an hour later, when she breezed into his office, grinning from ear to ear. "Where've you been?" he asked. "The AERC." She sat on his desk, kicking her heels against it. "You remember you asked Warrick if he'd let me have a go in the sim? He called this morning and said someone had cancelled something and I could do it but it had to be today. I would've told you, but you were busy. I asked Kel to cover for me." "What did you think?" Toreth asked, even though her expression told him that she'd been as blown away by the experience as he had been the first time. "Fucking incredible! I couldn't believe it. He took me through all these different settings, rooms, whatever they call them. It was so real. I know you told me about it, but . . . unbelievable. And Warrick . . . the stuff he can do! So weird. There was this beach " Suddenly Toreth couldn't hear her any more. 'The stuff he can do.' He knew all about that. Had Warrick done any of it with Sara? Sara was still chattering away happily. " breathing underwater. It was so weird. Warrick said I was pretty good at it. Lots of people choke the first time, or they just can't do it at all. God, I hope I can get another go. I think I might volunteer for trials. There's a list a mile long but maybe you could put a word in, hm? Hm? Toreth?" For some reason, despite their many past conversations about fucking, he couldn't think of a good way to ask her. "Did you do anything else?" "Yeah, loads of stuff. He did this thing " she clapped her hands, " for drinks, yeah? You've seen him do it, I'm sure. Outrageous show-off, but it was pretty impressive, I admit. They tasted great. There's an alcohol feed, but he wouldn't turn it on. He said he wasn't sending me back here pissed after lunch because you'd think he'd been trying it on. He " She stopped dead, maybe seeing something in his face. "You don't think that, do you?" she asked after a moment. Toreth shrugged, aiming for casual and composed. "I did wonder." "He was only joking. Why would you think I'd do anything with him?" She shook her head. "Why would you even think we'd want to?" "You've been flirting with him," Toreth said tightly. Her eyes widened incredulously. "I've been what? When? I kissed him a couple of times to say hello. That's not flirting. What you did to his sister right in front of him, that was flirting. Anyway," she continued in a harder voice, "I'm not the one who goes for other people's partners." He heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Aren't you ever going to give up on that?" "Of course I'm not!" Her voice rose in theatrical outrage. "You screwed my boyfriend!" "Once. Six years ago." He felt far more comfortable with this old, familiar argument. "And you'd split up with him before I laid a finger on him. Or in him." "That was a tactical breakup and you bloody well knew it." Toreth shrugged, affecting disinterest and not having to try so hard now that they were away

from the topic of the sim. "I don't know what you were so upset about. He was a lousy fuck, anyway." Sara glared for a moment, and then sniggered. "Yeah, you're right. He was. And, Christ, talk about hard to get rid of. Served you right, didn't it?" She cocked her head thoughtfully. "I don't know why you're making such a fuss. About Warrick. I mean, he does other people in the sim." "He doesn't," Toreth said, without thinking. Without really letting himself hear what she'd said. "Of course he does. He was explaining to me they'd had a problem last week with one of the . . . oh." "He " With an effort Toreth pulled himself together. "It doesn't matter what he does." Sara peered at him closely. "You're jealous!" she said delightedly. "You're getting all possessive." His stomach dropped a couple of floors through the building, leaving him stranded in the suddenly stifling office. "Don't be stupid." "Then you should sue your face for libel." "Slander." Automatic correction while he thought about what she'd said. "Well, it's written all over it." She grinned. "I feel like I should mark it on the calendar. You'll be picking out curtains with him next." Oh, God, she was right. "Just get out of my office and do some fucking work for a change." She swung herself off the desk. "Yes, Para, sir." He could hear her laughing as she closed the door. Oh, God, she was right. Toreth sat at his desk, feeling one part angry at Warrick or Sara he wasn't quite sure and two parts horrified. 'Jealous'. He hated the word one of a whole set of words that only ever applied to other people, never to him. The strange part about it, the part he couldn't understand at all, was that he'd known about the sim already, before Sara had said anything. He'd known that it was part of the development. But he'd somehow managed to push the fact out his mind and he didn't even remember when he had done it. Now it was back and screaming for attention. Warrick in the sim with someone else, someone from SimTech, someone Toreth had met . . . He knew what he ought to do, which was go see Warrick tonight and . . . say something. Something he couldn't even begin to think through. And he knew what he was going to do, which was go out, get drunk, and find someone to take his mind off the whole thing. ~~~ Four days later, as he came out of the I&I main entrance, he saw Warrick sitting on the grass near the imposing statue of Blindfold Justice. He had a handful of gravel and was throwing pieces up at the statue, trying to get them into one side of the level scales. A security guard was watching him, but Warrick would have had to scan his ID to enter the Int-Sec complex, and he'd be marked as a harmless corporate director, someone not to be harassed over a little pebble-throwing. Toreth thought about ignoring him, but, while he hesitated, Warrick turned and caught sight of him. As Toreth reluctantly walked over, he got to his feet and brushed off his hands. "The scales of justice don't seem to be very finely balanced," Warrick said. "They got sick of people doing what you were doing. Now they're fixed."

"Really? How wonderfully symbolic." Toreth shrugged, and started to head in the general direction of home. Warrick fell into step beside him, not apparently feeling the need for further conversation. After two hundred metres of silence, Toreth said, "Did Sara call you?" "No, I managed to spot this one all by myself." He smiled, a brief flicker. "You could say that the predictive power of my model is improving as the dataset grows. I did call her, to enquire after your whereabouts, but she was uncharacteristically reticent. So, what have I done?" "Why the fuck should you have done anything?" "Well, one " Warrick held up a finger. "You haven't called for four days. Two, you won't accept my calls at work, and three, you aren't at home at night." He let his hand drop. "Sara wasn't very forthcoming about the details of where you've been instead, but I think I have a sound general idea. Nor would she tell me what had provoked it, which of course just told me that it was me. She can say a lot while not saying much, when she puts her mind to it. Well?" No sound except the breeze in the leaves. "No?" Warrick asked. "Very well, I shall guess. Leaving the possibility of coincidences aside, I assume it must be connected to Sara's visit to SimTech?" Why couldn't he be fucking someone a bit less intelligent? "It's nothing." "Oh, no. It's 'nothing' if things return to normal. Will they? I shall take that as a no." Warrick stopped walking and turned to face him. "I'm going to ask once more, and then I'm going home. After that, you can call me, or come round, or not, as you like. And if you don't, I won't be back." Not a threat, but a simple statement of intent. "Now, Toreth, for the last time, what's the matter?" Toreth had faked this kind of conversation before, or at least similar ones, and he'd heard it dozens of times. How much harder could it be when there was some truth to it? "Sara mentioned that you'd been fucking other people in the sim," he said in a rush, hoping it wouldn't sound so petty if he said it quickly. "Did she?" Warrick waited for a moment, and then said, "That's it?" For a second, Toreth wanted to hit him. He laced his fingers together behind his back. "Yes." "Oh." Warrick seemed taken aback by that. "I could say that depends on what you call fucking, but assuming the broadest definition, yes, I do sometimes have sex with people in the sim. Something that you already knew." "I thought . . . " Toreth wasn't quite sure what he'd thought. That he wasn't doing it any more. That Warrick was his. Now he could hear Sara laughing again. He took a deep breath. A flat demand would do no good with Warrick. "I'd rather you didn't." "You would?" Warrick turned away and started walking again. "Well, that's a pity. Firstly, it's my job. I don't do it often very occasionally indeed nowadays, as I unfortunately find less time to spend on proper work. But sometimes I have to. If there are problems, I have the most experience in certain areas. We have tight schedules, and limited sim time." Warrick paused, hunting for words. "I'm not pretending that I don't enjoy it, sometimes, but that's not why I do it." He smiled wryly. "It's work, not pleasure."

Which all boiled down to, I can't stop. Or maybe, I won't stop. "And secondly?" "Secondly, that isn't something that works one way. Can you honestly say that I could expect the same " another pause, " concession in return?" Toreth wanted to say yes, just in the hope that it would banish the images of Warrick in the sim that he'd had ever since talking to Sara. He'd be lying, though, which was fine except that they'd both know it. "No." "Quite. No. So where does that leave things?" Toreth shrugged. "You don't like part of my job; I don't like part of yours. I don't like you fucking other people in the sim; you don't like me fucking other people anywhere." "Seems like an accurate summary. What do you want to do about it?" Toreth thought about it as they walked on through the grounds. It didn't take long, because the conclusion was surprisingly obvious he wanted to keep fucking Warrick more than he cared about test-fucks in the sim. When he was quite sure he could persuade himself that that was true, he said, "My place is closest." Warrick smiled. "Sounds good to me." As conversations went, Toreth thought, it hadn't been too bad.

PART TWO: TASTE TEST

When Toreth needed to butter Sara up, or apologise, he bought flowers for her. A simple system, but it had always worked well to smooth over difficulties. A few days after the conversation about sim fucks, Toreth found himself wondering whether it would work with Warrick, too. Flowers were clearly out of the question, but what about something else? Fucking seemed like an obvious choice, but they had great sex all the time, and even a really well-orchestrated evening wasn't the same as a tangible gift. The question stumped him completely. He tried ignoring the idea for a while in the hope it might go away. It came back, though, resurfacing with sufficiently irritating regularity that after a few weeks he decided to consult Sara. As it happened, she'd invited him round to her flat, so there was no need to broach the subject in the overly public atmosphere of the I&I coffee room. To his surprise, when he arrived he found Sara cooking. Even more oddly, she was doing it in the living room. Admittedly, her kitchen was cramped, but even with his limited culinary experience, he thought kitchens were more traditional. She had a self-heating fondue bowl, a pile of ingredients, and a handwritten recipe on a piece of paper which looked as though it had already suffered through one or two attempts at completion. While he talked, Sara nodded and uh-huhed, breaking pieces of chocolate into the bowl. He didn't mind. It seemed easier, somehow, to start the explanation while she wasn't quite paying attention, and he felt less of an idiot for having to ask her at all. He finished with, " so I thought you might have some ideas." "Well, what kind of thing does he like?" she asked absently, as she consulted the paper and frowned. "And what the hell does 'add to taste' mean, anyway?" Toreth thought it over as he watched her stirring the bowl. He opened the bottle of wine with a pop, which caused the huge black cat on the chair opposite to growl and flatten its ragged ears. Toreth gave Bastard the finger, while Sara wasn't looking, and the cat stared back, balefully unimpressed. He returned to the problem in hand. "Cooking," he suggested, ignoring her second question. "Buy him something kitchen-y, then." Immediately he regretted telling her about his sudden gift-giving impulse, but it was much too late. Something kitchen-y. Something nice and domestic. For a moment he actually felt sick, the overly sweet smell of melting chocolate catching in the back of his throat. "I wouldn't know where to start," he said, when the feeling passed. "And besides, he's got everything already. You should see his kitchen I don't even know what most of the crap in there is for, never mind what it's called." "Okay, what else?" "Fucking. Being topped. And, well . . . shiny tech, I suppose. The sim. I don't really know what else. I just fuck him." "Well, there's your answer." She added a lump of butter and began stirring the pan slowly, picking up a marshmallow with her free hand. "What?"

"Shiny fuck tech," she mumbled round the mouthful of sweet. Perfectly obvious, when you thought about it. "You're a genius. I knew you'd be better at this than me." "It's easy. I love buying presents almost as much as I love getting them. Do you want me to help you pick something?" It certainly wouldn't hurt. With an unexpected sense of excitement, he fished his hand screen out of his jacket, expanded the screen, and spent a couple of minutes searching. "Okay . . . here we go," he said. "Catalogues." They sat together on the sofa, paging through screens, while Sara stirred the fondue, adding cherry brandy in splashes. "Jesus, some of this stuff is weird," she said after a while. "And I say that as someone who knows some fairly weird people." "I set it on random selection. Just to get some ideas." He was certainly getting plenty of those. She speared a marshmallow on a long fork, dipped it into the mix, and blew on it to cool it before she ate it. "Mmm. Not bad. That'll do for 'to taste'. You know, maybe it's just me, but I have to say I can't see him wearing wait. There. Go back. Further down." She pointed. "Those." Toreth looked at the screen, where a sugary fingerprint marked her selection, and then nodded. Perfect. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right." "'Course I am. Like you said, I'm a genius." She consulted her recipe, adjusted the controls on the pan, then started pouring cream in very slowly as she stirred. "Don't curdle this time . . . please don't curdle . . ." "They're made to measure," he said after a while. "And . . . fucking hell. Have you seen how much they cost?" "Well, it's got to be something expensive, hasn't it?" Holding a cherry by the stem, she dipped it in, shook off the excess chocolate, and ate it. "Something good. I mean, it's Warrick." "I suppose so." It wasn't actually an enormous amount of money, just more than Toreth would normally think of spending on toys. It seemed less every second, though, as he imagined Warrick's face when he saw them. Oh, yes. Cheap at the price. "There you go. Sorted out." She spat out the stone. "Try some of this. It's fantastic." He'd been hoping she wouldn't ask. It looked horribly, sickly sweet. "I ate before I came over." "Oh, go on. Please. I need a second opinion." "Try the cat." "Bastard will eat anything, whatever it tastes like. You ate half a twenty-euro tub of moisturizer last week, didn't you, sweetheart? And threw it up on mummy's bed." Recognising she was addressing it, the cat started purring like an asthmatic generator. Toreth regarded it with deep loathing. He had a fresh set of scratches on the back of his hand to remind him exactly why he'd named the cat You Fucking Evil Bastard. Sara proffered the bowl of cherries. "Come on." Toreth dipped in a cherry and tried it dubiously. Ready to fake appreciative noises, he found it less sweet than he'd imagined. The bitter chocolate went surprisingly well with the fruit; the contrast made the cherry taste fizzy. "Oh, hey. That's pretty good."

She frowned. "No need to sound so surprised." "Come off it. You're usually about as house-trained as I am. What brought this on?" "I'm supposed to be taking something to a dinner party tomorrow and I thought I'd make an effort. Pretend to be grown-up for once. Warrick lent me the fonduing-thing and gave me the recipe. He gave me the cherries, too. Enough to try now and plenty to take tomorrow. Pretty nice of him, hm?" Yes, it was. "When did you get them?" Sara looked at him sidelong, and then smiled. "Yesterday evening at SimTech. I was doing a volunteer run on the sim." She was doing it deliberately and he knew she was, but he couldn't help responding. "Oh?" "Oh?" she mimicked. Before he could think of anything to say, she laughed. "All right. Sorry. He wasn't in the sim. He wasn't even in the building. He left the stuff at reception with a note. Happy?" Now he could relax. "Why would I care whether he was there or not?" She shook her head. "Like I said, weird people. Have another cherry. Are you going to the SimTech do?" Toreth ate the cherry, without chocolate, while he thought about it. Warrick had said something . . . what was it? Eventually he gave up. "Probably. I don't remember. Was it an anniversary or something?" Sara spat another cherry stone into her hand. "God, sometimes you're hopeless. It's on the anniversary, but it's because they passed the, um, third round safety trials." "Meaning what?" "No idea, except they're splashing out for a huge bloody party, so it must be something good. It's for the staff and sponsors, but they did a lottery for volunteers and I got an invite. Or Warrick fixed it for me I didn't ask. It sounds like it's going to be fantastic: food, drinks, dancing, sim demos, you name it. Formal, though. I'll have to find something to go in. You've got a dinner jacket, haven't you?" "Well, there's the one I bought back when I was seconded to Corporate Fraud. You remember when Liz Carey and I were working that undercover corporate case." Catching her expression, he said, "You're right. I'll get a new one. When is it?" "Three weeks. Plenty of time." Yes, plenty of time. Toreth returned his attention to the catalogue. Plenty of time indeed.

PART THREE: I MAY FORGET BIRTHDAYS, BUT . . .

Toreth had been waiting in a state of strategic unreadiness for fifteen minutes by the time the car arrived five minutes early and Warrick called up from the entrance. "I'm running a bit late, I'm afraid," Toreth told him. "Come up to the flat." Then he cut the comm before Warrick could refuse. Planning these things out was almost as much fun as doing them. Almost. Toreth opened the door wearing trousers, socks, and an unbuttoned shirt, with his untied bow tie draped around his neck. His dinner jacket and shoes were ready in the hall. On Warrick's face he caught a flicker of irritation at the fact that he wasn't even dressed, only partly countered by a flicker of appreciation. So far, so good. He offered an apologetic smile, which Warrick wouldn't believe for a second. "Sorry about this. I won't be long. Come in." Warrick brushed past him without comment and leaned against the wall, arms folded, fingers tapping his biceps impatiently. Toreth closed the door and started to fasten his way down the buttons on the front of his dress shirt. "I don't suppose there's any chance of you missing this thing, is there?" "No. All the major sponsors will be there, and I have to make a presentation and a speech. I can't be late." Warrick frowned. "I thought I'd explained all this? Of course, you don't have to come along, if you don't want to. If you'd mentioned it " "No, no. Just wondering. I'm looking forward to it." He tucked in his shirt and began on the buttons at the wrists. "But while you're waiting I bought something for you. It's over there." He nodded towards where he'd left the box on the table in the hallway. Beneath the mirror, so that when Warrick opened it Toreth would be able to see his face. Warrick raised an eyebrow, surprise replacing irritation. "What is it?" "A present." "What's the occasion?" Warrick asked as he crossed to the table. "Nothing in particular." Toreth stood behind him, tying his bow tie. "Go on. Open it." Warrick looked at the box for a moment longer, and then lifted the lid. He moved aside the covering layer of packing foam, and then his eyes in the mirror went wide. "Oh, my God," he breathed. Toreth smiled. Exactly as he'd imagined it. "What do you think?" "What do I . . . ?" After a few seconds, Warrick reached into the box and took out the manacles, one in each hand. Made from silky, brushed steel, they gleamed dully in the hall light. As he lifted them, the oval links of the chain joining them slid over each other with a cold, metallic music. Their hinges moved easily as he turned them over in his hands. They were beautifully made, Toreth thought. Beautiful toys. Smooth, rounded edges, which wouldn't cut. Solid, old-fashioned-looking locks, which hid an electronic timer release. He'd played with them for a while when they'd arrived, and he'd been tempted to call Warrick then. In the end,

though, he'd put them away and waited, because it would have been a waste. This was infinitely better. "Next layer," he said quietly. Without letting go of the manacles, Warrick moved the packaging beneath and his lips parted silently. The steel collar lay in a hollow in the foam, the attached chain curled in a spiral within it. "Do you like them?" Warrick looked between the silvery-grey bonds and their reflection in the mirror in front of him. Toreth thought they contrasted beautifully with his black evening suit. "I had them made specially," Toreth continued. "Especially to fit you." "They must " Warrick cleared his throat. "They must have been expensive." "Fairly." Stepping up close, Toreth reached round him and took the manacles. He fitted them around Warrick's wrists and closed them, without locking them. Warrick's eyes closed, too, and he shuddered against him. "They suit you," Toreth murmured into his ear. "Very nice." He reached down for the collar, flicking the lock open easily, and fitted that as well. Warrick swallowed as the cool metal fastened around his throat. Excited, and perhaps a little afraid? "Open your eyes. Open your eyes and look at yourself." Just as Toreth thought he was going to have to repeat the instruction, Warrick's eyes opened and he stared into the mirror. And simply stared, for endless seconds. Then he touched his dry tongue to dry lips, and nodded. His hands were trembling, the chain shifting quietly. Toreth looked, too, drinking him in, barely seeing himself in the background. Silver and black. Pale face, flushed lips, eyelids closing again. Rapid, uneven breathing. God, he looked good the first reward from his careful planning. Taking hold of Warrick's hands again, he ran the chain through them, stopping when his fingers closed over the single large, round link exactly halfway along. "Feel that? That locks to a bolt in the wall." Warrick's body went rigid against his, his breath catching in his throat. "I've put three in the bedroom here," Toreth continued, when Warrick seemed to be listening again. "One for standing. One for kneeling. One at the head of the bed. Probably violated the hell out of the tenancy agreement. There are a couple still left over. For your flat, if you like. I thought " "Toreth." Warrick had wrapped the length of chain around his hands, pulling it taut, knuckles whitening. "Fuck me. Fuck me now." Too utterly perfect. Toreth pressed against him, pinning him up against the edge of the table, and said, "You like them, then?" "God, yes, I like them. Yes." "Then tell me again what you want. Say it for me." Start of the familiar game. "I want you . . . I want you to fuck me." Toreth took hold of Warrick's hips and dug his fingers in hard, rubbing hard against him, tormenting them both with the contact through too much cloth. "No," he whispered.

Warrick gasped. "Please " "No." Toreth pulled back, just a fraction, while he still could. "Because we have your very important event to get to where " he kissed Warrick's neck, feather light, " you have to make a presentation and a speech for which " kiss, " you will be late " kiss, " if we don't go right now." Then he bit him, once, hard. The response was something perfectly balanced between a moan and a whimper, wonderfully desperate, which sorely tested the strength of his resolve. Here, in the hall, watching Warrick's face in the mirror while he . . . no. Dangerous line of thought. Instead he focused on how very much better it would be with a few hours of anticipation added to the experience. On how Warrick would look for those few hours, knowing what Toreth would do to him when they got back. Taking a deep breath, just about convincing himself, Toreth forced himself to let go of Warrick's hips and lift his hands to unclasp the collar and return it to the box. He took his time, coiling the chain neatly back into the hollow in the foam. Then he removed the manacles, uncurling Warrick's hands, finger by finger, to free the chain, and carefully packed the whole thing away. Finally he stepped back. "Time to go." Warrick leaned heavily on the table, his breathing ragged. "No. You can't . . . I can't." He looked up at Toreth's reflection in the mirror, his eyes hot and his voice thick with need. "I can't." Then a tiny smile creased the corner of his mouth, acknowledging the perfection of the plan. "Bastard," he said, with feeling. Toreth couldn't have asked for more. He laughed as he slipped his shoes on. "Flattery won't get you anywhere. But I promise I'll remember it later." ~~~ Toreth had attended a couple of SimTech events before; both times he had brought Sara along with him for company and arrived with her, separately to Warrick. Not exactly Warrick's idea, or his he'd never given it much thought, in fact. Tonight would be a slight variation on the theme, because Warrick had arranged to pick Sara up on the way. A good job, Toreth thought, that he seemed to have preprogrammed the route, because Warrick didn't look up to remembering his own name, never mind an offer of a lift. For the first ten minutes in the car, Toreth did his best to make the situation worse, until Warrick finally moved from the seat beside him to the one opposite. "Please," Warrick said. "What?" "I leave it for a while. It's an important evening. If I turn up like this . . ." He looked out of the window and shook his head sharply. "No more." "Sure. Whatever you want, of course." The ready agreement made Warrick look round again, openly suspicious, but Toreth merely smiled at him and sat back. Warrick could stop this or any game whenever he chose, but pushing it so far that he needed to wasn't as much fun as keeping it on the edge of the acceptable. When they reached Sara's building Toreth volunteered to fetch her, to give Warrick a chance to

compose himself. She must have been waiting in the entrance, though, because by the time he had the door open, he saw her coming down the steps. She wore a dress that, on a per-square-centimetre basis, was probably astonishingly expensive. Lucky, from that point of view, that there weren't that many square centimetres involved. What fabric there was seemed to be mostly at the sides, held together across front and back by a web of strategically placed strips of gossamer fabric that gave the teasing impression they could be translucent if you caught them in just the right light. Her golden skin, peeping through the gaps in the web, made a beautiful contrast to the pearly fabric. "Nice frock. What's your hourly rate?" Toreth asked as the car started again. She glared. "I borrowed it from my sister." "What does she charge, then?" The glare intensified. "It's a handmade indi." When he looked blank, she elaborated. "Independent. Non-corporate freelance designer. Fee could only afford it because she knows someone who works for him. She said if I spilled anything on it, she'd kill me." Warrick examined her with care, and then smiled. "Don't worry. If you do spill anything, I expect it will miss." Sara managed to keep the indignation going for another few seconds, and then laughed. "Yeah, probably. Is it all right? Not too much?" "It's delightful," Warrick assured her. "Yeah. Eye-catching." Toreth reached out and straightened the thin strap threatening to slide off Sara's shoulder. "And the last thing you could accuse it of is being too much." The flying insults lasted until the car began to slow in front of a large, brightly lit building, and Warrick said, "Now, children, be good. We're here." ~~~ They walked through the impressive entrance together, with Sara between them, and stopped for Warrick to speak to the manager waiting there for them. The atrium wasn't as large as it looked at first, Toreth realised, as one entire wall was mirrored in a single, flawless sheet, doubling the apparent size. Toreth studied their reflections, watching himself smile. The back of Sara's dress was as revealing as the front, appearing even more nearly translucent in the brighter lights. Her glossy black hair made a startling contrast to the fragile-seeming fabric. The ten-centimetre difference in his and Warrick's heights gave the picture a pleasing asymmetry as they stood flanking Sara, blond and dark. I'd fuck us, he thought. Any of us. Hell, all of us. Then the manager, all smiles and attentiveness, escorted them through the corridors of the corporate entertainment complex. SimTech was obviously splashing out; normally, Toreth only saw this kind of place when he was on duty. The suite of rooms included a large hall decorated in swaths of fabric in tasteful, muted metallic shades of the SimTech logo's blue and grey. The grey reminded him of the manacles, and from the way Warrick caught his breath as they entered, he wasn't alone. Toreth knew many of the SimTech employees and a few sponsors by sight from the investigation. If that made any of them uncomfortable, Warrick had never mentioned, and Toreth didn't care. Asher Linton and Lew Marcus were already there, and Linton at least greeted Toreth's appearance with politeness, if not exactly enthusiasm. Marcus nodded to him, and then remembered something he had to do elsewhere.

They'd arrived early, before the majority of the sponsors and other guests, in order that Warrick could be there to greet them. Therefore, the first part of the evening went as Toreth had expected, with him rapidly growing bored while Warrick was occupied with corporate business. After a while, he went off with Sara to try the sim demos before too many of the important guests turned up and sessions were limited to a few minutes. They were in luck. The technicians setting up the equipment were running late and looking for experienced volunteers to test the system. Toreth had seen all the demo rooms in use before, so the most entertaining part was watching the attending technician fitting the sim couch straps onto Sara while trying not to touch too much bare flesh. Still, the sim killed half an hour or so. When the technician in charge finally kicked them off the machines to make way for sponsors, they acquired some drinks and went in search of Warrick again. They found him in the main room, on the otherwise empty dais at one end where the speeches and presentations would take place, leaning on the ornate balustrade and surveying the crowd. Leaving Sara down on the main hall floor and in charge of his glass, Toreth climbed up to stand behind Warrick. Careless of witnesses, he put his hands on Warrick's waist it wouldn't be too obvious. Warrick made no objection, so Toreth said, "The sponsors'll be impressed it all looks very good." "Yes. I'm very pleased with " "Not as good as you in that collar, mind." Toreth leaned in a little, pressing against him, and whispered, "If I'd brought the chains, I could cuff you to that rail and fuck you right now." He felt the shiver. "Not here," Warrick said quietly. "No one would know. I could blindfold you." "There is a difference between . . . between not seeing and not being seen." "You want it, though, don't you?" Long, low intake of breath. "Yes." "How long before we can go back to the flat?" "Toreth, we've only just " "How do you want to do it, for the first time? Standing? Kneeling?" "Oh, God." The helpless desperation in Warrick's voice was so perfect, it actually hurt, a pain in Toreth's chest that left him breathless. "Shall we use a mirror?" he asked when he could speak again. "Or a mirror for me and a blindfold for you. Not seeing and being seen. I think " He tightened his hold. "I think I'd like to watch you come while I fuck you." "I " Warrick stood up abruptly, taking a pace away from him. "Dillian should be here, somewhere. Can you see her?" Toreth grinned and looked out over the crowd. He was good at faces, especially Dillian's, and it took only a few seconds before he said, "Over there." Collecting Sara, they crossed the room. The crowd was an interesting mixture of the humbler SimTech employees and volunteers, and the obviously wealthy corporates. SimTech was a great deal

more egalitarian than most corporations were, although Toreth thought that might be due more to size than any deliberate policy on the part of the directors. As they came up to Dillian, Toreth noticed a woman standing beside her he didn't recognise, which was a pity. Early- to mid-thirties at a guess, rich brown hair, trim figure in a flattering dress, glass of something clear with ice in one hand. Certainly not someone he'd turn down in a bar. Dillian smiled at them. "Sara. What an incredible outfit it's beautiful! Nice to see you, Toreth." After greeting Dillian, he turned to the stranger, who offered her hand. Toreth approved slender, strong fingers, with squared-off nails and natural polish. No wedding band, he noted automatically, feeling the first prickings of interest despite the fact, and despite Warrick's presence beside him. He noticed her returning his appraisal intently, and wondered if she was returning his interest, too. Dillian began the introduction, but before she got any further than "Cele, this is Val ", the woman grinned. "We've met before." News to him. For a moment he wondered if he'd interrogated her, but the smile made that unlikely. He looked at her more closely but his memory remained stubbornly unhelpful, which probably meant he'd fucked her. He was trying to frame a tactful way of asking, when she continued, "Well, I grant you, it was ten years ago, and you called yourself Marc then, but I remember distinctly that you have a faint scar on your left temple " She reached up to him and traced the mark with her finger " like this. Got it in a bar brawl, you said." She looked over at Warrick and winked. "He was colossally intoxicated at the time I discovered it, you see. So was I, for all that." Tact didn't seem to be a requirement. In any case, ten years made it ancient history. Toreth took a sip of wine and smiled. "I'm sorry, but I still don't remember. Maybe you met my evil twin." Warrick raised an eyebrow. "Are you suggesting that you're the good one?" "I found the scar when I was licking you all over," Cele said. "Does that help?" "Cele," Dillian said, with a warning note in her voice. Sara appeared frankly intrigued. Cele pulled a pencil out of her bag and flourished it, looking round the group. "Are we having a problem here? No? Good. Shall I draw your erection, Marc?" Toreth blinked, stuck for an answer. He glanced at Warrick, but he still seemed amused rather than upset. Clearly, this was standard behaviour for Cele. She picked up a paper napkin from beside a tray of canapes. "Everyone's is different, you know, and yours is quite attractive. Seven inches " "Well, there you go, then," Toreth interrupted. She paused, pencil raised. "What?" "Must have been my evil twin." He grinned at her. "Far too small to be me." Warrick closed his eyes, Dillian rolled hers, Sara yelped delightedly, and Cele's smile got bigger. "You know why women are such poor judges of perspective?" Cele asked them all. After a suitable pause, she held her hands up, palms facing each other, about a hand's breadth apart. "Because all our lives we've been told this is eight inches." This time Sara's laugh attracted attention from all around them. Dillian snorted wine out of her

nose and choked. Warrick thumped her on the back until she could stop coughing and stand up again. Cele offered her a glass and the napkin. "Sorry, sweetheart," she said, and then smiled at Toreth. "It's all right, Seven Inches. I forgive you for not remembering it was just fucking, after all." Woman after his own heart. Toreth was perfectly willing to concede that he had, indeed, fucked Cele at some time in the past. He wished he could remember; she looked fuckable enough now that he could imagine ten years ago he would have homed in on her like a heat-seeking missile. He'd have to try to get her alone at some point to continue the conversation. If nothing else, she could tell him if they'd had fun. With order finally restored, Dillian looked at the glass Cele had given her and asked, "Water?" Cele nodded. "May not look it, but I'm hard at work here. Guided tours of my work later, for the sponsors." "Work?" Toreth asked, feeling a stupid, infuriating twinge of unease at the idea of Cele at SimTech. She hadn't been on the staff during the investigation. "I've been contracting for Keir," Cele said, mildly impressing Toreth with the intensity of innuendo she crammed into such a short sentence. "He took pity on me. For I am An Artist poor and starving in a garret and he's stinking rich." Warrick shook his head. "Don't listen to her. She's designed some sim rooms for us, and they're beautiful work. The sim can do a lot, but if we're not going to be confined simply to what we can generate from templates or copy from the real world, creativity is still required." "And she's not poor, either," Dillian added. "She's very talented, and in a lot of demand." "Ah." Cele waved her hand. "You're embarrassing me. But Dilly if I'm so good, are you going to have a look at my rooms?" "I, er . . ." Dillian glanced round, as if seeking inspiration. "I saw the drawings." "Not the same thing, sweetheart. Go on go in this time." "Maybe." "Haven't you been in the sim yet, Dillian?" Sara asked. "No." Dillian glanced at Warrick. "I know, I really ought to. But I don't like the idea." "Are you claustrophobic?" Sara asked. "I didn't like the visor much the first time, but after that it was fine." "Good Lord, no. I could hardly spend so much time on sealed-environment constructions if I were. It's hard to explain why. It's the idea of . . . of my body being in one place and my mind being somewhere else." Warrick sighed. "It's nothing at all like that. I've explained the principle a hundred times." As Warrick started to explain the principle again, Toreth turned to Cele and said, "I suppose you had to spend a lot of time in the sim." Starting an oblique approach to a question. "A fair bit. Finding out what it could do, building the rooms. You?" He nodded. "I've helped out in a few trials. Mostly I just use up Warrick's personal sim time for fucking." "Oh, yes. You can do some weird shit in there." She grinned. "But I haven't done any of it with him, Seven Inches, so you can stop looking at me like that."

Toreth hadn't been aware he'd been looking like anything. "I wouldn't mind," he said evenly. "It's his job." She laughed. "Of course it is. And of course you wouldn't. But if you were going to mind, there isn't any need. He's my unofficial adopted big brother, at least when he can spare the time from bigbrothering Dilly." He shrugged, feeling at least somewhat reassured. "Like I said, it doesn't matter." Cele didn't answer. She was staring past his shoulder. After a moment, she nudged Dillian and said, "My God look!" "At what?" Toreth asked as he followed her gaze. Nothing notable caught his attention, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Warrick putting his glass down. He looked . . . shocked, as if he'd seen something totally unexpected. "Excuse me," Warrick said, striding away before Toreth could ask what or who he'd seen. Toreth watched, wondering, until Warrick halted beside a dark-haired woman, apparently interrupting her current conversation without ceremony. When the woman turned towards Warrick, she seemed faintly familiar to Toreth. "Who's that?" he asked Dillian, who obviously knew. "It's the b it's Mel. Melissa. Keir's ex." Of course her hair had confused him. The colour must be recent because she'd been blonde in the security file. "Ex-wife?" Sara asked, catching up with the conversation. "Yes." Dillian frowned thoughtfully. "I wonder what she's doing here?" "Looks like we'll find out in a minute," Cele said, as the woman turned and started towards them, Warrick a step or two behind her. "Cele," Melissa she said as she reached them, and kissed Cele's cheeks. "Lovely to see you again." Cele returned the greeting, adding a hug. "You look great, Mel. It's been too long." "Yes, it has. And Dillian." This time the single kiss was what Toreth would classify as insultingly perfunctory, missing Dillian's cheek by about three inches. Dillian didn't reply. Warrick didn't appear to have had the time or possibly inclination to mention Sara or Toreth, because Melissa looked between them, obviously trying to work out the relationships. Since Warrick didn't seem inclined to do anything, Toreth offered his hand. "Val Toreth. And this is Sara Lovelady." Her hand was cool, the grip brief but firm. "Melissa Aetherford." After a moment's silence, she asked, "Are you a friend of Keir's?" Toreth smiled. "Not really." Sara stepped on his foot and he ignored her. "Actually, I'm fucking him." This time, Warrick went paler, Dillian went pinker, Cele grinned openly, and Sara turned away hastily, adjusting the strap of her dress. Melissa looked back at him steadily, matching his smile. "Lucky man." He thought about the obvious question, but he didn't feel like playing to her feed lines. "I think so."

Her smile went slightly frosty and he chalked up a point. "What are you doing here?" Cele asked Mel. "Not that there's any reason you shouldn't be, of course, but Keir didn't mention." "I'm here with a client," she said, still looking at Toreth. "You should've let me know, Lissa," Warrick said. So you could've kept me out of the way? Toreth wondered. Melissa turned to her ex-husband, her smile melting into something Toreth had to admit was quite charming. "I would have done, of course, but I didn't know myself until very last thing this afternoon. I'm filling in for someone with sick children." Dillian, out of Melissa's line of sight, rolled her eyes and mouthed, "Of course." "I'm sorry if I startled you," Melissa continued. "Not at all." Warrick's voice had a brittle edge, as though he were running a strict internal censor on every word. "It's very good to see you again. It's been a while since we . . . since we spoke. What are you doing these days?" "Sales market projections, primarily. Not my first choice, but there are only so many jobs for statisticians." "Researching markets for sim applications?" Cele asked. "Broadly, yes. Demand estimation. Nothing very exciting." "It's not P-Leisure, then?" Dillian asked. "Hardly." Mel lifted her head slightly, as though an unpleasant smell had drifted past. "Training simulation systems, primarily. Specialist environments: radiation hazard, low gravity, deep sea that kind of thing." Cele chuckled. "I'm sure you could combine the two." Warrick cleared his throat. "Sex isn't the only application for the sim, Cele." "It's the most popular one, though," Dillian said. "And the most potentially profitable." When Warrick fixed her with an icy stare, she smiled sweetly. "Well, it is. I am a shareholder. I do have to think of my investment. It wouldn't surprise me if three-quarters of the people who've been through tonight weren't looking at Cele's scenery. It's full of corporates taking their mistresses in there. In all senses of the word." "Dillian!" Warrick said, and Toreth frankly stared. He'd never heard Warrick so defensive. Almost embarrassed, which in the context of the sim was something new. Dillian glanced at Mel, then back to her brother. "Oh, am I being discriminatory? There were a few women with rather attractive escorts." "They're only running ten-minute slots," Sara said. Cele snorted. "Sounds about five minutes too long for most of the corporates I saw in the queue." Mel shook her head. "Surely people wouldn't not right here?" "You should put a screen up next time, Keir," Dillian suggested. "So we can see who's right." "Public sex?" Mel looked round the group, her gaze ending up on Warrick. "Well, I suppose it's only to be expected." "It's not in public, though, is it?" Sara said. "The sim's about as private as you can get."

Warrick took a breath. "I don't " "Oh, come on, Mel," Cele interrupted, and Toreth wondered what she'd thought Warrick might say. "Dilly's only joking. Nobody would do that at an official event." "Actually, I know someone who has," Sara said. "Toreth, do the buffet story." He was about to refuse, when he caught Mel's expression. She looked to be on the brink of walking off anyway, and a push wouldn't hurt. Toreth couldn't resist. Cele and Dillian would probably find it funny, if no one else did. "This is back when I was a trainee. They laid on a party after the final set of exams and . . . so on. Buffet, which they did every year, but our year was the first one they had a free bar, which considering how tight they usually are was a miracle. Probably splashing out because it was the last one before the reorganisation." Eleven years ago. He paused for a moment, thinking of security files and trying to remember whether Warrick had been married to Melissa then. "Anyway, it was a good party, especially when you've spent a year on trainee pay. There was this woman there one of our intake. Don't remember her name, but she was very . . ." He mimed curves in the air. "Which was a waste, really, because she didn't drink, didn't date, didn't do anything except pass exams. I had a few bets on that I'd get her before the end of the year, and the party was the official end of training, so that was the last evening." He glanced round the group, assessing. Sara, who'd heard this a million times, was looking round, too. Cele seemed amused, as did Dillian, although Toreth suspected Dillian's appreciation might be due partly Melissa's reaction. She looked positively arctic. Warrick, his eye on Melissa, didn't appear too happy, either, but Toreth decided the payoff would probably be worth it. "The later it got, the more people kept coming up, asking me if I'd got the money with me. I managed to persuade her to have a glass or three, since we were celebrating, and finally, ten to midnight, I got her on the buffet table." "Didn't anyone notice?" Dillian asked. "Pretty much everyone who was still sober enough to see straight. So about half of them. I didn't want anyone claiming I'd missed my deadline and wriggling out of paying up." Cele laughed. "Not to mention that you were drunk enough that you've forgotten her name as well." "No, that's my normal awful memory." He grinned. "Nothing personal. I was pretty sober. She was hammered, mind she ended up sat on a meringue. Someone took a picture of her on the table with her legs round my waist. Cream and fruit everywhere. Flew round the division systems, of course. Paper copies printed and stuck up everywhere, too. She never spoke to me again. God knows why I didn't take the picture." Melissa drew in a breath, so Toreth carried on quickly. "Anyway, back on the table, everything was going to plan, when someone put their hand on my shoulder. Five minutes to midnight, so I assumed it was someone trying to cheat and I told them to eff off, pretty colourfully, I'll admit, and " he spread his hands, " finished things with two minutes to go. And when I turned round " "It was the Chief Instructor for the Interrogation training course," finished Sara, interrupting in the usual spot. Toreth nodded. "He'd come to announce who'd won the training debt partial refund awards." Cele's eyes were sparkling with amusement. "Oh, God, no! You hadn't!"

"Oh, God, yes, I had. Most expensive fuck of my life. I collected two hundred and fifty euros from the bets, and it cost me eight and a half thousand when they stopped the award because I told McFarlen to go forth and multiply. Lucky, in a way, because if they hadn't been able to do that they might've thrown me out. First and last year they had a free bar, as well." Cele shook her head. "I'm not sure I believe it." "God's honest truth. There's probably a copy of the picture in a box under my bed. I'll dig it out and send you a file." "How charming," Melissa said. She set her glass down firmly on the table. "If you'll excuse me, I have to get back to my client." As she walked away, Warrick's glare swept round the group, and Toreth saw Sara actually take a small step backwards. Braced for a grade-A bollocking, Toreth was almost disappointed when Warrick ended up staring at Dillian. "Satisfied?" he asked icily, and without waiting for a reply, he strode after Melissa. Dillian appeared unrepentant. "How dare she turn up without telling Keir!" she snapped, as soon as Warrick was approximately out of earshot. Cele put her arm around Dillian's shoulders. "Calm down. You heard what she said. It's hardly Mel's fault if someone's kids are ill." Dillian shrugged her off irritably. "She probably poisoned them," she said with every evidence of sincerity. A voice from behind him pre-empted Cele's reply. "Dilly!" He turned to find Asher Linton hurrying over to them. She smiled at him, distracted, and said, "Have you seen Keir? You'll never guess who's here." "No need." Cele pointed across the room. Warrick stood next to his ex-wife, with his hand on her elbow. As they watched, she moved her arm pointedly and stalked away. He stayed where he was, looking after her, his hand still raised. "Oh, dear," Asher sighed. "Well. Can't be helped, I suppose." Toreth found Sara's foot on his again. When he looked round, she wiggled her eyebrows in a generally Warrick-ward direction. From his expression, Warrick was probably in a foul mood. On the other hand, left to his own devices he might go after that bloody woman, and Sara's hints looked set to be persistent enough that it would be easier to do what he was told. "Be right back," he announced vaguely, then headed over towards Warrick. When he got there, he hesitated. Warrick stood, still staring after Melissa, and Toreth couldn't come up with a decent opening. In the end, he said, "Warrick?" Warrick turned round at once, looking no happier than he had when he'd walked off. "Thank you so much for your contribution to the evening. What the hell was all that about?" "I didn't fancy spending the whole evening wishing I'd brought my thermal underwear. Dillian thought it was funny." "Yes, Dilly would." That had a venom he'd never heard Warrick direct at his sister before. "But as things between Lissa and myself have nothing to do with you, I'd appreciate it if you kept out of it

in future." That, unexpectedly, stung. "You're the one who invited me. Changed your mind now?" "Of course not!" "So why didn't you tell her who I was?" "I . . ." Toreth had never seen Warrick blush, but he had a postural equivalent a defensive shrug, a way of lowering his head and looking up which meant he'd been caught without a ready reply. "Well, to tell the truth, I didn't know what to say. I wasn't even sure what you'd want me to say. How would you prefer to be described?" Warrick had an annoying habit of turning these things round by being logical and practical. Annoying in this case because Toreth had no idea. He'd never thought about it before, and nothing sprang helpfully to mind now. "I don't know," he said at length. "But something. If you don't want people knowing about me, don't fucking invite me in the first place. I'm quite happy with dinner and a fuck twice a week; I don't need to spend my evenings being bored into a coma by your ex-wives and corporate fucking friends." Warrick glanced in the direction Melissa had gone. "Do we have to " His anger sharpened. "I'm not some fucking corporate accessory fancy dog you can drag around on a leash and not even mention to people." "Now you're being ridiculous," Warrick snapped. "When the hell did I imply you were anything of the kind?" "You " With an effort Toreth reined himself in, and considered the options. Drop it, or let the whole thing spiral up into a blazing row, which would eventually force him to storm out. That would only make him look like an idiot and hand the whole game over to Warrick on a plate, not to mention wasting all his hard work with the present. Melissa had already ruined the mood completely. "Yeah, you're right." He couldn't quite manage gracious, but it sounded better than he expected. "I overreacted. Sorry." As he'd expected, it stopped Warrick dead. After a moment, he nodded. "And I apologise for the lack of consideration. I'll try and think of something suitably non-committal for future use." Toreth nodded, although, now he'd demanded it, the idea made him uneasy. Warrick looked at his watch, and then laid his hand on Toreth's arm, which was interesting because he didn't usually touch in public. "As you said, I did invite you. There's the food soon, and then the official parts, but we have some time beforehand. What would you like to do? There are sim demos running." Toreth considered. He might at least try to salvage something from the wreckage. The chains were still at the flat, and Warrick was coming home with him, not Melissa. "I did the sim with Sara. What I'd like to do is " Toreth dipped his head slightly and finished the rest of the sentence in a murmur into Warrick's ear. Glancing up as he did so, he saw Melissa watching them from some distance away. She looked as if she had bitten into something unexpectedly sour. Good. He stepped back. "Well?" "Mm." Warrick swallowed and then his smile widened, developing a distinct hint of mischief.

"Come on." "Where?" "Just come on." "Woof." Warrick laughed. "Good boy. This way." "So, did you ever fuck Cele?" Toreth asked in an undertone as they crossed the crowded room. Warrick stopped for a moment, stared at him, and then shook his head. "Not that it is any of your business, but no." They started walking again. "She's pretty tasty," Toreth said. "You obviously thought so ten years ago." Toreth shrugged. "I've fucked a lot of women and they weren't all that good-looking. Don't you think she's attractive?" "Yes. But that doesn't mean I've ever slept with her." Warrick must have caught his disbelieving glance, because he added, "It's not compulsory. It may come as something of a shock to you, but it is possible to be acquainted with people including attractive people without sleeping with them. Or even wanting to do so. Technically, it's called 'friendship'." "Very funny. I've got friends I don't fuck. Sara, to start with." Now it was Warrick's turn to look disbelieving. "Really?" "Yeah. Did you think we did?" "I hadn't given it any thought." That was so clearly a lie that Toreth felt rather good. Good enough not to spoil the effect by mentioning that he had, in fact, fucked her once. Instead he asked, "So you never even wanted to fuck Cele?" "Good grief . . . well, yes. In an adolescent way, I suppose I did. At the hormonally crazed stage when you're desperate for sex with anyone. But even then . . . I mean, she's Dilly's friend. I knew her when she was eight, for God's sake." Toreth wasn't quite sure what difference that made. On the other hand, he no longer had any kind of contact with anyone he'd known when he was eight, so perhaps it did. In any case, he believed Warrick, who didn't lie about that kind of thing. Or not that Toreth had yet caught him at. The idea of Cele in the sim with Warrick still made him uneasy, though. However much he'd been telling himself it was Warrick's job and nothing to do with him, he discovered that he didn't want to meet anyone involved. Best not to think about it. They'd reached the far side of the room. Warrick stopped at a set of double doors, glanced casually round, and then opened them. ~~~ Sara watched them go. She'd half expected a spectacular blow-up, but the volcano seemed to have simmered down. The whole thing still surprised her on occasion. More than a year since they'd first met, months since things had become what you might call serious, and they were still at it. Strangest of all, she couldn't see any particular reason it shouldn't keep happening. Not much of a surprise for Warrick, maybe, since he'd apparently managed to get himself

married and she'd love to hear the circumstances behind that. On Toreth's part, though, it wasn't something she'd have credited without benefit of mind-fuck. Just one of those things, she supposed. For now, the ex-wife presented a more interesting mystery. Especially with sources of information to hand. "Dillian, what did you start to call Melissa? When we first saw her, you said she was the bsomething." "The Bitch Queen," Dillian admitted after a moment. "Don't tell Keir, will you? Please?" "Of course not." Telling Toreth was a completely different question. "So, when were they married?" "The year after Keir left university. That's where they met. It lasted four years, which was four years too long." "What happened?" "She walked out on him." Cele said, "They had a conception license application bounce." Dillian sniffed. "That was nothing to do with it." "But they did have the application turned down, didn't they?" When Dillian didn't answer, Cele turned to Sara. "Mel couldn't find a job, and the Department of Population didn't consider Keir's job to be stable enough to have the license granted." Sara looked round at the reception. "Because of his job?" "SimTech was nothing like this, back then," Asher said. "In fact, at that point we were still running things out of my attic. Keir and Mel were living on a loan from Kate that's his mother until the first sponsors paid up." Cele nodded. "And the hours they all worked. Makes me glad I've never had a real job." Asher smiled. "I was the lucky one. It was my house, so at least I still saw Greg. Mel hardly saw Keir, which can't have helped things." "I don't know why you're both always so fair to her," Dillian said. "Sara, listen. She married Keir because she thought he was going to be rich and respectable. And then he turned down a very good corporate job to found SimTech. No money, and very much not respectable. She was spitting mad, although I don't think the sex side would have bothered her so much if it had been euros up front." Cele shook her head. "She married someone who worked for the Administration in the Data Division. And then he ended up in partnership with P-Leisure, designing virtual fuck tech." Sara thought it had the sound of a very old argument. "How would you have felt?" "I wouldn't have minded. I didn't mind it. Anyway," Dillian said to Sara, "she decided she'd backed a loser. The application was just an excuse. She could've waited. But instead she dumped him and sucked every cent she could out of him, like the spiteful vulture she is." "Mixed metaphor, sweetheart," Cele said. "Leeches suck. Vultures . . ." "Peck?" Sara suggested. "Whatever they do, she did it," Dillian said. "She broke his heart. It wasn't funny." Cele held her hand up. "Hey, whoa there, girl. Did I say it was? But she's not all bad. I always felt sorry for her." "To be fair to Dilly," Asher said mildly, "there was the business with the shares." She turned to

Sara. "During the divorce, Keir rather unfortunately signed everything her lawyers put in front of him. I did my best, but . . ." Dillian nodded. "I was in the middle of my first contract on Mars, or I would've stopped him, but by the time I got back it was too late. Part of what he signed away was some SimTech shares. She waited a couple of years, and then demanded he buy them from her. She could do it, too it was all in the damn settlement. But SimTech was broke, and she knew it. She's a bitch, she's always been a bitch, and she didn't deserve him." "She did need the money, though," Asher said. "She'd remarried " Dillian muttered, "Quick off the mark." " and she'd got her license approved that time. It wasn't pure spite." "Anyway, there's a happy ending," Cele added. "The heroine rides in from outer space and saves the day. Dilly sold her soul to some God-awful construction project and gave Keir the money to pay Mel off." Dillian shuddered. "Two years on a deep-sea installation. They pay very well, because no one's mad enough to do it." "So the shares are safe with Dilly " Asher said. "And she's sick because SimTech's so successful," Dillian finished, with great satisfaction. "She'll never get another cent from it." Cele smiled. "The basic problem," she said to Sara in a confidential stage whisper, "is that no one is good enough for Keir, for whom the sun rises and sets." "Rubbish," Dillian said unconvincingly. "I want him to be happy, that's all. You'd want the same thing, wouldn't you, Sara?" Sara nodded, wondering how Toreth measured up to Dillian's standards. Probably not well Sara would certainly be horrified if Toreth went anywhere near her sister. Dillian looked round the room. "I wonder where they are?" ~~~ Toreth should have guessed. The doors Warrick opened, ushered him through, and carefully wedged shut behind them with a chair, led into a large room with long buffet tables laid out along two sides. Not surprising in view of the conversation, perhaps, but unexpected in an absolute sense. Fucking in public, with the attendant risk of discovery that Toreth was happy to admit he loved, wasn't in Warrick's usual repertoire. Even more surprising that it was at a SimTech event. Was it an apology for the missing introduction? Toreth grinned, pulled him over for a kiss to start things moving, and then said, "I don't see a meringue, but you could sit on a gateau." "That wasn't quite what I had in mind." The alarm on Warrick's face made Toreth laugh. "No? You just wanted me to admire the salad?" "I was thinking of something rather more discreet. And involving removing fewer clothes." Ignoring the objection, Toreth released him, and then headed for one of the tables. "Unfortunately, I don't keep lube in my dinner jacket pockets," at least not when he had other plans, "and I bet you don't, either. So we'll have to find something else first." Warrick followed him. "I really don't think we should start pillaging the refreshments for immoral purposes."

"Hey, it was your idea to come in here. No one will notice. Aren't we supposed to be having an evening off? Having fun?" "I'm not. Having an evening off, that is this is work." Warrick paused, and then smiled. "However, I have no objection to some variations of fun." Sounded more promising. "Good. How do you feel about mayonnaise?" Warrick shook his head firmly. "Absolutely not. I am not spending the rest of the evening smelling of egg." "You can always have a wash." "True, but that removes half the attraction of the idea." "Which is?" "The prospect of walking around with you afterwards, knowing that you've fucked me. That you've come inside me. Feeling taken." He shrugged, managing to sound almost matter-of-fact. "Otherwise, we might as well return to the original plan, wait until we go back to the flat later, and do it there in reasonable comfort. Or preferably discomfort." Toreth swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. Absently, Warrick picked up a prawn, dipped it in the mayonnaise and ate it. Toreth watched him lick his lips and lost several seconds. When he tuned in again, Warrick was saying, "And it would be a shame to abuse such excellent mayonnaise. How about the butter?" "Probably in a chilled dish." Toreth reached over to poke the block. "Yes. Good way to get chilblains somewhere it'd be tricky to explain." "Mm. And in any case, rather hard." Warrick scored a nail across the butter, and then sucked the resulting slivers from his finger in a way that did nothing for Toreth's self-control. "Almost as hard as I am." Toreth laughed. "You know you're asking to get bent over that table and fucked right now?" Warrick turned round, raising an eyebrow, his eyes sparkling with sex and amusement. "And you've only just noticed?" "No. But what about your present?" "Mmh. Yes." When Warrick resurfaced from another kiss, he said, "But later. Now and later. If you're up to it," he added faux-casually. "If I'm up to it?" Although he'd fully intended simply to tease again, to recreate the mood from the flat and leave Warrick desperate, Toreth suddenly changed his mind. Waiting was fun, but too much self-denial simply wasn't healthy. He cast a more serious eye over the table and said, "What about olive oil?" "Rather runny." "I'll be careful." Warrick shook his head. "You'll get it everywhere." "Well " He planted a kiss on Warrick's throat, restraining himself from a bite that would leave a telltale mark. "It's olive oil, or spit and a promise." "Mmh. What's the promise?" That I'm going to take your mind off Melissa, if you were thinking of thinking about her.

Toreth picked up the bottle and moved behind Warrick, pinning his thighs to the edge of the table as a reminder of the flat earlier. Warrick wriggled against him, useless from the point of view of escape, exquisitely effective from Toreth's perspective. He leaned in close and whispered, "That I'm going to fuck you hard enough that you'll have to stand up for the rest of the evening." He pressed forward, and Warrick shivered. When he spoke he was rather breathless. "I'll take the olive oil." Toreth reached round to unfasten Warrick's trousers and pull them down before doing the same for himself. "Good choice. But first . . ." He undid Warrick's bow tie, pulled it out from his collar, and said, "Give me your wrists." Warrick lifted his hands without hesitation, and Toreth wrapped the tie round them before knotting the ends. "There we go." He nuzzled the nape of Warrick's neck and then nipped it, making him jump. "Just a reminder. Now keep still." Toreth uncapped the bottle and tipped it against his fingers. He misjudged it slightly, and the oil trickled down along them onto his palm, silky smooth, running towards his wrist. He decided not to mention to Warrick that he'd been right about it getting everywhere. In any case, there was no such thing as too slippery, as someone he couldn't remember had once told him. He wiped the excess onto his already aching cock, and then turned his attention to his pseudo-captive. Warrick shivered again as Toreth's fingers touched him, jerking his wrists against the tie, then said, "I don't do this, you know." "What?" Toreth asked, knowing the answer. "I don't fuck in public places." Suddenly, he was acutely aware of the muffled noise of the reception and the danger of discovery thrilled through him. He worked in a finger and said, "I can tell. Relax." "This is . . . mmh . . . this is the first and last time." Toreth decided not to mention offices. "How much are you willing to bet on that?" "I mean it. It's the only time. So get on with it." "Now? Are you sure?" Warrick nodded jerkily. "Yes. Before someone comes in here and " A laugh cracked his voice as Toreth replaced his finger with his cock and pushed into him. "And finds us ah." He gasped and said, "Careful!" Muscles suddenly tight uncomfortably tight around him. Toreth froze, awkwardly halfway. "Shall I " "No! I'm fine. It's simply an unfortunate reflex." Warrick had a particular voice he used for practical discussions in the middle of fucking, serious and disconcertingly detached. Toreth suspected it had something to do with the sim. "Probably due to the prospect of an audience. Give me your hand." Toreth offered the oily one, and Warrick murmured appreciative comments as he wrapped it round his cock, softened by the unexpected pain. "Sorry," Toreth said, stroking gently.

"No need to be. It's entirely my own fault." "Yeah, that's exactly what I thought. I did ask." Warrick shook his head, but didn't reply. "I don't know why you're worried about it," Toreth said after a minute. "What about the sim? That's fucking in public, if anything is. And recorded." "That's not the same. That's work. This is most definitely pleasure." Which, judging from the nicely hardening cock in his hand, was indeed becoming the case. A little longer, and Warrick started to move gently, back onto him and forwards into his hand, slowly speeding up as his body relaxed, accepting the penetration. Then Toreth remembered something. "Del Halford." "Mm?" "Woman on the buffet table. That was her name. Delanie Halford." Warrick laughed. "For God's sake . . . I don't believe I'm doing this." "Don't worry, you're not. You're imagining it." "Ah. I seem to have a mmh. An even more vivid imagination than I thought." A few more seconds, then he took a deep breath and nodded. "Now. Not too oh, Christ, yes. Yes, like that. That's . . . perfect." Still holding back, Toreth left most of the movement to Warrick, savouring the sight and feel as he quickened the pace. In fact, Warrick seemed in a distinct hurry a combination, probably, of arousal and a desire not to spend too long here. Toreth followed his lead. He had to admit that the danger of discovery was more appealing than actually being caught, however funny Sara would find it. Over his own breathing, he heard Warrick panting. He had his head down now, bound hands gripping the table edge, pushing back hard. Toreth ran the heel of his oilless hand down Warrick's spine and back up, again and again. Moving with him easily, relishing the feel of his own orgasm building, listening to the rising moans, until he realised how much of the noise he was making himself. Slipping his hand round Warrick's chest, Toreth pressed him close, burying his face in Warrick's shoulder. Thinking that, even with the overtone of olives, he still smelt better than any other man he'd ever fucked. Close now, so close, and he had only a very faint awareness of something on the table falling over with a crash. Then, far more distinctly, he heard the handle of the door turn, and a muttered exclamation of annoyance. Warrick's head came up. "Oh, no!" Stop or not? Toreth wasn't even sure he could, and he certainly didn't care. "Toreth, stop it," Warrick hissed, bound hands scrabbling awkwardly at the arm around him. "Plastic duck. Plastic duck. Toreth!" Wanting so badly to finish, Toreth pulled out instead, leaving Warrick to pull up his trousers, and grabbed a handful of disposable napkins, wiping oily fingers before he fastened his own clothes. Was that another noise outside? Warrick said something. "What?" Toreth asked.

"My hands untie my hands!" The frantic note in his voice made Toreth laugh and then he found that he couldn't stop, despite Warrick's furious whispers. He kept laughing giggling, Sara would no doubt call it while he struggled with the tightened knots, until by the time they were ready to go he'd given himself hiccups. When they reached the door and moved the chair, Toreth heard sudden, clear voices on the far side. "I told the girls to leave it unlocked, sir, and they said " "Fuck," Toreth said, almost too loud. Beside him, Warrick had gone rather pale, and appeared to have taken root. Toreth grabbed his hand and dragged him to the far end of the room. They ducked behind a screen as the door opened. "See? It's not locked at all. I have better things to do with my time than my God! Look at the state of the buffet. What precisely are your staff playing at? The mess. It looks as though someone's been shaking the table." The urge to laugh again was so strong it hurt; the sight of Warrick beside him, now also quivering with suppressed laughter, didn't help. Then there were the hiccups that, somehow, he kept quiet enough that the outraged catering manager didn't hear them. "You are paid to check these things that is your job." "I'm sorry, sir. I don't know what's gone wrong. I'll get them back in here straight away." "I suggest you do that. The doors open to the guests in ten minutes. If the room isn't ready, then you won't have a job to come in for tomorrow." "Yes, sir." Footsteps retreated, and Warrick peeped quickly round the edge of the screen. Then he put his mouth to Toreth's ear. "One of them's still here. And stop that bloody noise." Toreth hiccupped again. "I can't." "Hell." Warrick looked round, and brightened. "There's a door to the outside. Through the curtain." Keeping a wary eye on the room behind him, Toreth crept forwards (and hiccupped), eased behind the curtain, examined the doors (hiccupping again), and went back to Warrick. "Alarmed. Can't tell if it's switched on." And he hiccupped. Twice. "For Christ's sake." Warrick pulled him forwards and kissed him, firmly and deeply. It went on for rather a long time, and gave Toreth plenty of time to decide that not only did Warrick smell better than anyone else did, he tasted better, too. When Warrick finally let go, Toreth waited, but the hiccups seemed to have gone. "Fucking hell." "Guaranteed patent cure," Warrick whispered, then smiled wryly. "Lissa taught me that." A stupid stab of jealousy, before he pushed the feeling firmly away. "I'll make sure I get hiccups more often. Has he gone yet?" Another glance, and Warrick returned, his expression a strange mixture of amusement and unease. "No. And there are two young women examining the table with great suspicion."

"We'll just have to wait until the crowd comes in. Then we can slip out, mingle, and no one will know a thing. Come here." Warrick handed him off, looking wary. "Why?" "Because I want to make sure the hiccups don't come back." ~~~ " . . . but if we're not to be confined simply to what we can generate from templates or copy from the real world, creativity is still required. We every one of us here tonight are the source of that creativity and the source of the future success of SimTech. Not simply technical creativity, or sim room design, but creativity in finding new applications, new markets, new opportunities for that technology to shine to show the world what it can do. No single person . . ." "He speaks nicely, doesn't he?" Dillian murmured. Sara nodded, which made the room tilt alarmingly. That was the problem with free alcohol, especially when there were seemingly invisible staff circulating with the endless bottles. How many times had someone refilled her glass without her noticing? It was full again now, of champagne, and she had another sip while she listened to Warrick. He did have a nice speaking voice, although she was having trouble with the words. Smooth, commanding, really rather attractive. Almost made her regret her principles about friends' boyfriends. "Where's Toreth?" Dillian asked after a while. Sara looked around, discovering that the two of them were alone. Of course Asher, as a director, would be on the podium. Cele must also be somewhere at the front, because Sara had a vague idea that Warrick planned to mention her in the speech. But Toreth . . . Toreth was nowhere in sight. "Dunno." She shrugged. "Probably screwing one of the waiters against a wall in the back." At first Dillian smiled. "I should hope not." Sara waved her glass. "Don't worry about it. Happens all the time. 'S just Toreth." Her matter-of-fact tone must have registered, because Dillian's smile vanished. "Are you serious? Oops. "No, 'course not." "Yes, you are. He's cheating on Keir?" She would have denied it again, except that the idea of Toreth managing to sustain the kind of relationship that involved keeping secrets and cheating made her giggle. Dillian's expression hardened. "Is he or isn't he?" "No. He's not cheating, he's screwing around." She frowned, because that hadn't come out quite how she'd expected. "I mean, it's all okay. It's just Toreth. Warrick knows about it, so it isn't cheating cheating. He just . . . does other people." "I don't believe you. Keir wouldn't put up with it." God, she sounded like her brother when she was pissed off. "It doesn't mean anything. He's always done it. He " He couldn't stop if he wanted to. "Look, they're both grown-ups. If Warrick doesn't like it, he can leave, can't he?" "And if I asked Keir about it . . . ?" Not very subtle. Sara shrugged. "He'd tell you the same thing."

Movement, and a rise in the noise level in the large room, caught Sara's attention, and she looked round. The presentation had ended. Now, as the crowd began to fragment, she caught sight of Toreth heading towards them, with a glimpse of Warrick's dark hair beside him. "Look they're both here," Sara said with relief. When the pair reached them, Warrick looked flustered, and Sara had a sudden, very clear image of Toreth standing right at the front of the crowd, watching. Smiling. Maybe licking his lips. God knows, he'd had Warrick worked up enough in the car when they picked her up. The present must have been a spectacular success. She wondered briefly what Dillian would make of her brother's taste for chains. "How much longer before we can go?" Toreth asked. Warrick checked his watch, then did it again, as if hoping he'd misread it. "An hour, at least. I have to be here to say goodbye to the sponsors." Toreth grinned. "Good. Sara, want to see if we can grab another ten minutes on the sim?" As she followed him across the room, she wondered if Dillian was going to say anything. ~~~ It was, simply, torture. How Toreth, standing with Sara near the main exit doors, could look so relaxed was entirely beyond Warrick. Most things were, right now. Defences crumbling under the onslaught of crashing waves of lust, he stood in the foyer and said goodbye to the departing sponsors. His eyes were drawn repeatedly to the vast mirror on the wall opposite. His reflection looked so calm, so collected. How Toreth managed it, he didn't know. His own calm came from years of practise in the sim. This is my body, my representation in the world, controlled by my mind. I can make it do what I want. What I tell it to do. This is my body. Only it wasn't. It was Toreth's, willing and desperate and aching to be taken. Thinking about it, about bolts in the wall and blindfolds and Toreth fucking him in chains, blanked out the noise around him, leaving him scrambling for words when the next group approached. He knew that Toreth must want it, too, after what amounted to six hours of foreplay: the scene in the flat; the taxi; the platform; the interrupted fuck; twelve and a half minutes of adolescent groping behind the screen in the buffet room, which had started off as nostalgically amusing and finished with him almost ready to follow Delanie Halford's example; the speech You really ought to think about something else, an internal voice noted dryly. Thank God for the decorously buttoned dinner jacket. He must have felt like this before, sometime, but he couldn't remember when. Not since shaving was still a novelty, anyway. Hormonally crazed, indeed. Another glance at the mirror. Imperturbable, icy calm. It couldn't possibly be him. Would he guess? he kept wondering. If he shook his reflection's hand, would he guess that only the overriding importance of SimTech, his first and greatest love, held him back from going down on his knees and begging Toreth to finish it now. Dillian had talked to him earlier, and he'd actually found it difficult to listen. The previous half an hour of watching Toreth do every damn provocative thing he could do in public hadn't helped. Sucking his finger. How the hell could the man simply stand against a pillar and suck his finger and make it look natural? Like someone with a slightly odd habit listening attentively to the speaker. He'd

almost laughed, afterwards, because Dillian had asked him if he was sure about Toreth. Never more sure, he'd wanted to tell her. There had been something wrong, though, something she wanted to ask without saying it. Perhaps he should have tried harder to find out what, but after her contribution to the debacle with Lissa, he didn't feel particularly charitable towards her. Another glance at his watch, another smooth farewell to another happy sponsor. He ought to feel worse about Lissa. Under more normal circumstances, he would. How many years now of feeling guilty when he saw her? Every meeting stirring up the lingering feeling that he'd failed her, that he could've done something different, tried harder, accommodated more. But he found that there wasn't space, between the aching need and the memory of steel on his wrists, for the usual unfocused, low-level unhappiness. Lissa didn't deserve to be embarrassed, and he was sorry for that, but nothing more. The surprise of discovering that distracted him temporarily from the gnawing desire. There was a feeling of finality, of something let go at last, which was novel and rather pleasant. Maybe Dillian had been right when she said he'd been hiding in the sim, avoiding his real life. Well, he had Toreth now (or at least, please God, soon), so that should make Dilly happy. "Keir?" Asher approached, smiling. "I think that was the last one." He returned the smile automatically. "Good. If I shake any more hands, my arm will fall off." "I know." She flapped her wrist. "Me too." Looking round the room, she nodded. "It went well. A good evening, I thought." "Very good." The slight edge of hysteria he thought he could hear in the emphasis didn't seem to register with her. "I got a positive response from everyone I spoke to," Asher continued. "People always make promises they don't keep at events like this, but I think some of them will pan out. Have you got the list of calls to make tomorrow?" "Yes safely saved." Then it was goodbye to Asher, and next to the senior staff, thanking them for their efforts towards making the evening a success. After that, he spoke to the complex's management, with more congratulations and appreciation. It was almost a surprise when he discovered that his last duties had been discharged. As he crossed the foyer again, he heard Sara laughing. Coming up behind the pair, he heard her say, still giggling, " you in? I can't." Toreth must have spotted Warrick's reflection in the door, because he nudged her and she stopped. He wondered what it had been about. Nothing good that much was obvious when Toreth smiled at him, his expression full of anticipation. What now? Then he realised. His duties weren't quite over, because they had to take Sara home. He would bet the cost of booking this hall that Toreth was trying to persuade Sara to help him drag the evening out even further. "Ready to go?" Toreth asked, with an appallingly bad attempt at innocent enquiry. "Oh, yes." That turned the smile into a laugh, and Toreth said, "Don't forget we've got to take Sara home

first." Suddenly he didn't care about image or public propriety. "No." Toreth blinked at him. "Sorry?" "No." Warrick turned to Sara. "I'll call you a taxi. Don't worry, I'll pay for it." She grinned. "You don't have to." "I insist. I promised you a lift, and you'll get one." A minute to call the taxi for her, another minute to walk to the car with Toreth, and then the door closed behind them. He sat down opposite Toreth, who stared out of the window, frowning slightly as Warrick gave the address to the system. If Warrick leaned forwards, he could touch Toreth. Could do anything he wanted, now that the evening was over. Or, from another perspective, about to begin at last. "Toreth," he said as the car moved off. "Quiet." Fuck me. Fuck me now. "Toreth " "What did I say?" The voice thrilled through him game voice, cold and frightening. "Well?" "Be quiet." Shivering breath. "I'm sorry." Toreth shook his head. "That's not a very good start, is it?" He sighed. "Kneel down." Pulse racing so fast he couldn't distinguish one heartbeat from the next, Warrick obeyed, the carpet of the car floor cushioning his knees. He put his hands behind his back, clasping his wrists. Imagining chains. Toreth smiled. "Close your eyes." The world changed to sounds and skin his own quick breathing and Toreth's touch. Fingers held his face gently, positioning his head, thumb brushing over his lips, parting them. Even as he opened his mouth, the hand lifted away. "I told you to do something," Toreth said quietly. "You didn't do it." Then silence, stretching out. He struggled to keep his eyes closed, fighting the temptation to look, because he knew what was coming. Even though he was expecting it, when Toreth hit him he couldn't bite back the moan. "Now stay there, shut up, and wait." ~~~ After the flat door closed, they stood in the hall for a long time, Warrick staring at the box still lying on the table. All exactly as it had been when they'd left the flat. In the aching silence of the car, he'd begun to wonder if it had been real after all. From the corner of his eye, he could see Toreth watching him. Finally Toreth said, "Fetch me the cuffs." Lifting the foam, Warrick uncovered the manacles and stopped, hypnotized by the sheer beauty of the metal, until Toreth said, "Don't you want it? Do you want me to put them away again?" No hint in his voice that he might not mean it. Warrick snatched up the cuffs and offered them. Toreth held them up by the central ring, his head tilted to one side as he contemplated them. "Pretty, aren't they?" he murmured.

Warrick took a deep breath. "Please." A few more unbearably long seconds before Toreth looked up. "Did you say something?" "Please, put them on me." Slow smile. "Turn round. Hands behind you." Soon . . . soon . . . oh, God now. The steel closed around his wrists, even better than it had been the first time. His hands his whole body shook and, distantly, he heard Toreth swearing at him, telling him to stop fucking around. Clenching his fists, he managed to still them long enough for Toreth to secure the locks. Toreth's hands slid up his arms, over his shoulders, and unfastened his bow tie. It fell to the floor, and then his shirt collar was loosened. "Tell me." A whisper, lips pressed against his ear. "Did you do this with Melissa?" "No." "Never? Tell me the truth I'll know if you're lying." Warrick swallowed, trying to pull his scattered thoughts together, to marshal them into something like a coherent sentence. "Sometimes. Sometimes we used to play with belts or scarves . . . with blindfolds." Always a treat for him, not because Lissa wanted it. "Or but she didn't really . . . no. Not like this. Never like this." "Good." Toreth's hands moved down again and circled his wrists above the metal, fingers digging in. "Did she buy you chains?" "No." "Did she hurt you?" "No." Not like this. "Good. Very good." Almost inaudible, a caress of breath. Then Toreth let go and stepped away. "Now, close your eyes." Anticipation thrilling through him, he tried to listen, to work out where Toreth was, but he didn't hear even a hint of movement, or a clink of chain. The touch of metal on his throat, shockingly unexpected, almost sent him to his knees might have done so, in fact, if a hissed, "Keep still!" hadn't frozen him, trembling, in place. Click of the lock. Tug of the manacles behind him and the band around his throat dug in a little as the chains locked together. Then it was finished complete and the world slid away from him for a moment. Hands on his shoulders again brought him back to awareness, fingers digging in and pushing him down to his knees. "Open your mouth." At that moment, he honestly didn't care, but part of his mind, still not fully subsumed in the game, noted that Toreth must have washed at some point since the buffet, because he tasted clean and smelt of only a faintest hint of olive oil. Then he forgot everything as Toreth's hands tangled in his hair and pulled him forwards. He struggled to keep his balance, awkward with bound hands, the collar and the cock filling his mouth combining to choke him. Panic rose briefly until Toreth eased away, giving him a moment's respite

before he thrust in again. Breathe find the rhythm, each stroke easier to take than the last. Accepting it. Letting Toreth do what he wanted, because that was what he wanted. Surrendering. Submit and be taken. Falling deeper into the game until it was easy and natural. Even when Toreth's hands tightened in his hair, crushing him close as he came hard and deep into his throat, Warrick didn't choke. He swallowed, remembering not to try to breathe performing perfectly. It brought a flush of triumph, pleasure at success, which surfaced briefly though the dizzying arousal before sinking away. When Toreth released him, Warrick leaned against his leg, panting, twisting his wrists to feel the strength of the steel. Perfect, wonderful, never better, and it had never been this good with Lissa. Unfair but undeniably true. If she'd known if he'd known what he needed, would she have bought him chains? "Not bad," Toreth said. His voice was almost level, barely out of breath. "You're learning. Almost good enough to deserve something in return." "Please." All he could manage. "Please?" He pulled Warrick to his feet, and pushed him back two, three steps and he collided with the wall. Toreth moved in close, resting his cheek against his, the slight roughness a further excitement. Pinning Warrick against the wall with one hand, the other roaming over his body, finally settling against his crotch, rubbing in short, fast movements. Somehow, Warrick formed the words. "Mmh . . . no." His body, with ideas of its own and hungry for the contact, pushed forwards against Toreth's hand. Yes, yes, yes please. No. He wanted . . . "You promised the bedroom." Toreth laughed. "And what the fuck does that matter? You come when I say, where I say." "No. No, please." Fighting it for real, struggling in the unyielding chains, because he didn't want to come now, didn't want it to finish yet, here in the hall when there was so much . . . but Toreth held him easily, and that alone was almost enough to tip him over the edge, even without the skilful hand stroking him towards orgasm. He was still resisting when the sensation ripped through him, wringing a scream from him that, for once, he heard. God Almighty. Was he always that loud? A minute passed, and Warrick found he still couldn't breathe properly, the high not fading. Toreth's hands on him the words coming back to him from the start of the evening the manacles around his wrists the tightness of the collar the bolts waiting for him in the bedroom. If Toreth should walk away from the game after tonight, walk away from him, the memory of this evening might be enough to last the rest of his life. He opened his eyes to find that Toreth had stepped back and stood watching him intently, calculatingly. When Warrick could manage the words, he said, "Don't stop. Keep it going." That brought out a satisfied smile. Toreth caught hold of the collar and tugged him sharply forwards. "What makes you think I'm ever going to stop?"

PART FOUR: CONVERSATION (REPRISE)

Warrick's voice woke Toreth from the middle of a complicated dream involving chains made of meringue. "Are you still asleep?" A loud closing of the door followed Warrick's question, then a wash of light as the windows cleared. "Doesn't look like it, does it?" Toreth considered rolling over and sticking his head under the pillow, but he didn't think it would help. It seemed particularly unfair, since it was his own bed. He heard Warrick cross the room, and then the noise of something being set down on the table by the bed. Surrendering to the inevitable, he opened his eyes. "What is it?" he asked, blinking at the light. "Breakfast. Or, possibly more accurately, a very early lunch." "Lunch? What time is it?" "Half past eleven." Toreth closed his eyes again. "That's not fucking lunchtime. Especially not on Sunday. I'm going back to sleep." "Suit yourself. You might want to have a look at the tray first." He was about to express his opinions a little more forcefully, when a rather appetising smell drifted across the bed. It smelled like . . . He sat up and found Warrick waving his hand over the tray, wafting the aroma towards him. "Steak?" Toreth asked. "Steak sandwiches, with onions. Fresh juice. Coffee. Pancakes under the cloth." Propping himself up on the pillows, Toreth took the tray and wondered where the contents had come from. Not from his kitchen, that was for sure. His flat didn't hold anything edible or drinkable that hadn't been thoroughly preprocessed, or fermented and distilled. Toreth tried a bite of sandwich. "Good," he said, unnecessarily, because it always was. "Thank you," Warrick replied gravely. He took off his borrowed shirt, looked around for somewhere to put it, and then settled for dropping it where he'd probably found it, on the already crowded floor. Toreth made a mental note that he ought to have some laundry done at some point in the next week. "Sorry about the mess," he said with his mouth full, as Warrick went to lie across the foot of the bed. Warrick raised an eyebrow. "No apology required." He surveyed the room, the clutter of dirty clothes on the floor contrasting with the clean ones neatly hung. "I couldn't live like this, but then I don't. And although I do admit to a faint curiosity regarding the colour of your carpet, I think I'd be rather disconcerted to come here one day and actually find out." Toreth ignored him. "Did you have all this in the car last night?" he enquired, waving his hand over the tray. "No. I went out and picked it up this morning, along with the griddle to cook it on. You never

have anything fit to eat, so I thought it'd be a change. I also thought I might leave the griddle here, if that's all right with you." "Yeah, fine." Except for a faintly horrifying implication of . . . nothing he wanted to spoil the morning by thinking about. At least it wasn't curtains. "What about yours?" he asked, as a distraction. "I had my breakfast two hours ago. I had some calls to make. By getting up at eight, I finished everything. So now . . . I'm at your disposal." "Eight? After last night?" He picked up a pancake and folded it in half, melted butter dripping onto the tray. "When did we go to sleep?" "Three, I think. Perhaps half past. However, that still means you've been asleep for almost eight hours, which is plenty." "Easy for you to say." Toreth licked butter off his fingers, reached behind his shoulder, and tapped the chain hanging from the bolt, making it clink gently. "The trouble with this is that I'm the one who ends up doing all the work." "Mm." Warrick closed his eyes for a couple of seconds, and then opened them halfway. "True. However, I'm not to blame for your lack of imagination." "No, maybe not." Balancing the tray with one hand, Toreth pulled the sheet aside. He ran the ball of his foot over Warrick's shoulder, then pressed it between his shoulder blades until he went down flat on the bed, his breathing already quickening. Toreth smiled, working a thread of danger into his voice. "After all, I can do anything I want . . . and you'll do whatever you're told. Won't you?" "Yes." He felt Warrick shiver. "Well . . . I'll have to think about it." Toreth considered putting the tray down, but he hadn't finished yet and he didn't fancy ending up fucking in a bed full of crumbs. So he settled for moving the juice and coffee to safety on the bedside table, and then shifted his foot higher while he started another sandwich. There were faint red marks on the back of Warrick's neck, reminders of the collar last night, which would, in Toreth's judgement, fade by Monday. He pressed his foot down, a little too hard to qualify as a massage, but not hard enough to hurt. Not yet. Warrick had turned his head away, but his breathing was a perfect telltale. After a minute, he saw Warrick's hips start to grind down into the bed. "Keep still," Toreth ordered. He kept playing as he continued his breakfast, circling more firmly into the nape of Warrick's neck, down and up his spine, watching as his hands began to tighten on the edge of the mattress with the effort not to move. Lazy Sunday morning fun, which still had an enjoyable novelty for Toreth. He wondered if Warrick had done it before with anyone. Relaxed weekends spent fucking with Melissa, maybe. Or on reflection, maybe not. On the brief meeting last night, she'd struck Toreth as a withholder, doling out sex as a bribe or a reward for good behaviour. One kind of domination, he supposed. This was more fun. By the time Toreth finished eating, Warrick's breath was catching on a whimper every half dozen breaths. Toreth's own breathing had become none too steady. Still, he realised, once more he was putting all the effort into the proceedings, even if it wasn't very much effort in an absolute sense. And

even if he was reaping a rather gratifying return on his investment. Besides, something Warrick had said earlier finally sparked a question in his mind. Without taking his foot away from Warrick's neck, he lowered the tray onto the floor. "Turn over." "I can't. Your " "Not interested." Toreth didn't release the pressure. "Turn over." Despite the difficulties involved, Warrick obeyed, ending up with Toreth's foot against his throat. With experimental care, Toreth pressed down until he saw Warrick's eyes go wider and his lips open to stop it. Then he lifted his foot away and sat up. "At my disposal?" he asked, dropping the edge from his voice. Warrick shook himself, shedding the role if not the arousal, and then rolled onto his side and looked up at him. He rubbed his throat, and coughed carefully. "That's what I said. Anything you like." Adding that to the breakfast, Toreth came up with another question. "Okay. What do you want?" Warrick smiled sheepishly. "That obvious, is it? Well . . . to ask you a favour." Toreth laughed; he'd only been half sure of his guess. "Fuck. Really? What?" "Sorry. I should just have asked. But I didn't think it would hurt to get you in a good mood first." "Feed me, fuck me and then ask me when I'm half asleep?" "Something like that. Would you prefer me to ask while you're awake?" "Ah . . . yes. Ask first, fuck afterwards. Or during, if it's going to be a long question." He slid down the pillows and closed his eyes. "I'm listening." "All right." Warrick moved round to lie next to him and placed his hand flat on Toreth's stomach. Toreth tensed the muscles as Warrick dug his fingers in. "Mm. Very nice," Warrick murmured. "Favour?" "Yes, of course. There's another SimTech event coming up in a few weeks' time." The fingers wandered off, gentle and only mildly distracting. "It's only a small thing. A social dinner for the directors and a few sponsors and partners." "And?" "And I'd like you to come to it." "That's a favour?" For a moment, Toreth was nonplussed. By the time he'd made the connection to 'and partners', Warrick was speaking again. "I'd like you to come to it, with me. Just you. As my . . . as in arrive with me, leave with me. Be with me." It was odd how he was growing used to this. He waited out the irrational rush of fear expected and therefore not so disconcerting then said, "As your what?" "I, ah, didn't think of anything. Did you?" "Um . . . no." He tried again, but everything serious seemed terribly wrong. "How about 'regular fuck'?" "Regular f " Warrick spluttered, then started again. "I can't introduce you to people sponsors as my regular fuck!"

Toreth smiled, his eyes still closed. "That's your problem. Works for me." Warrick sighed and then said, "I can't promise it'll be very exciting, and there'll definitely be no sex in the food this time. But will you come?" "Sure. Doesn't sound too taxing." "Oh . . . well, good." He put his hands behind his head, deliberately relaxing, and opened his eyes to find Warrick watching him with a mix of surprise and wariness. "What?" he asked. Warrick shook his head. "Nothing." Oh no, not nothing. You were expecting me to panic because you mentioned something that had a hint of . . . and you were right. Before he could finish the thought, the adrenaline kick washed back through him. Fight or flight, he thought. Or . . . "So is that it, then? I said yes, so I don't get the fuck?" Warrick grinned. "No, you get the fuck. Anything you like, as I said." "Mmm." Toreth stretched out, anticipation chasing away the lingering unease. "Surprise me."

Family
Dear Val, Thank you for your presence at George's funeral yesterday. I&I was always the biggest part of his life, and I know he would have been touched that so many from I&I and especially the General Criminal section chose to attend. I'd like to thank you especially for your kindness in the days after George's death. I won't say thank you for last night. That was something that I don't have the words for. To have someone spend that difficult night with me, to wake up and have someone beside me to comfort me and take the pain away, if only for a while, meant more than I can say. But I hope you'll understand that I can't rush into something now. Thank you for being so understanding last night, and for suggesting that a letter might the easiest way for me to let you know what I decided about us. It has been, and your kindness is, again, so much appreciated. Yours with love, and friendship, Jillian Mike Belkin looked up distrustfully as he finished reading the note aloud. "And if I get my admin to run it through the system and verify the sender's signature?" Toreth gestured expansively round the coffee room. "Go right ahead. It'll probably save me time later. I've got a dozen more people to collect from and some of them are bound to be suspicious, welshing bastards, too." "Okay, I believe you. I should know better. 'Your kindness in the days after George's death'?" Belkin snorted in disgust. "You set it up, didn't you?" "Pays to plan ahead, if you know what I mean." There was general grumbling from the seniors gathered round Toreth he caught the odd word that sounded like 'cheating' but most were already reaching into their pockets. Chevril, sitting at the other end of the coffee table, was the only one smiling; he'd refused to risk a cent on the strength of Gina Lewis's virtue, and was obviously reaping the satisfaction of an unopened wallet. "Fifty, wasn't it?" Belkin sighed, then handed over the folded notes. "And I thought I'd be safe by asking for written evidence." Hepburn shook his head. "And having to do her on the day of the funeral, too. What did you do, slip something in the sherry?" "I don't make you take the bets, I just take your money." Toreth pocketed the notes and grinned. "That everyone? Tell you what, I'll buy you all a drink this evening to celebrate. In memory of good old George." "The useless tosser," Belkin added. That produced some laughter, but most of the seniors were still smarting from their losses. Looking round, Toreth decided it would be a good few months before he'd be able to pull another stunt like that. But they'd forget. They always did. Half-past ten. Watches were checked, coffee mugs drained, and the group broke up, the paras heading back to their offices and interrogation rooms for the rest of the morning.

~~~ Back in his office, Toreth read the message for the thirtieth time. It had been waiting for him when he'd arrived at work, but he'd left it, hoping vaguely that it might have gone away by the time he'd had coffee and collected his winnings. 'Sorry to decline, but I'm spending New Year with the family. However, you are welcome to come with me. Let me know yes or no as soon as you can.' His first impulse had been 'no'. Which, he supposed, was why it was a mail and not a call. December was never Toreth's favourite time of year. Someone had already tacked cheap and nasty decorations up in the coffee room, and the shops were full of holiday crap, had been for months. Now this unappealing invitation: a New Year holiday spent with someone else's family. Toreth tried to imagine introducing Warrick to his parents. His mind slid away from the sheer awfulness of the concept, so instead he imagined fucking Warrick in their flat, good and loud. That was easier to think about, and the idea of his mother's face the next morning almost made him smile. That would really give the bitch something to complain about. But happy as that idea was, he was avoiding the issue. Unusually, he felt the need for advice, so he called Sara in and showed her the message. "Do you think I should go?" She read it and frowned. "What the hell are you asking me for?" He sighed. "Forget it." "No, sorry. I, er . . . yeah, why not? Dillian's a laugh, and she makes the rest of them sound okay." That was a surprise. "I didn't know you knew her that well." "I've been out with her. Well, with Cele, actually, but Dillian was there a couple of times. She's okay. Anyway, why not go?" "It just seems a bit . . ." "A bit what?" Sara rolled her eyes. "God Almighty, not again. It's just an invite for New Year he hasn't bought you a bloody ring." He stared at her in bemusement. She was in a bitch of a mood about something. Come to think of it, she hadn't been in the coffee room earlier. "What the fuck's wrong with you?" "Oh, nothing." She looked down at her hands. "Bad evening. Bad morning. Bad breakup in between. Basically not a good time to see happy people. Especially not happy people acting like idiots." "No need to take it out on me I only asked a fucking question. Forget I ever mentioned it." He reached out and touched the screen, and the message disappeared. "Do you want to go out somewhere tonight?" He saw the refusal coming, so he added, "Just you and me. I'll buy." It would give him an excuse to get away from the others after only one round. She hesitated, then shrugged. "Yeah. Yeah, sure." She looked up and smiled faintly. "Thanks." On her way out she said, "Go do the family thing. You might even enjoy it." So, on the strength of that, he said yes. ~~~ After he'd sent off the reply saying yes, he nearly sent another saying no. He decided the most

relaxing way to spend the next few days would be simply to pretend that it wasn't going to happen. Consequently, Toreth felt almost surprised to find himself sitting beside Warrick as the SimTech car drove them through New London. He'd been seriously delayed at work (not his fault, but that didn't matter), and although he'd been able to give Warrick plenty of warning, it made an inauspicious start to the trip. There had been another bad moment when he'd come down from his flat into the chilly afternoon air and seen the presents stacked in the back of the car. He had something for Warrick, which he'd bought weeks ago, but he hadn't even thought about anyone else. "I didn't buy anything," he'd said. "Bought, wrapped and labelled. I'll send you the bill when we get back." He should've known that Warrick's efficiency would be up to the job, but he'd had a fleeting feeling of disappointment at not having an excuse to back out. Rather than sit with nothing to do, Toreth had brought some work along. As he was officially on holiday, it wasn't anything too taxing, but he managed to pass the time easily enough in assessing interrogation transcripts from trainee sessions. He'd volunteered to do it because he liked to keep an eye on the upcoming juniors. This year's intake was shaping up quite well. He made a note of the names of a few of the more promising recruits. After New Year he'd see about wangling their assignment to his team during their hands-on training, to take a closer look at them. Even with full traffic guidance on the crowded roads, the New Year exodus slowed their progress. But eventually, deep into the suburban hinterlands of New London, they moved off the motorway. In the combination of street lighting and a light evening mist, the endless expanses of housing looked vaguely sinister. "How much further?" Warrick looked up from his own screen, where he was reading something technical-looking. "Mm?" He glanced out of the window. "Oh, nearly there. Few minutes." Toreth looked out of the window as well, trying to remember if he'd ever made it to this particular area during any of his investigations. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Warrick looking at him and smiling. "What?" Toreth asked. "Nothing. I can't believe you're here." Toreth laughed, sounding nervous even to himself. "Me neither." "I owe Sara an apology, you know. She said you'd do it. I told her you'd disappear at the last minute. I did wonder, to be honest, when you left the message saying you were going to be late." Toreth felt a glow of satisfaction, not much spoiled by the fact that Warrick was almost certainly saying it precisely for that effect. "So you don't know me as well as you think." "Apparently not." The car made another turn, into a narrower street lined with large houses, not flats. They were tightly packed, but they had spaces for private cars and a hint of small gardens behind. It looked very middle-class suburban and respectable and not at all somewhere Toreth felt at home. "What are they like?" he asked. "Like? Well . . ." Warrick hesitated, and it occurred to Toreth that he might have grounds for unease as well. That made him feel a little better.

"They're fine," he continued. "They're ah. You can see for yourself soon. We're here." ~~~ It wasn't until Dillian opened the door that Toreth wondered how many people 'family' was. He was moderately sure that Warrick's father was dead, and he remembered Warrick mentioning a niece during the Selman case, so presumably Dillian wasn't his only sibling, but beyond that he had no idea. It had all been in Warrick's security file, of course, but he'd long forgotten the details. It wasn't the kind of thing that interested him. He ought to have asked, or looked up their files, but he hadn't done either. Warrick didn't as a rule offer up unrequested information. Dillian looked delighted to see Warrick, and then somewhat less pleased to see Toreth standing next to him. "Come in." She gave Toreth a polite peck on the cheek and then a warmer hug to her brother. "We were wondering where you'd got to." "Sorry," Warrick said. "Unavoidable delay." Dillian looked at Toreth, but didn't say anything. The last couple of times Toreth had seen Dillian, which had been brief enough meetings, he'd gained the impression that his continued presence in Warrick's life was becoming unwelcome. As the door closed behind them, half a dozen children spilled into the hallway, heralded by a thunder of footsteps on the stairs and a shrieking chorus of "Uncle Keir!" Toreth looked round in what was nearly a bid to find an escape route only to see Dillian standing in front of the door, watching him with a slight smile. He must have looked as uncomfortable as he felt. Fortunately, the initial target of the attack was Warrick, who seemed remarkably unperturbed by it. After a short while, though, the presence of a stranger registered and the group clustered together for mutual protection. Six pairs of inquisitive eyes fixed on Toreth. "Who's he?" demanded a girl of about six, who looked as if she would grow up to be a clone of Dillian. "'He' is a friend of mine," Warrick said. "And 'his' name is Val Toreth." Her eyes widened. "He can't be. That's my name!" she exclaimed, somewhere between delight and indignation. "I shall endeavour not to get the two of you mixed up. Although that means I shall have to call you Valeria." The girl frowned. "No." After a moment's consideration she decided, "He can be Uncle Val." Toreth didn't look at Dillian, who sounded to be having trouble breathing. Warrick handed his bags to Dillian and picked the girl up, provoking a chorus of disappointment from the others. "I think that sounds like a very satisfactory solution," he said seriously, then addressed the rest of the flock. "Now, we really ought to go and say hello to the grown-ups. Why don't you show me where they are?" The pack closed in around the three adults as they went down the hallway. "Did you have to say that?" Toreth muttered, trying not to trip up over any of them. Valeria hung out of Warrick's arms, practically upside down, pulling faces at the other children. "Trust me, it's far, far better than letting her think you don't like it." "If you tell Sara, I'll kill you. And her." Although he might have to kill Sara anyway for talking

him into this. Warrick grinned. "I wouldn't dream of it." They reached a half-open door, and Warrick deposited Valeria back into the seething horde. To Toreth's intense relief, Dillian shepherded them away somewhere and relative silence fell. Now he could hear voices from beyond the door. When they entered the room, he couldn't decide if it was better or worse than the earlier scrutiny. The looks weren't quite as intent, but there was a lot more knowledge behind them. Who he was, what he did for a living, and what he was doing here, with Warrick. He wondered what Dillian had told them. There were far more people in the room than he had expected. Some of them were easy to place, like the woman who stood first and came over to greet them. She had greying dark hair and a determinedly friendly smile, and she simply had to be Dillian's mother. It was like looking at an ageenhanced picture in a long-standing open arrest file. "Keir, darling." She hugged him, and he returned it warmly. "We were starting to wonder if you were going to make it." "I'm sorry. Unavoidable, but we're here now." He let her go. "Mother, this is Val Toreth." "It's wonderful to meet you, Val." She took his hand in both of hers. "I'm Kailynna Avens, but please call me Kate. Let me introduce you to everyone." The rest of the introductions went past in a slight blur, and Toreth concentrated on getting the more important names stashed in his memory. Slightly to his surprise (and relief), he recognised two of the faces: Asher Linton and Cele. Asher smiled at him, and Cele waved and winked when Kate said her name. "I'm afraid it must be a little intimidating, meeting us all at once like this," Kate said at length. "Not at all," Toreth lied. "Good. I'm so sorry we haven't met before, but it's a long way, I suppose, and Keir's always so busy and, well . . ." The sentence trailed off and Toreth noticed Warrick's pained expression. "But you're here now," Kate finished decisively. "Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?" Please, God, yes. Just give me the whole fucking bottle. "That would be lovely, thanks." She reeled off a surprisingly long list of options and he picked something to fit in with the drinks he could see in evidence around the room. After supplying the gin and tonic, Kate disappeared somewhere with Warrick. Toreth braced himself for a barrage of questions about his life and work, but it didn't happen. The conversation simply returned to what he presumed had been in progress when he entered. At the same time, he didn't feel particularly excluded. The family seemed to be content to let him join in or not, as he pleased. The room, like the rest of the house he'd seen so far, was tastefully, if not recently, decorated. Light, plainly painted walls, dark floor. A few pictures that looked moderately expensive but not new, with the exception of a recent family portrait over the mantelpiece. The only other notable feature was a large rug, a thick pile with a simple geometric design in dark colours. Toreth guessed it was made from natural, undyed wool and hence notably more expensive than the rest of the decor. A gift from Warrick, he suspected. Professional assessment over, he looked round, fixing the names to faces. The woman Toreth had sat next to was Jen, greeted by Warrick as Aunt Jen, and clearly Kate's sister. A few years younger,

Toreth guessed, and with a sardonic smile that reminded him of Warrick. He caught himself starting to think she was attractive for her age, and stamped firmly on the idea. At least he could try to limit the trouble he could get himself into. She seemed friendly, but he had the distinct feeling of being carefully assessed. After shaking his hand, telling him to call her Jen, and enquiring whether he would mind if she called him Val (something Kate hadn't done, making him feel obliged to say it was fine), she said, "Have you met any of the family before?" "Only Dillian. And I know Asher Linton and Cele." She nodded, apparently unsurprised, and he felt suddenly certain that Dillian had been talking about him. Nothing to be done about that, except to make the best impression he could now. Although, briefly, he wondered why the hell he cared. "Did you know Cele is an artist?" Jen asked. When he nodded, she added, "She painted the portrait over there." She waved towards the family portrait and, obediently, he examined the picture more closely. Warrick, Dillian, Kate and Jen, posed to emphasise the startling family resemblance. Toreth didn't know or care a great deal about art in general, but he had a lot of experience with likenesses, and the portraits were superb not only accurate, but also capturing the personality of the subjects. Witnesses would find it easy to identify any of the four from the picture. "It's very good," he said. Jen nodded. "Cele is extremely successful these days." She smiled. "I certainly couldn't afford any of her work, but that was a gift for Kate's birthday." "From Warrick?" There was a brief pause, and then Jen nodded. "It was a joint gift from Keir and Dillian, actually." The name caused the hesitation, he decided. Warrick, here, clearly still referred to his late father. Well, they'd have to cope. Some compromises were out of the question. After a moment Jen said, "Did you get all the names, or would you like me to go round everyone again?" "Please." Within the family, the most surprising face belonged to a man identified as Warrick's brother. He looked so unlike Warrick and Dillian that Toreth wasn't at all surprised that he didn't share a surname with either of them. Tarin Marriot. Vague memories of the security file stirred, but failed to produce anything concrete. Had their mother remarried after Warrick's father's death? But Tarin looked older than Warrick and Dillian. He really ought to have looked at the file again. For one thing, even across the length of the generously sized room, he could feel the hostility coming from the man. He'd barely even nodded when Kate introduced them. Now he was concentrating on his conversation, ignoring Toreth pointedly. There were two other couples around Toreth's age, cousins of some kind, who turned out to own three of the six children between them. Valeria was Tarin's daughter, although his wife wasn't present, for reasons unknown (or at least unrevealed to strangers). Toreth found himself wondering why Tarin wasn't included in the family portrait. He considered asking Jen for some background, but decided that the question had the potential to cause far more trouble than it was worth. An older couple had also been introduced as an aunt and uncle. One of them was probably a

sibling of Kate's, or of one of her husbands. The man looked a little like Tarin, so say a brother of his father. It seemed somehow absolutely like Warrick that he would have an inconveniently complicated family. By the time he had a first approximation of the family arrangements fixed in his mind, Toreth could feel a slight headache starting. Why hadn't he looked it all up? Why had he accepted the invitation at all? The room was large, but with nearly twenty adults present, it was beginning to feel crowded. Normally he liked crowds, but this felt too loud, too unfamiliar. Or possibly too familiar. No. He wasn't following that thought. It wasn't even as if the gathering was anything like New Year at home or rather at his parents' home. For one thing, people were smiling. Drinking and smiling. Drinking, smiling and talking to each other. Sara's suggestion that he might even enjoy it seemed unlikely, but the situation wouldn't be improved by starting with the assumption that he would have a fucking awful time. One thing that set it apart from New Year with his parents was that only about half of the people present were relatives of one kind or another. The rest were assorted family friends, including Cele and Asher Linton. He wondered what a business partner of Warrick's was doing here, before he remembered that Asher was also an old friend of Dillian's. After a while Kate and Dillian reappeared, with a subset of the children. To Toreth's relief they seemed to have the hang of sitting quietly and not bothering the adults. Surprisingly, Dillian sat down on the sofa between himself and Jen. Perhaps she wanted to keep an eye on him. He listened to the conversations going on around him, contributing from time to time. He paced his drinking carefully, because Kate seemed happy to refill glasses as soon as they were empty. After half an hour or so, he even managed to coax a few sentences from Tarin, although, from his tone, conversation wouldn't be enough to fix whatever the hell his problem was. In fact, Toreth doubted anything would, short of a thorough m-f. Tempting idea. Warrick could have mentioned, he thought irritably. But then, on that logic, he could have asked. He decided to write it off and simply ignore Tarin. Toreth had been sitting in silence for a while when Valeria appeared beside him and, before he could fend her off, climbed onto his knees. He sat, frozen. She made herself comfortable, then turned dark, serious eyes up to him. "Tell me a story, Uncle Val." Beside him, Dillian snorted with suppressed laughter and hastily turned away to talk to Jen. "Um." Toreth's mind went blank. The only stories he knew were jokes, which were all highly unsuitable for six-year-olds. "I don't know any." She gave him a withering look, which was obviously part of the family heritage. "You must know one." He cast around, hit on something. "Do you know where Mars is?" "Yes. It's a planet." "Right. Well, I lived there for a while." "Auntie Dillian went to Mars," she said, plainly unimpressed. "She's an en-gin-eer." She pronounced each syllable carefully. "Are you?" "No." Perhaps it was the unaccustomed circumstances, or perhaps he hadn't been as careful with the drinks as he'd thought, but none of his usual half-truths came forward. "I'm a para-investigator."

She played with this fascinating new word for a while. "What's a para-'vestigator?" she asked at length. Oh, Christ. I investigate crimes, cover them up for corporates, and sometimes I torture prisoners. Your uncle hates it, but he fucks me anyway because I can make him come so hard he practically passes out. "Er . . . I ask people questions." "All day?" From her expression, Valeria considered that to be about the most wonderful job she could imagine. "More or less." Time to change the subject. Before he could even attempt it, the girl turned round and addressed the nearest adult, who of course was Dillian. "Auntie Dillian?" She reached out and tugged her sleeve. "Auntie Dilly? I'm going to be a para-'vestigator." Unfortunate that the announcement coincided with a lull in the conversation. Dillian went ashen pale, then spots of colour flushed high up on her cheeks. She stood up quickly, looking round as if desperately hoping that no one else had heard, then snatched Valeria up out of his lap. "Let's go help Uncle Keir with dinner." Wonderful. Dillian even more pissed off with him, and it wasn't even his fault this time. She should have taken the little brat away earlier, instead of laughing about it. Before he could frame a suitable apology or explanation, she had left the room. A couple of the adults followed her out, including Tarin. He looked furious enough to choke. There was a brief silence, and then the conversation slowly started up again. This time Toreth didn't try to join in. He had just decided to go out to get some fresh air, to find Warrick, or possibly to go home when Warrick opened the door. "You'll all be glad to hear that dinner's ready." ~~~ In the dining room, he was mildly surprised to see the long table laden with food, but no place settings. A buffet, of course, because even considering the size of the table it would be too small for everyone to sit down. As a guest, he seemed to be expected to go first. Picking up a plate, he inspected the food. He'd guessed that Kate might be the source of Warrick's enthusiasm for fiddly recipes, but instead the dishes on offer seemed rather plain, but looked good, with plenty of fresh bread. The main item was a couple of large heated pots filled with something stewlike. His memory eventually dredged up the name cassoulet. The last time he'd eaten it had been at an expensive restaurant to which he'd taken an Int-Sec Internal Investigator in ultimately fruitless pursuit of a career-enhancing fuck. There it had consisted of a tiny portion with unnecessary decoration. Here there was more than enough, even considering the number of guests. He filled his plate, and looked for somewhere to sit. Warrick came over. "We usually go into the kitchen." 'We' turned out to be Dillian (who looked less than pleased to see him but didn't say anything), Cele and Asher. Warrick uncorked a bottle of wine and filled glasses. Then he checked his watch and raised his glass. "Happy New Year, less three hours and twenty-seven minutes."

They toasted the time and sat down to eat. With Cele, Dillian and Warrick at the same table, Toreth reflected, you couldn't fault the scenery. He tried a mouthful of cassoulet, then turned to Warrick. "It's very good. One of yours?" He shook his head. "Mother. She does it every year." "Everyone comes round for dinner tonight," Dillian said. "Friends and family. And then the family stays over for New Year's Day. We have a fancy lunch then. Keir and Aunt Jen do that." Setting it out for the outsider. Warrick turned to Dillian. "Mother said you'd been offered a job at the university?" She nodded. "Visiting lectureship. I've decided to accept." "Won't you get bored, stuck here on Earth?" Toreth asked, wondering how much more of her he'd get to see. In terms of time, that was, obviously. "It'll make a nice change of pace, I think. And being at the university, I'll be able to see Keir. And the two of you," she said to Asher and Cele. No mention of him. "What about Europa?" Warrick asked. "The main contract's sunk without trace in a bureaucratic quagmire somewhere in the Department of Planning and Development. As far as I can tell, because it'll be the first European installation there, no one can work out the procedure for licensing it. Either that, or there's another corporation trying to steal the contract." She shrugged. "Not my problem, anyway. If it ever resurfaces, the university will release me, but I doubt it'll happen now." Asher shook her head. "I hope you had decent penalty clauses." "Oh, yes. They'll be paying my fees, whatever happens in the end. Best kind of job, actually." The conversation turned financial, a topic that bored Toreth intensely. Cele didn't seem to have much of an interest in it, either, because she turned to him and asked, "How's my favourite Seven Inches?" "You're still short." She laughed. "If you say so." "They're very well. And so am I. You?" "Not bad, and better for seeing you." She looked round the table. "My God. Between you, Dilly and Keir there are so many beautiful cheekbones here I could die and go straight to heaven. Don't suppose I could persuade you to commission a picture of the three of you, so I could justify spending the time on it?" "Jen said you were expensive." She grinned. "The pictures aren't cheap, either. But I'll give you a discount." "I'll think about it." Apart from the expense, it wasn't actually a bad idea for a future New Year present. Warrick would probably love it. Just the two of them, without Dillian, would be better, considering the poses that sprang to mind. Or, on the other hand, maybe not. He'd always liked the idea of Dillian . . . he caught the thought, which wasn't conducive to his resolution to behave. "Do you come here every year?" he asked Cele, as a distraction. She nodded. "Hardly missed one, ever since I first met Dilly." Someone else who called her Dilly. He'd never dared try it. "Where did you meet?"

"School. Ash, Dilly and me. Ash's rich parents were always off God knows where, and mine are Service, so Kate started inviting us here. Now it's one of her Family Traditions, like Dilly said." Dillian looked round. "Sorry?" "Not you, gorgeous. I was just telling Seven Inches here that Kate's big on family traditions, bless her." She winked at him. "You'll turn into one before long, you wait and see." The idea didn't appeal, and from the brief expression of dismay on Dillian's face, she felt the same. So it was purely to spite her that he said, "I'll look forward to it." Cele nodded approvingly. "Keeps the numbers up. Some people have been slacking off lately." That seemed to be directed at Asher, who shook her head while she dealt with a mouthful of food. "Unfair," she said finally. She held up her left hand, displaying her wedding ring. "We can't all do what we want every year. And I only miss when Dilly's off-world, like last year." "I was here." Cele looked mournful. "I get lonely, you know." "And I'm always here," Warrick said. "Even if no one else is." "I see you at work almost every day. That's more than enough." Asher took a mouthful of wine, held the glass up to the light. "This is awfully good." By the time they'd finished eating, Toreth decided that he'd done very well. He was still passably sober, which was no mean achievement with the available quantities of wine. He hadn't said anything to Asher that could conceivably cause offence, and it was hard to imagine anything that would offend Cele. He hadn't even made any excessively suggestive remarks to Dillian. Except for the fuckup with Valeria earlier not his fault things weren't going too badly. Now all he had to do was keep it up for another day and a bit, and he could go home. ~~~ Toreth started the night with good intentions. The house was crowded and he wasn't too sure how thick the walls were. He didn't fancy the idea of sitting through breakfast with Kate and more especially Tarin after one of Warrick's more vocal performances. Their sleeping together without fucking wasn't such a rare occurrence these days. Sometimes they were even sober enough that it had to qualify as deliberate. This, Toreth decided, would be one of those nights. Kate had given them a room together, complete with the double bed in which Toreth was lying. Nice arrangement, if slightly disconcerting. Of course, Warrick was thirty-four, and so it wasn't really any of her business who he had in bed, but still, it was vaguely unsettling to imagine her making the decision, choosing the room. Thinking about them as . . . Maybe she hadn't. Maybe this was the room Warrick would have had anyway. Maybe even his old room, from when he'd last lived here. Toreth looked round it. Dark carpet, light walls, bed, two chests of drawers and a wardrobe in an unobjectionable dark blue. Nothing said 'teenage boy's room'. On the other hand, that just meant Kate had redecorated the place. There could still be other clues lying around. He slipped out of bed and started opening drawers. Most were empty. Some held old pairs of curtains, carefully pressed. He decided against searching underneath them. A couple of drawers held the clothes they had brought, neatly folded Warrick's handiwork. The presents had already been added to the pile in the living room. Finally he opened the wardrobe. Empty, apart from their hanging clothes and a dusty box of

unpaired shoes. All of which left him no closer to discovering whether this was Warrick's old room or not. Of course, he could just ask Warrick. He thought about it for a moment longer, then dismissed the idea. No point getting into long, boring family history crap. He couldn't even remember why he might have cared. He heard Warrick's footsteps in the corridor, closed the wardrobe, and jumped back into bed. Before Warrick opened the door, Toreth heard Dillian's voice. "Keir? Have you got a minute?" The footsteps halted, then grew fainter. Dillian's room must be somewhere nearby. Minutes passed, and Toreth wondered what the two of them were talking about. Voices raised in indistinct laughter and then faded out again. He imagined them sitting together, side by side, dark hair and dark eyes. On the bed, maybe. Warrick in his dressing gown, Dillian in . . . a dressing gown as well? A nightdress? With her generally excellent taste, he'd be willing to bet she owned some nice nightclothes. Satin. Plain, probably, as she wasn't the lacy type. Starting to think about Dillian was dangerous, but she was so intriguing and attractive that it was difficult not to. Not that Toreth ever intended to do anything about it. For one thing, she wasn't interested in him, and at the moment the disinterest seemed to be verging on hostility. Which just made the whole idea more fascinating. What would it take, he wondered, to change her mind? Stopping having anything to do with her brother, for a start. Practical, but dull. Beyond the fact that she was perfectly fuckable in her own right, the idea of having her was so compelling only because of Warrick. They were so alike, it would be a fascinating comparison. Fucking her, then Warrick. Warrick, then her. Or, as Sara had told him once, what he really wanted was to have them both at the same time. Cele's comment at the table had brought the idea back in full force. God, talk about things to regret on your deathbed that you'd never done. Spending too much longer on this train of thought would wreck his plans for a quiet night, providing Warrick ever turned up. Although of course, on his own, he could be perfectly quiet. Nothing wrong with that. He was hard already, thinking about her. Them. Imagining bodies captured on canvas: dark hair, pale skin, deep eyes. All the time in the world to look at limbs and faces. He propped himself comfortably on the pillows, arm behind his head, and started to touch himself. Just lightly at first. Make it last nicely. He had plenty of time, because when Warrick and Dillian got talking they could be hours. Warrick and Dillian. She was so like her brother and so different. What would she enjoy? What would she want? What would make her want him? As usual, though, the speculation was turning him on too much to waste time lingering on the setup. Simply begin from where she'd agreed. Moment of surrender his favourite point in the hunt. Sometimes the fuck itself was a disappointment, although he bet it wouldn't be with Dillian. He started off with her clothed, couldn't be bothered, and stripped her instead. It wasn't difficult to imagine her body. He'd seen her in a few tight evening dresses, and once at the swimming pool, skin shining with water. Then he had to decide where. He toyed with a few options before settling on Warrick's flat, because the bed was a good size, and because it was easy to imagine. No need to waste time on creating the detail.

And because it was easy to picture Warrick there as well. He'd never bothered trying to come up with a how or why, however implausible. By this point in the fantasy he never cared anyway. He was simply there, with them. Warrick, naked, he could call to mind any time. Warrick in any number of states and positions, in fact. A never-ending source of entertainment in boring meetings and interrogations. The picture changed from pure imagination into the memory of fucking Warrick over the desk in his office at I&I the day they'd dealt with Marian Tanit. One of his favourite fantasy fucks. Warrick hadn't wanted it, or rather hadn't wanted to want it he'd been keen enough in the end. He changed the picture around, Warrick fucking him, hands holding him tight from behind. Now it was easy to slip Dillian into the scene, on the desk in front of him. Yes. Slipping into her easily and her head going back, offering her throat, exactly like she did sometimes when she laughed. Getting close. Warrick hard and deep inside him, arm around his chest (he moved his own arm to mirror the embrace), and Dillian . . . yes . . . Dillian . . . "Couldn't wait for me?" Toreth's eyes flew open, but between shock and desperate arousal he couldn't produce a word. In fact, it took a few seconds for him to be able to focus on the speaker. Warrick leaned against the closed door, arms folded and expression utterly unreadable. What had he heard? Had he said anything out loud? Fuck, he had no idea. He couldn't even manage to think what was likely. Dillian, probably, which was unfortunate enough. But, he hoped, not Warrick's name at the same time. That would be tricky to explain. No, actually, the explanation would be very, very obvious. And right. He doubted Warrick would approve. Eventually his language processing functions came back on line. "How long have you been there?" he asked, praying for a clue. "Long enough." Bastard. What had he heard? "Was I being too loud?" "Not at all." Warrick smiled slightly. "I couldn't hear you from outside. Or in Dillian's room, which is probably a good thing, or she might have wondered what you wanted her for." One out of two, anyway. Fuck. Warrick sounded remarkably calm, considering, and that was rarely a good sign. The silence stretched out until he decided to try starting a sentence, without having any idea of where it was going, and hope for a helpful interruption. "Sorry, I didn't " Warrick shook his head, the faint, impossible-to-interpret smile still in place. "It's hardly a surprise. I've heard it before. You talk in your sleep occasionally, you know." "I do not!" Not so much a denial but a protest at the very idea. "How the hell would you know? It's not often, and it's not usually particularly interesting. In general, it's more of a request list, and I've heard most of it before, when you're awake, so from that point of view it lacks novelty." His tone was pure disdain, but one of the drawbacks of thin dressing gowns is that they make it difficult to lie about interest. At least for certain definitions and consequences of interest. Toreth smiled at him, stretching a little, watching Warrick's eyes follow his movements. Might

as well take every advantage he had. "I dream about turning up to work naked sometimes. Doesn't mean I'd do it. Don't you trust me?" he added, with a stab at innocent enquiry. Warrick laughed. "Trust you?" There was, Toreth thought, such a thing as overdoing the disbelief. Warrick looked at him for a moment, then shook his head. "With some things. But with Dilly? Not this side of clinical insanity. Luckily, I do trust her." No closer to knowing whether he'd said Warrick's name as well or not. If he had, it would probably need an apology, or something. But if he started the apology and Warrick didn't know . . . but if Warrick did know and he didn't say anything . . . Fuck it. He didn't care anyway. "If you don't want me to think about her, you'd better come over here and distract me," Toreth said. Warrick's eyebrows shot up. "Don't we usually finish the argument before we get on to the makeup fuck?" he asked, although he sounded far from averse to the idea. "Are we arguing?" "I thought so." Warrick switched off the main light, leaving the dim glow from the bedside lights. Then he shed the dressing gown, walked over, and stood by the bed, looking at Toreth looking at him. "But I'm willing to consider that I might be wrong." "Makes a fucking change." Toreth pulled him down into bed, rolled him over and pinned him down just long enough to feel him start to react to the restraint, then reluctantly let him go. "How would you like to be distracted?" Warrick asked, somewhat breathless. Holding Warrick down and fucking him until he screamed the house down would do the job nicely. With a display of willpower he found mildly impressive, he said, "Quietly." Warrick's blinding smile almost made him change his mind. "I'll do my best. No promises." So they practised quiet fucking. Face-to-face, pressed together, delicious friction of skin on skin. Moving slowly and then not so slowly. Not-quite fucking, as Toreth thought of it. But even if it wasn't quite, it felt good, and Warrick smelt good he always did, of course and tasted good. And looked good. Not shifting his gaze for a second, he slid his hand down and took hold of Warrick's cock. Watching his face, hearing him gasp. Somehow he always forgot how much he enjoyed this. They should do it more often. They'd shifted so that his own cock wasn't getting the contact that he needed. On the other hand, it was good to have the slight detachment to enjoy watching Warrick's reactions. And with one of them holding back there was at least a chance of keeping the noise down. A small chance. Warrick was biting his lip hard enough to whiten the flesh around his teeth, but also moaning deep in his throat, a steadily rising note in time with the movement of Toreth's hand. Toreth was so used to the sound he hadn't noticed how loud it was getting. They were still lying on their sides, but with a bit of an effort he managed to get his other hand free and pressed it lightly over Warrick's mouth. He felt him shiver in response, arching into him. Warrick's head went back and he moaned again, louder. Then he shook the hand away. "Don't do that," he gasped. "You're making a lot of noise."

"I don't . . . mmh, yes, don't stop . . . but that's . . . that won't help." Irresistible impulse. Toreth leaned forwards, without losing the rhythm, and pressed his mouth firmly against Warrick's ear. "It will," he whispered, "if I do it harder." Warrick shuddered again, moving faster, pressing closer. "Oh, yes. Yes, do it. Do it. I " Toreth got his hand back in place just in time to muffle what was nearly a shout. Afterwards, he lay still, listening to Warrick's breathing slowing, trying to be patient. He licked his fingers clean and wondered vaguely whether there was much of a mess. He should probably find some tissues or a towel or something before it got everywhere and . . . The fact that he was worrying about the state of the sheets suddenly struck him as terribly funny. The hastily stifled laugh roused Warrick, who looked up, then grinned. "I know," he said. "I feel as though I ought to be sneaking back to my own room afterwards. It's like being sixteen again." "Fourteen." Although Toreth bet the circumstances were very different. Warrick shook his head. "You're so damned competitive," he said, without heat. "Whereas you, of course, are happy to come second every time." Apparently stuck for a reply, Warrick changed tactics. He shifted round and began to rub his hip against Toreth, who moaned appreciatively. There were worse ways to lose an argument. Toreth thrust back hard, holding Warrick close. He still wanted to fuck him, really, but Warrick clearly wasn't in the mood yet and he couldn't wait. He needed to . . . to get it over with. While he was locked in his fantasy he hadn't thought about where they were. Now things were all too real and he was too aware of the crowded house. He could almost imagine that he heard distant breathing. If he hadn't been so hot and so desperately unfinished, he might have given up. But he needed it, wanted it so much that it couldn't take long and . . . who was in the next room? This was ridiculous. He'd fucked people while their partners were in the next room. Once, years ago, he'd fucked a girl in the dark at a crowded party, and he'd been able hear her boyfriend talking to his friends couple of metres away. There was no reason, no earthly reason, for feeling like this now. But he simply He stopped moving, panting and frustrated. Warrick pulled away a little and pushed his sweat-damp hair back from his forehead. "What?" "I . . . can't." He felt his face heat and hoped the light was too dim for it to show. Warrick raised an eyebrow and smiled, white teeth in the semi-dark, wickedness incarnate. "Can't?" "Look, it's just being here . . . no, hang on, don't " Warrick had already disappeared beneath the sheets. "Shh. I'll bet you tea in bed tomorrow morning that you can," he said, somewhat indistinctly. Oh, God. Mouth and hands working on him, passionate and skilful. After a couple of minutes, 'can't' began to seem less likely, and so did 'shh'. He grabbed for a pillow, pressed his face into it, and tried not to think about noise or about anything else except the exquisite tension pulling tight inside him, almost painful. Yet he couldn't banish the awareness of the house around them and the people there, holding him back. Dillian. He focused on her. It was Dillian next door. Dillian lying in bed, just the thickness of the wall away. Dillian listening to them fucking. Yes, this was better.

Dillian, trying to ignore them at first. Turned on by it, of course, and knowing that she shouldn't be. Giving in at last and . . . he stumbled briefly over naked or nightdress, then brushed the detail aside. Hand between her legs, thighs tensing, hips lifting. Other hand over her mouth so that they wouldn't hear her guilty excitement . . . then a saliva-slicked finger slipped inside him, and a few seconds later the heat washed through him, driving away any thoughts of 'can't'. A groan turned into an almost surprised-sounding cry as he could and did. Thank God for the pillow, he thought hazily, not caring that much in the warm afterglow. And then: I wonder if she did hear? Warrick resurfaced, licking his lips. "Told you," he murmured. Toreth returned his pillow with more force than was strictly necessary. "Yeah, yeah. You're very good." Trying not to sound as if he meant it, because one thing Warrick didn't need for New Year was a larger ego. "Mm." Warrick stretched out beside him and closed his eyes. "Don't forget my tea in the morning." "Don't worry, I won't." As he dozed off, Warrick warm against him, he decided he might as well make a cup for Dillian while he was at it. Then he'd be able to find out what she wore in bed. ~~~ The answer proved to be, disappointingly, that Dillian got up earlier than he did. When he went downstairs to pay off his debt he found her alone in the kitchen, fully dressed, having breakfast. "Good morning," he offered. "Morning." He looked around the kitchen, out of his depth as usual. Far too many cupboards. "I'm supposed to be making tea." She pointed around the room. "Water. Pot. Tea. Cups. Milk. Sugar." Very friendly. Even less friendly than yesterday. He tried to think back to work out what the hell he'd done. Probably nothing more than outstay his welcome with Warrick. On that score, last night might not have improved her mood, although she'd never seemed that prudish, at least not from Sara's description of their occasional evenings out. Maybe it was a family thing. ~~~ After delivering the tea and giving the matter some thought, Toreth decided to spend the rest of the morning in bed. He was, after all, theoretically on holiday. Early rising was for work. He had no idea whether he'd be missed or not he suspected not but he didn't care anyway. After making a half-hearted attempt to persuade Warrick to stay with him, he set the alarm to give him time to get ready for lunch and fell asleep at once. When the alarm rang he cancelled it, rolled over, and went right back to sleep without even noticing that he wasn't at home. A knock on the door, some time later, barely registered. It wasn't until the knock was repeated more loudly and the door opened and closed that he almost woke up. The bed jolted as someone sat down. "Fuck off," he mumbled. This elicited a giggle, which most definitely did not belong to Warrick.

"Mummy says that's a very naughty word," Valeria informed him. Toreth groaned. I bet mummy fucking does. "What the " He groped for something which wasn't a naughty word, gave up, and started again. "What are you doing in here?" "Uncle Keir says to say that it's nearly lunch and it's time to get up," she said, parrot-like. Uncle Keir was going to get his fucking neck wrung when Toreth found him. "All right." He finally managed to open his eyes, only to find her staring at him solemnly from the far end of the bed, with an expression that reminded him unnervingly of Dillian. "Thanks. Well, go on, then. Out." He made vague shooing gestures until she went away. She was nowhere in sight when he came back from the bathroom, but after he'd dressed he found her on the stairs, obviously lying in wait for him. Jesus, didn't she have anything better to do? It was like having his own, somewhat undersized stalker. He stopped on the stairs beside her. She was doing something with some dolls, and when she saw him she stood up, dropping them. They strewed themselves over several steps, presenting, in the current piss-take safety phrase at the office, 'a present and avoidable hazard to the well-being of personnel'. "I think you ought to pick those up," he said. "Why?" "Because someone will trip over them." She opened her mouth to start a protest and he continued in one of his more emphatic professional voices, "And because I'm telling you to." He thought he might have overdone it rather, because her eyes went wide and she started gathering dolls with speed. Good. Maybe she'd stay the hell away in future. While she was busy, he made his escape. ~~~ When he found the rest of them, gathered in the living room, he discovered he had been holding up yet another family tradition, the opening of New Year gifts before lunch. There was clearly a wellestablished order of precedence, and once again he felt somewhat lost. So he sat quietly, opening gifts as they were offered by Dillian, who seemed to have responsibility for present distribution. Not that he had many: a pair of thin leather gloves from Warrick, perfect fit (and carefully pitched as expensive but not excessive), a bottle of spirits from Kate, and, to his surprise, aftershave from Dillian. He wondered briefly what message that was supposed to convey, finally settling on 'I had no idea what to buy you, but I felt obliged to get something'. In any case, he wasn't interested in his own gifts. He was waiting for Warrick to open one particular box. Neatly wrapped in red-and-cream paper, it blended innocuously with the other gifts, although Toreth hadn't wrapped it himself. By a happy coincidence, the assistant in the shop had asked if it was a gift, and then wrapped it without further comment. It took quite a while for the box to be handed to Warrick. He read the label, then looked over to Toreth. He could read Warrick's mind, as clear as thirty-two-point font. 'Please, whatever it is, just tell me that it isn't chains'. Then he could hardly stop himself laughing as Warrick shook the box slightly, relief evident when it made no sound.

Toreth smiled, not aiming to make it reassuring. "Go on." He watched as Warrick unwrapped the paper and opened the box, his face still revealing more apprehension than anticipation. The present had been something of an inspiration and, coincidentally, supremely suitable for this occasion. A dark brown leather belt with an old-fashioned buckle in silver. Dressy, but not excessively so. The only unusual feature was the holes for the buckle, which continued along the whole length of the belt. From his expression, it took Warrick almost three seconds to grasp the implication. "Very nice. Thanks," he said. He coiled it up again, slowly, his fingers lingering, unwilling to release the leather. "I thought you'd like it." Then, as the group's attention turned to where one of the children had begun to unwrap a present, he caught Warrick's gaze and mouthed, 'later'. Warrick swallowed and looked away, but he was smiling. Toreth smiled, too, thinking of the journey back the next day, and of more fun ways to pass the time than reading. He was just about to count the gift as an unqualified success when he glanced round and saw Tarin watching them. He was almost shocked by Tarin's expression: unconcealed anger, bordering on hatred. For Warrick or for him? What was his fucking problem? ~~~ Lunch was the thing he'd dreaded most since agreeing to come here. The point in the New Year proceedings which stirred the worst memories, of being trapped at the table with no escape. Old memories, now, but no less unpleasant for that. There were no names at the places, but everyone headed automatically for seats. Family tradition, no doubt, he thought sourly. He'd decided to wait until everyone else had sat down when he felt a touch on his arm and turned to find Kate smiling at him. "Sit here, Val." She indicated a place near the head of the table and, for a moment, he thought she was suggesting he sit next to Tarin. Frankly, he'd rather starve. Then he spotted Tarin at the far end of the table and sat down, quickly and gratefully. Kate herself took the seat at the end beside him. He was also relieved to find Warrick seated next to him, and even happy to see Dillian opposite him. She still looked pissed off to have him there, but at least she was familiar. He'd thaw her out again, and it would give him something to concentrate on. For the moment, there was also the food, the starters already set out and showing evidence of Warrick's meticulous handiwork. He complimented Kate on them anyway, giving her a chance to pass the praise on to Warrick and Jen. In doing so, she called him Val again. He'd had one moment to correct her, at the first introduction, and now it was far too late. Only his parents called him Val, and it had a kind of inevitability that Kate would as well. It didn't matter, though not really. "I hope your mother doesn't mind my stealing you away for New Year, Val?" she asked, with an almost miraculously bad choice of topic. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Warrick's sudden stillness. "Hardly, since she doesn't know I'm here," Toreth said, keeping his voice dispassionate. "I

haven't spoken to her for, um, five years. Five and a half." Sometimes he didn't know why he didn't just lie and say they were dead. There was a long moment of silence before Kate managed a rather glassy smile and said, "Well, good. I shan't have to feel guilty, then." He expected another silence after that, but Warrick stepped into the gap and began relaying the latest developments at SimTech to his mother, who apparently knew about the corporation in some detail. More than Toreth did, by the sound of it. After the investigation had finished he'd forgotten the specifics as quickly as he forgot technical details he learned for any case. At least it meant that for the moment he could listen, make the occasional comment, and not have to say too much. But at some point he would have to talk to Kate, since he doubted he'd put her off permanently. She wanted to talk to him, or even if not actually wanted, then she'd set herself the task of ensuring that he was made welcome. What the hell could he say to her? Trying for a measure of detachment, he applied himself to the problem. What could you talk about to your regular fuck's mother? The fucking itself was obviously out, which was a pity because it covered more or less everything he and Warrick did together. 'I chain him to the wall, and we ' Don't even think about it. Warrick would kill him. The sim was safe. I&I was probably dangerous he certainly didn't plan to bring work up himself. He didn't mind answering questions about it, but most people didn't want to hear the answers, even if they'd asked in the first place. Eventually Kate turned to him, obviously determined to try again. "Have you spent much time in the sim, Val?" "A little." Fucking your son, mostly. Turn the question back listening was easier and safer than talking. "Have you tried it?" "Once, yes. I'm afraid I was terribly ill. Motion sickness. I've never been very good with that sort of thing, ever since I was a little girl." "You could have tried again," Warrick said. "It's nothing more than a question of habituation. We've never had a subject yet who couldn't be acclimatised." "Keir looks on me as a challenge." Kate smiled, leaning towards Toreth a little, confidential. "Or possibly an experiment." "I don't like wasting an interesting piece of data, that's all," Warrick said. Kate rolled her eyes. "Never have children, Val. You give birth to them, you bring them up, and then in the end you find you're 'interesting data'." This was definitely getting easier. "I know that one. The first time I met him I was data, too." Then he thought, Jesus, as long as she doesn't want to know what kind of data. Fortunately, Warrick spoke before Kate could ask him to elaborate. "Rubbish." He didn't seem at all put out. "Come down and stay with me, Mother, why don't you? You always pretend you don't see enough of me. The sim will only take half an hour or so a day. You'll have plenty of time to do other things." "Perhaps I will, darling, if you'd like me to." She smiled at Toreth, including him in the semiquestion.

What the hell did it have to do with him? He returned the smile automatically. "It'd be a pleasure to see you again." Tarin remained silent for most of the meal, but the rest of the family was more than capable of making up for him. Toreth found himself dividing most of his time between Kate and Warrick. Then, towards the end of the meal, while everyone else ate dessert and he nibbled cheese and biscuits, he happened to catch Jen's voice, calling up from the end of the table. "I thought you were going to Europa in the New Year, Dillian? Didn't you have a contract?" Dillian sighed. "Everything's on permanent hold. We were ready to go and then there was trouble with the Department of Development. Something to do with off-world investment regulations." "The bureaucrats triumph again," Tarin said. "It wouldn't be such a problem if the Administration wasn't so chronically corrupt. The whole system needs reform." Silence. It wasn't that everyone looked at Toreth; it was that everyone didn't. He sighed silently. This was one of the reasons he didn't socialise much outside work. Even if he made a habit of reporting essentially harmless comments of that kind which he didn't he didn't do it when he was on bloody holiday. But since there was nothing he could say that wouldn't make the situation worse, he simply sat and sipped the remains of his wine until Kate gathered herself. "Would anyone like coffee?" she asked. The question generated an unwarranted amount of discussion, but at least the conversation started up again. Kate started to rise, but Warrick beat her to it. "No, don't get up. I'll make it." After a minute or so, Tarin followed him out of the room and the atmosphere around the table eased noticeably. Kate stood up again and started to gather plates. Toreth thought a show of willingness might be politic. "Let me." She returned his smile. "Thank you, Val." Unnecessary name use. Her continued determination to make him welcome left him, again, uncomfortable. Taking the plates from her, he gathered the rest up quickly. He had a moment's worry that Valeria would follow him but her attention was fortunately engaged by a second helping of trifle. He stopped outside the kitchen door, trying to open it without dropping the plates, when he heard the voices from within. Warrick and Tarin. He stood still, not letting the precariously balanced stack rattle. "You've been avoiding me," Tarin said. "Don't be ridiculous. I've been in the same house since yesterday." "Avoiding speaking to me, then." "Now, why would I want to do that?" "You know perfectly well why. Him." "That rather presupposes I care about your opinion of 'him'." Toreth could imagine the sneer which went with that tone of voice. It might have made even him think twice about pressing on with a conversation. Tarin seemed to be immune, or oblivious. "Why did you bring him here?" "He has a name, which, in case you had forgotten, is Toreth. Use it."

"Don't think that'll shut me up. Why did you bring Toreth here, then?" Brief pause. "Mother suggested I might like to invite him." "I don't believe you. She wouldn't." "Well, if you don't believe me, there's very little point in your talking to me, is there? I would suggest that you go and ask her if it weren't for the fact that it is none of your concern. Not who I choose to be with, and not who gets invited to this house. Which, incidentally, is still Mother's house." Warrick's anger rang through every syllable of his brittle, overarticulating voice. Tarin sounded exactly the same, to a degree that nearly made Toreth smile. The physical resemblance might not be there, but the temperament clearly was. "The house may belong to her, but I live here, too. If she did invite him, you should have said no. I cannot believe you could do it not even you. It's bad enough that you're, well . . ." "Fucking him," Warrick supplied icily. "Do you have to be so yes, that's bad enough. But here? Did you hear what Val said yesterday?" "Yes. That wasn't his fault." "He told her what he does!" Tarin's tone was pure outrage now. "She's six years old, Keir, and he told her what he does for a living. My daughter." "It's just a job," Warrick snapped, defensive. Toreth held his breath through a long silence. "Please tell me you don't mean that," Tarin said eventually, so quietly that Toreth could barely hear him. "No. No, I don't. And I didn't . . . to be honest it never occurred to me that he'd accept the invitation." Toreth could hear the wry smile in Warrick's voice. "I don't know which of us was more surprised." "Don't try to get away from the point. You can do whatever the hell you like away from my house, however disgusting. I don't care and I don't want to know. But you had no right to bring him here." "For the very last time, it's none of your fucking business." Warrick sounded furious now, struggling not to raise his voice. Then Jen's voice right beside him said, "Val?" This time the plates almost went, but she caught the stack as it started to slide. From inside the kitchen, he heard Tarin's voice, on a rising note of fury. "I will not tolerate being unable to express my opinions in my own house without having to take into account the presence of some psychopathic Administration torturer who " Jen reached past Toreth and pushed open the door. Tarin's voice cut off in mid-sentence. "After you, Val," she said clearly. When he stepped into the kitchen the two of them broke off their confrontation to look at him, Warrick hiding the anger almost straight away, Tarin taking a moment longer. Jen followed him in. "Is the coffee ready yet?" she asked as Toreth set the heavy plates down, glad to be rid of the weight. His hands shook slightly from the strain of holding them still. "Yes, nearly," Warrick said in a voice so calm as to be disconcerting. "I was looking for the cups. You've reorganised all the cupboards."

"They're over here," Jen said. Tarin turned and walked out without a word. Warrick and his aunt exchanged looks, making Toreth feel suddenly excluded. "Sorry," Warrick said. She smiled. "No blood on the floor this time. That's a good start." Jen turned to Toreth. "Kate tells me that we got through more wine than she expected last night. I volunteered to hunt down some more. Would you like to come with me?" Technically it was a request, but the tone made it more of an order. Toreth didn't particularly fancy the idea, but it seemed preferable to where he was right now. Warrick's expression suggested he wanted to say something probably to ask what he'd heard and Toreth wasn't in the mood. Not looking at Warrick, Toreth said, "Of course." ~~~ They took the SimTech car, and they travelled in silence for a minute or so before Jen spoke. "I feel I ought to apologise for Tarin. I'm sorry you had to hear that. I only caught the end, but I can't imagine whatever went before was any better." "It's my own fault for listening," Toreth said in his blandest talking-to-management voice. She smiled slightly. "Well, I suppose you've got a point there, but I'm still sorry." "Please, there's nothing for you to apologise about. You didn't say it." He spread his hands. "I assure you that I've heard a lot worse." Her expression frosted slightly. "No doubt." "I'm sorry if I've caused difficulties by coming here." He wanted to say that Warrick hadn't warned him, which was perfectly true, but even an appearance of trying to shift the blame in that direction would antagonise her further. He smiled apologetically. "Kate ought not to have to spend New Year keeping the peace." That brought a thaw. "There'd be plenty of peacekeeping whether you were here or not, I'm afraid." She hesitated for a moment, poised on a question, and then asked, "I wondered if Warrick had . . . said anything to you? About Tarin." He went for the only practical response, which was honesty. "He's never even mentioned his name." Jen sighed. "No surprise there. Tarin was never very close to Keir or Dilly. Just before Keir went to university things grew a lot worse, and I've never really understood why. Would you be interested in hearing a bit of family history?" Toreth thought the odds were quite low, particularly if Tarin was heavily involved. "If you'd like to tell me." "Not like, no, but . . . I thought it might help. I'll try to give you the short version at least." She fell silent for a few moments, obviously organising her account. "Kate married quite young to Marriot, Tarin's father. They had Tarin and then they simply drifted apart. He had, ah, political interests, and Kate was never interested in that sort of thing. And then, when Tarin was six no, seven, I think his father died. A car accident." There was a brief pause, which he filled by saying, "I'm sorry."

"So was I, which rather surprised me at the time. I'd never really liked him, to be perfectly honest. But then, very soon afterwards, Kate met Leo Keir and Dillian's father." She shook her head. "It was one of those things. Kate would tell you he asked her to marry him the first day they met, which isn't quite true, because it took a week. But I won't bore you with the details. Keir was born, and then Dilly only a year later. I moved into the house with them, to help with the children." She smiled. "There are some photographs I must show you, when Keir isn't around to stop me." Toreth had difficulty imagining anything less appealing than baby pictures of someone he was fucking. The thought must have escaped onto his face, because her smile grew slightly wider, with a hint of mischief. She wasn't at all bad-looking. "I hope I'm not boring you," was all she said. "No. Not at all." She shook her head, serious again. "Other people's families are never as interesting as they think they are." "Please, carry on." He had to admit he was more interested than he'd expected to be. Some things you could never find out from security files, and he felt a professional curiosity to find out what, in this case, they would be. "I knew Leo better than anyone did, except Kate. He was a wonderful man, kind and generous. Accepting. Tarin adored him." She looked away, out of the window, back into the past. He read a lot more in her half-averted face than she probably thought she was showing him. Either she'd fucked Leo, or she was wishing now that she'd done it. "What happened?" he prompted. She sighed. "There were some old friends of the family. Friends of Marriot's, originally. They were . . . idealists." She looked at him, and he nodded, keeping his expression neutral. 'Idealist' was the term antiAdministration political criminals used when they wanted to pretend they weren't doing something dangerously illegal. "I don't know all the details, obviously, but they were arrested, quite suddenly. And Leo was arrested with them. There were never any charges against him, ever. It was just an association, nothing more. He hadn't done anything." Toreth nodded again, colluding passively in what was almost certainly an old, well-worn lie. He suspected where the story was headed. "Not long after the arrest, he . . . died." She paused. "Under interrogation. An accident, Kate was told. They were married for almost exactly three years." He'd guessed right. Fucking hell. Explanations clicked into place. The only thing he didn't understand was why she was telling this to him at all. It wasn't necessary. She'd seen him outside the kitchen, so she must know he was unlikely to give in to any urges to hit Tarin in the next couple of days . . . and then he realised. She knew it would all be in I&I records. He could look it up, once he got back to work, and probably would, given Tarin's behaviour. She was giving him her version first, before he could see the cold, official accounts. Or maybe she hoped that it would stop him reading the files at all. Was she trying to protect Tarin, or Warrick? He couldn't tell she ran an impressive game. Now she was watching him, clearly expecting a response.

Toreth asked the first question that came to his mind."Does Warrick know?" It hadn't been in Warrick's file, because some things he was quite certain he would have remembered. "I . . . well, to be perfectly honest, I don't know. You would have to ask Kate. It was the one thing she forbade me to talk to the children about. I imagine he may know some of it, as may Dillian. Perhaps not the exact circumstances, but then none of us do." Not as well as you might, her expression said clearly, resenting him for something he hadn't done yet. "Tarin well, he was old enough at the time to know something about what was happening." She looked at him measuringly. "I don't know if you can appreciate it, but it was hard for Tar. Losing two fathers in such a short space of time." "And for Kate. And for you." She nodded. "Yes. It was." She glanced out of the window as the car drew to a halt outside a small collection of expensive-looking shops. He thought she had finished, but she didn't open the door. Instead she spoke again, looking at him directly. "Val, Kate is not political. She never has been and she's tried to bring her children up to be good citizens. How well she's succeeded. . . . But I hope you can understand that you that your job presents something of a difficulty for Tarin." Hence implying that he was supposed to let Tarin's anti-Administration sentiments pass without report. Or possibly she was simply asking him to put up with his rudeness without punching him. Neither interpretation was worth commenting on. "What about you?" he asked instead. She looked at him calmly, any emotion now hidden and absolutely unreadable. "It was all a long time ago." He nodded. "Thanks for letting me know. I'll try to keep out of Tarin's way." "That would be a big help with the peacekeeping." Since the conversation seemed to be over, he opened the door. "After you." ~~~ Warrick sat on the bed, running the belt through his hands, the rough back of the leather rubbing against his fingertips. The present was one good part of a not particularly enjoyable day, although after all this time he ought to know better than to let Tarin get to him. Someone knocked on the door. While he debated whether to say anything, the knock was repeated. "Keir, it's me," Dillian said. "Come in." She put her head around the door. "Sulking?" she asked brightly. He smiled. "'Looking for a bit of peace and quiet', I would have said. But you may have a point." She shut the door behind her and came over to sit next to him on the bed. He coiled up the belt and put it down. "Do you know where Toreth is?" he asked. "Still out with Aunt Jen somewhere." He didn't say anything, but he must've looked alarmed, because she laughed. "He'll be fine. What

do you think she's going to do to him? Even Jen. Mind you, I was surprised that you got him here at all. New Year and family. I don't think he knows how to cope with it." A slightly surprising comment, because recently Dillian had been pursuing a strict policy of no comment regarding Toreth. "You might be right." She looked straight ahead, apparently studying the view through the darkening window with great concentration. "I wanted to talk to you about him." "Well, I can't stop you." "Please, don't be. . . . I don't understand why you're with him at all, Keir. Sara told me about him about what he does." Warrick felt a prickle of something that wasn't exactly fear. Not yet. "She told you he does what?" he asked, managing to keep his voice level. "That he's been being unfaithful. She didn't tell me as such, she just let it slip. But when I cornered her about it, she said you knew." "Yes, I do." It could have been so much worse than that. "And we are now definitely entering 'nothing to do with you' territory." "Don't you mind?" It didn't help that he wasn't sure of the answer. No, and yes. Sometimes. "Please, just drop it." She seemed to take that as a yes. "Then why are you still with him?" "He's an incredibly good fuck?" he said, without much hope that it would actually shut her up. It did at least produce a slight smile. "I guessed that part. I'm in the room next to yours, remember? And I've stayed at the flat." Now he wished he hadn't said it. "Oh, God." "That's why I suggested to Mother that she should put you at the end of the corridor. It was loud, but not that loud. I just put my fingers in my ears." The smile turned into a grin. "Actually, I thought you were quite restrained by " "Dilly," he said in a strangled voice. "You're the one who brought it up." There was a silence for a while. Finally she looked away from the window, her gaze uncomfortably direct. "But is a good fuck all he is?" He thought about all the tangled consequences of the investigation at SimTech. Things he couldn't explain and things which were too dangerous to explain. "Why the sudden inquisition?" "Because if that is all there is to it, I think that . . . maybe you shouldn't have brought him here." Just what he needed to brighten his day. "Oh, you as well." "Me as well what?" "I've already listened to Tarin expressing his views on my choice of guest and, frankly, once was more than enough." She sat up straight, looking at him closely. "Oh, God. I'm sorry I didn't know. You didn't hit him, did you?" "Of course not!" "Well, there was the time " "Dilly, for God's sake. I punched him once, at one New Year. I don't make a habit of it." The

problem with families was that nothing was ever forgotten. "In fact, I was inhumanly restrained, although I don't think I could have kept it up much longer. I just told him to mind his own business." "And I should do the same?" "Mm. From you it sounds so much better. Or at least so much less self-righteous. And I'm beginning to think you're both right, anyway." "No!" The emphatic reply made him smile. "Because then you'd be agreeing with Tar?" She grinned sheepishly in response. "Well, yes. Basic rule of life." "And what about Mother?" "She can cope with Tarin sulking. She wouldn't have invited Toreth if she didn't mean it. You know that. And Tarin knows it, too. He's just scoring points I doubt he really cares." "No, he does care." He grimaced. "Too much, about some things. He'll really get himself into trouble one of these days. Not," he added, "that Toreth will say anything to anyone." And, damn it, he didn't want to feel the need to defend him, especially to Dilly. He was so used to having her as an ally that her dislike of Toreth left him feeling lost. She didn't seem to be listening, though. She sat, fiddling with the seam of her sleeve, then said, "Can I ask you something?" Automatically, because they were at home, he said what Jen would have said when they were children. "I don't know, can you?" She didn't smile. "I do know he really isn't any of my business." "I hear a 'but'." "But . . ." She frowned. "I'm worried about you, and he's the reason why I'm worried." "Didn't we have this conversation before? There's nothing for you to worry about, I promise." "I wish I could . . . Keir, when you came in to say goodnight, I saw a bruise. Here." She touched his shoulder, just above his collarbone. "And I've noticed other bruises before on your face. More than once." For a fleeting moment, he thought about Marian Tanit. On his list of conversations he never wanted to have, this one was very near the top. When he didn't say anything, she asked, "Does he . . . did he do that?" He took a breath and looked her in the eye, because he wanted her to believe him the first time, so they could get this over with. And because he had to know what her reaction would be. Her first reaction. "Yes. But not in the way that you mean. It was . . . he did it because I wanted him to do it. I asked him to." 'When we were having sex', but he couldn't make himself say that to her. "When we were in bed." It took a long few seconds for comprehension to dawn. Then the bewilderment was washed away by relief, and then overwhelming embarrassment. Nothing worse than that. "Oh, God." She laughed, and put her hand up to her mouth. "Oh, no, I'm sorry, it's not that it's funny. Not at all. It's just that I'd got myself all worked up for this for weeks waiting for the right time, and I was going to be so . . . but I just never thought there might be . . . oh, dear." He didn't recall ever seeing her blush quite so much before. He felt an unsporting stab of

satisfaction at the unexpected payback for all the times she'd embarrassed him. Which, oddly enough, didn't include now. "I feel like such an idiot, Keir. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for prying." "It doesn't matter," he said, trying to sound magnanimous rather then amused. "Don't worry about it. It was good of you to be concerned." "Good of me." She looked away and, doing so, caught sight of the belt on the bed beside him and her eyes went wider. Now she really did have the giggles, doubled over, her face buried in her hands. He could see her ears, though, still bright red. "Oh, dear . . . oh, no. I mean . . . I'm sorry." Eventually the fit and the blushing subsided, and she leaned back against the wall and rested her head on his shoulder. "Oh, dear, I am sorry. Thanks for not being cross with me. It was an awful thing to think, I know. About Toreth. You won't tell him what I said, will you?" "Of course not. Although," he added, "I doubt he'd care." "No?" She shook her head slightly. "No, I expect he wouldn't. That's part of it, you know. He can be so strange. And he's difficult to talk to. No, that's not right. Easy to talk to, but hard to reach. It's as if there's something missing." He didn't comment. "I don't believe . . . I still can't see why him." Warrick shrugged the shoulder she wasn't occupying. "I can't explain it either, I'm afraid." Which, in a way, was true. There were lots of reasons, but none of them answered that fundamental question. He felt her smile. "Except for the incredibly good fuck part?" "Except for that." "Is it really good enough to make up for all the other things?" "Yes, it really is." And he realised he felt relieved that she knew now. It made one less secret between them. "Keir?" "Mm?" "Do you love him?" Coming out of the blue, the question shocked him. "Do I what?" She looked as though the idea had occurred to her only that moment. "Because it's been a while now. You're seeing a lot of him. You brought him here to meet everyone. So . . . do you love him?" Oddly, he'd never even thought about the word before. It was such an impossible concept to connect to Toreth in any way. Nor was it something he wanted to think about now, here. So he pretended to consider it, looking at their dim reflections in the window, mirror images inside a mirror. He tilted his head, resting his cheek against the top of her head to improve the composition. Finally he said, "Well, now, that would be an incredibly stupid thing to do, wouldn't it?" She nudged him away and sat up. "Yes. Yes, I think it probably would." She sounded serious, but he hadn't said yes or no, and she didn't ask the question again. Instead she got off the bed. "Mother said to let you know she's starting supper soon," she said. "If you want to help."

"Tell her I'll be down." She stopped by the door. "Keir?" "Yes?" What would it be this time? "You are . . . when you and he . . . oh, dear. What I mean is, it is safe, isn't it?" He'd wondered how long it would take her to start worrying about him again, once the idea had sunk in. "Yes, perfectly." She looked at him doubtfully. "I promise." He hated lying to her, because she was always so good at spotting it. But in this case she merely hesitated for a moment longer, nodded, and left. He picked the belt up again and fastened it into a loop. Then he slipped it over his hands and closed his eyes, tensing his arms against the strap. Thinking about Toreth: cold voice, strong hands holding him so easily, mouth bearing down bruisingly hard on his, chains, blindfolds and sharp-edged pain. He had no idea why he needed it so much, only that he did. The honest answer to Dilly's question would have been: yes, I trust him, but it can never be entirely safe. If it was, I wouldn't want it. As long as he knew that, and remembered it, and remembered what Toreth was, it would be as safe as it could be. But Dilly could worry about him quite enough without hearing that. ~~~ To Toreth's relief, dinner was less strained. Whether Jen or someone else had spoken to him or not, Tarin seemed to have himself under better control. He didn't speak to or look at Toreth, but that was frankly a relief. Dillian seemed to be in better spirits and once or twice he caught her looking between himself and Warrick with an expression quite different to the one he'd become used to recently friendly, or at least less unfriendly. Intrigued, almost. Toreth scented an interesting distraction. He always liked a mystery. The largest trauma of the meal was at the end, when it was discovered that the dishwasher had broken. The family looked at Warrick, who put his hands up. "I'm a programmer, not a mechanic," he said. "I can do it the old-fashioned way, though." "I'll help," Dillian said. Toreth took the opportunity. "I'll do it after all, you made dinner," he said, speaking to Warrick, making it quite clear which of the two of them he intended to replace. Warrick looked at Dillian until she shrugged. Then he smiled. "Thanks. I'll help you carry things through." "Wash or dry?" Toreth asked once he was alone in the kitchen with Dillian. "I don't mind." A little put out, perhaps, but still in a relatively good mood. "You do whichever you prefer." "I'll dry. You're very friendly this evening," he added casually. "Not especially." She started to fill the sink with water. "Yes, you are." He moved up next to her to clear a space by the sink. "The last couple of months the heating system's come on every time you walk into a room and see me. I can feel the frost

forming. And now you're happy to spend time with me?" "I offered to help Keir." "Of course." He tried to catch her eye, but she was concentrating fiercely on the pan in the sink. "Succumbing to my irresistible charms at last?" he asked. Finally she looked at him. "You are completely bloody . . ." She searched for words. "Impossible," she finished. Easy catch. "Actually, I'm a fairly safe bet." "Look, if you must know " And she stopped dead. "Well?" "Nothing. Just forget it." He touched her arm, a brief, friendly contact, nothing more. "Tell me." "I . . . oh, all right." She began to speak briskly, getting the conversation out of the way. "I saw some bruises on Keir and I thought . . . and I wondered how it had happened and today I asked him about it and " She stopped, a flush creeping up from the neck of her dress. Nice to know which way she blushed. "And what did he say?" She was burning now, staring down at the floor. "He explained." It must have almost killed her to say even that much. God, she looked good like this. "Explained what?" "That you " Then she looked at him squarely, anger overcoming the embarrassment. "You know what. I'm not saying it simply to amuse you." "That's not why I asked." Calm and reasonable. "I just want to be sure that you understand that he's all right. That you know what's going on between us." "I don't want to know!" she snapped. Oh, but she did. He could see the curiosity hidden deep behind the surface emotions. Maybe this was a way through her defences. Somewhere along the line his playful interest had turned serious; the insane impracticality of trying this here didn't matter. He wanted her. "You thought I was beating him up, didn't you?" A little touch of hurt at the assumption. Her anger drained away as she looked down briefly. "Yes. I . . . I don't know if you can well, maybe you can understand how it looked." She looked back. "I am sorry." "It's a game, Dillian. We both play it. I don't make him do anything he doesn't want to as if I could." He smiled, drawing a small smile from her in response. "And it's only when we fuck." She blinked at the word, but she was listening. Of course she was. Warrick would never tell her. If she wanted to know, she'd have to get it from him. He savoured the thought for a moment, then continued. "In fact, it's not even all the time then. But the rest of the time I don't order him around, I don't beat him up. I've never hurt him, and I never will." His calm, even tone was pulling her further into the conversation despite herself. The flush had retreated from everywhere except her lips and cheekbones, and suddenly he wanted to ask her, Did you hear us fucking last night? Did it turn you on?

"You believe me, don't you?" he asked. She didn't answer. "No? Why not?" "Maybe because it's too much like . . . taking your work home." "It's nothing at all like my work," he said with a coldness that wasn't entirely manufactured. "But you hit him," she blurted out, caught off-balance by his reaction. "Not too hard." "Hard enough to bruise." "Sometimes. And then it's still not too hard, because it's what he wants. But that's not what it's about." Remembering Warrick the first time they'd fucked, he said, "Give me your hands." "What? No!" "Come on." He smiled. "Just a small demonstration. No bruises, I promise." He waited out a long moment of silence, before curiosity won out and she offered her hands diffidently. "All right. Now close your eyes." A last look, still mistrustful, before her dark lashes swept closed. He circled her wrists with his hands, bringing them together. He didn't hold her tightly, but it was secure enough. "Now. Pull away." She frowned slightly, eyes still closed. "What?" "Try to take your hands away from me." She twisted her hands, tentatively at first, then more strongly, her frown turning to concentration. He held her easily until she gave up. "There. No bruises. And that's all it takes, sometimes." He lowered his voice, leaned closer, and she didn't back away. "It's not about pain, it's about giving up control to someone else. Everything beyond that is frills and fun. It couldn't work unless he trusted me. Can you see that?" She opened her eyes and nodded slowly. "Yes. Yes, I think so." "He can walk away from it any time. I won't try to stop him." Easy to say, because Warrick would never leave. "But as long as he does want it, I'm staying." This time she didn't say anything, but she nodded again and smiled slightly, acknowledging his point. Warrick's smile. Utterly and literally irresistible. He let go of one wrist and put his hand on her waist, leaning down to kiss her. And straight away, he knew he'd fucked it up. He got only the briefest contact of beautifully soft lips, a tantalising taste of her breath, before she jerked away, her eyes blazing. He didn't try to duck the slap, because that was a good way to catch a fingernail in the eye. Besides, standing there and taking it created a better impression. "You . . ." She looked at her hand, as if she couldn't believe the reflex. "No one has ever made me do that before." Angry with herself more than with him. "I'm sorry," he said evenly. "I thought you wanted me to."

"How can I put this?" Dillian pursed her lips thoughtfully. "If every other man in the solar system developed hideous boils over their entire body, I'd still have sex with every last one of them before I'd even think about you." Toreth blinked, then grinned. "But you'd get round to me in the end? That's nice to know." She studied him, and her voice hardened. "You don't care, do you? What about Keir? Do you care at all about him?" The ice in her question stabbed right through him, because in the fun of the chase, he'd genuinely, utterly forgotten what Warrick would do if he knew. He'd talked about him, and he'd been nothing more that a tool to get to her. Surely she couldn't say anything? How would it look, if she explained what had happened between them? 'Luckily, I trust her.' Warrick would believe her, obviously believe whatever she told him. Fuck, if she said anything, Warrick would . . . He found he couldn't even think about it. Now where was his confidence that Warrick would never walk away? "Don't tell him, Dillian, please. I " I forgot about him? No, the truth sounded too ridiculous, so he settled for abject begging. "Please. I was stupid, I'm sorry. I got . . . carried away. Please don't tell him." Dignity was a small price to pay for getting out of this. A long, agonising pause followed, and he knew she was really thinking about it. She might say no. When she finally spoke, her tone was still so cold that he was sure she would refuse. "What goes on between you and Keir is your business. What goes on between you and me is mine. You will never, ever do that again." She paused. "But I'm giving you one chance." Even relenting, her voice was like diamond. "If you try it again, I will tell him, believe me." He looked into her pale, angry, beautiful face. With the reprieve offered, he found himself still not wanting to give up the idea of having her, but willing to let it go back into the realm of pure fantasy because he did believe her. "Thank you," he said quietly. "And I'm sorry. I didn't " She put her hand up. "Don't bother. Don't apologise, don't pretend. Just don't do it again." Could have gone a lot worse. He took a deep breath and nodded, keeping the smile of relief firmly off his face. "Never again. Promise." She studied his face for a moment, then shook her head and turned back to the sink. He wondered whether to stay or go, but in the end he picked the tea towel up again and continued drying. Not surprisingly, she didn't seem to be in the mood for conversation, so he passed the rest of the time imagining fucking her over the sink in a slippery mess of washing-up foam. ~~~ They left the next morning. Kate, Valeria and Dillian came out to say goodbye, and Warrick was disappointed, but not entirely surprised, to see that Dillian's attitude towards Toreth appeared to have cooled again. Tarin hadn't appeared, but that was no surprise, either. The holiday hardly qualified as a great success, but he supposed that it could have gone worse. The expression on Toreth's face when Valeria demanded a goodbye kiss was almost worth the trip by itself.

In the car, he sat, time passing, waiting with something between impatience and unbearable anticipation. The leather belt was coiled in his pocket, the buckle digging into his hip. By unspoken agreement, the present had lain, unused, the previous evening. It was something that needed time and concentration to be enjoyed. Here, or not until they got back to the flat? He couldn't even remember whose flat they were going to. Toreth's, he thought. Toreth sat opposite him, reading something, occasionally humming. Once or twice he checked his watch. To keep up appearances, Warrick read too, or at least looked at the screen and turned pages occasionally. Was Toreth doing the same? Sometimes he did wonder whether Toreth got as much out of this as he did. Some of it he knew Toreth enjoyed. Hearing that Warrick wanted him, how much he wanted him usually desperately, by that point in the proceedings was something he never seemed to tire of. Making him wait for it, sometimes longer than he could bear. And the fucking he didn't seem to mind that too much, either. If Toreth didn't get off on his part in the scenes, then presumably he wouldn't still be around. Happy coincidence of compatibility. Finally Toreth touched the controls and the car windows darkened. "Give me the belt." Mouth suddenly dry, all he could manage was to sit and do nothing. Toreth leaned closer, took the screen out of his hands and turned it off. "I know you've got it with you. You couldn't put it down." "Not here." "Give it to me." He handed the belt over and watched as Toreth ran the length through his hands. "Strip." Now the hesitation was genuine. Sex was one thing, this was another. The chance the car could be stopped was very small, but real. Toreth gave him a few seconds to think about it, then spoke slowly and deliberately. "Strip, or I'll strip you." He lowered his eyes and started to undress. He couldn't stand up completely in the space between the seats, but he managed. He could feel Toreth watching him, his gaze brushing over his skin like an invisible touch. The sim come to life. "Now kneel. Close your eyes. Hold out your hands." He obeyed and offered his wrists, held out together, waiting for the touch of the leather. So, when the belt tightened around his throat he couldn't help opening his eyes in mute surprise. Toreth laughed and pulled lightly on the strap, fastening the buckle. "You're going to need your hands. Now " He settled back in the seat, making himself comfortable."Suck me. And do it properly this time. Good and wet, because " the pull on the belt increased slowly, inexorably pulling him downwards, " because when I'm ready I'm going to fuck you here, on your knees, until I hear you scream for me, and then when we get to my flat I'm going to chain you to the wall and do it all over again. Understand?" Warrick barely managed a nod, choked and breathless, neither of which had anything to do with the belt. It didn't matter what Dillian thought, and far, far, less what Tarin or anyone else might think. This made it all worthwhile. ~~~ The next day, even though the New Year holiday extended for another day, Toreth went in to

work. There was only a skeleton staff at I&I, working on the most pressing cases. Most importantly, there was no Sara and no other source of interruptions. It took him most of the morning to track the file down. It was as well hidden from casual searches as it could be without deleting it, but someone who knew the system thoroughly, and who had a good idea of what they were looking for, could still find it. Someone had set the storage descriptor to 'deep archive', which should only apply to prisoner record files over fifty years old. As far as he could tell, the classification had been set at the time the file was stored, which disproved his first assumption that Warrick had something to do with it. The file proved to be short and interestingly uninformative. Warrick's father had been arrested by Justice on the strength of reports about a network of resisters, obtained through interrogation of prisoners arrested in the process of being smuggled out of Europe. The information connected Leo Warrick to the creation of false shipping records; his company had been named, rather than him in person, but that had been more than enough to justify his arrest. Reading between the lines, there had been a strong suspicion of his active involvement. Before a confession had been forthcoming, however, he had died under questioning. As far as Toreth could tell, the others arrested at the same time had never been asked directly to implicate him. Kate had been picked up, questioned briefly and gently, and released. No other family members or friends had been brought in. Details of the death were vague. There was a suggestion of suicide and a brief note about the subsequent internal enquiry reeked of cover-up the speedy conclusion had been an unexpected adverse drug reaction. The interrogator responsible had been reprimanded but not seriously disciplined. There were only two realistic possibilities. The first was that there had been a friend within the Administration at work, someone who hadn't been able to prevent the arrest but was still influential enough to shield Leo Warrick's family from the worst consequences of his crimes, at the price of his life. The second was that the prisoner had made a deal as soon as he'd been brought in, something common enough in a large case like this. He had given up the names the interrogators wanted and in return he had been offered a quick, clean death and safety for his family. If so, the Administration had kept its promises in spades. There had even been an informal apology and substantial compensation paid to Kate. All terribly by the book. If a deal had been made there might be something on record, although since the main file had been so carefully mislaid that seemed doubtful. The other source of information would be the interrogator who handled the case. Toreth didn't recognise the name, but that didn't mean she hadn't made the transfer over from Justice. If she hadn't retired or resigned, she could be working somewhere in I&I right now. He briefly considered trying to track her down, but there didn't seem to be much point. He couldn't justify his interest and it didn't matter anyway. It was ancient history. All that mattered was whether that history could hurt Warrick and, by association, himself. Possibly, if it came to the attention of the wrong people. It was a close enough association to proven resisters to make sponsors and clients nervous, and hence to open Warrick to blackmail if he were the kind of person who would submit to it. He wasn't, of course his tastes in submission were strictly limited. Any blackmail attempt

would blow up messily and probably openly. One step further removed, Toreth's name wouldn't suffer as badly. But being the . . . to be closely linked with a situation like that wouldn't exactly help his career. Sitting back in his chair, he paged up and down through the report, rereading sections without paying much attention. Then he altered the 'deep archive' flag to 'file obsolete/out of date' and authorised the change. The next time there was an automatic purge at Int-Sec the file would be gone, and a search would pull up nothing beyond the reason why it had been erased. If there was another copy in the depths of the archives it would probably remain inaccessible to anyone without the individual file number. The file disappeared from the screen. The last thing his eye caught before it went was the name of the interrogator who would know the answers. Toreth made a note of it, just because. And, next to it, the number of the file. ~~~ The next day, Sara was back. She brought them both coffee in his office and they exchanged New Year stories. Sara had mended her broken heart in style, reeling back in the boyfriend who had dumped her, stinging him for an impressive New Year present, and then replacing him with an apparently more satisfactory model. And she'd beaten by two last year's record of nine parties. "How was your holiday?" she enquired eventually. He finally settled on saying, "Okay." "'Okay'? That's it?" "What were you expecting? Like you said, it was just a family thing. Lots of food reasonable amounts to drink, thank God. Little kids," he grimaced, "absolutely everywhere. Complicated-yet-dull stories from thirty years ago about people I'd never heard of and a few arguments to break up the monotony. Oh, and I got myself slapped by Dillian. It was okay." "Sounds like fun." She looked at him closely. "You enjoyed it, didn't you?" He hadn't actually thought about it in those terms. It was certainly better than the idea of New Year's Day at home, without Warrick, never mind the memories of grim days at his own parents' flat. "I suppose it could've been worse." "Told you." She took a sip of coffee. "Did you do the fucking-quietly-because-the-house-is-fullof-his-relatives thing? That's usually my favourite part, unless there's a really good trifle." "Yeah." He grinned. "That was different. Novel." "Novel?" She shook her head. "Yeah, I suppose it would be." The idea that Sara had done the same thing, more than once, proved unexpectedly disturbing. The first time he'd ever had a . . . the first time he'd ever been to anyone else's family New Year. Except Sara's, of course, but that wasn't the same thing. "Although he'll probably want to go to you parents' place next year, you know," she continued, deadpan. She'd met them, and she knew he didn't see them any more, although even she didn't know all the reasons why. "Not in a million fucking years," he said. "I bet your mother would love him." Her mouth tightened a little with distaste. He didn't say anything. Much as he hated to think about it, she was probably right, and it only made the whole idea so much worse.

The silence hung in the air for a few moments and then Sara said, "Oh, speaking of meeting people " She scanned the desk and picked up the note he'd written the day before. "I saw this, first thing this morning, but I couldn't find the file. I think there's a mistake in the number because it's coming up as ee-oh-oh-dee. But I found Dru Balfe. She's a senior psychiatric specialist with an office on level B. Did you want me to call her?" "No." He'd meant to leave it alone. There was no possible reason to pursue it any further. "No, but . . . I don't suppose you know where she has coffee? And when?" She shrugged. "No, but I can find out." "Great. Let me know as soon as you do." ~~~ Sara's information network proved to be operating efficiently. Toreth caught up with Balfe in one of the Interrogation level B coffee rooms. He introduced himself and, without giving a reason, asked if she thought she'd remember a case back from the days when the Interrogation Division was part of Justice. "Records lost in the reorganisation?" she asked sympathetically. "I'll do my best." "The name was Leo Warrick. Suspected resister." Toreth sketched in details without getting a response until, just when he was about to give up, she finally nodded. "I remember him, yes. Thoughtless bastard died on me. Drug reaction. I got my record marked over him." "That's the one." "What about him? He was a bust. Didn't know anything." "How could you be sure, if he died?" She frowned. "I had long enough with him." "Do you remember anything at all he said? Anything the other prisoners said about him?" "No." Short and final. "He cut a deal?" he enquired, as casually as he could. She looked at him measuringly. "Why are you interested?" "I found a link to an old case I'm looking at. Unfinished business I thought I had a chance of tying up. But if there's nothing in this, I suppose I don't have anything after all." Balfe shook her head. "You won't find a body there," she said with odd emphasis, and left to wash her coffee mug. Toreth felt a chill. He knew what the phrase meant: it was one of the I&I staffs' little codes, a way of keeping each other out of trouble. He understood now her reluctance to talk. Leo Warrick hadn't died on her he had never even existed. ~~~ Back in his office, he cursed his charitable impulse. He'd put his name on the deletion of a file connected to a Citizen Surveillance undercover agent. Kate had made an ideal target. Vulnerable, newly widowed how much of an accident had that been? and with a social circle linking directly into the resister network. A perfect entry point for an agent who could become trusted, make himself vital to the resisters and then spend years passing their every secret along.

He would've bet a month's pay that the arrest had been a mistake. Just the sort of screw-up which had eventually led to the reorganisation. Justice and Cit Surveillance tripping over each other, with the former blundering into one of the latter's infiltration operation and arresting their agent. With his cover destroyed, Cit would have had no choice but to can the operation. Why had Kate and her family escaped the mess? Standard procedure would have seen them disappear, in one fashion or another; Kate at least should have been arrested. An idea that she might prove useful again, perhaps. Or an unlikely, stupidly sentimental urge on the part of 'Leo Warrick', for which Toreth was about to suffer the consequences. He took slow, deep breaths, trying to calm his racing pulse. The operation was over and done with thirty years ago. There was no reason at all to think anyone would care, or even remember. The agent in question, whoever he had been, might be dead, or retired. Even if he were now at Int-Sec, he wasn't likely to be keeping an eye on long-closed case files. All he had to do was keep away from the files in the future and talk to no one about it. Not even Warrick. No, correction, especially not Warrick, because God only knew what he might decide to do about it. Whatever it was, it would involve the Int-Sec systems, that was for sure, and that would be suicide for both of them. He should have known better than to get involved with anything to do with families anyone's family. He was going to forget he'd ever even looked at the file. As long as he did that there was nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. ~~~ The screen in the small office displayed the results of Toreth's searches and the record of the changes he had made to the status of the file. The file was gone now, deleted from the main Data Division records. Even so, other copies existed in other systems, secure from destruction by someone with Toreth's clearance. Easily accessible, however, to a valued and trusted Int-Sec agent with a long and distinguished career and a very personal interest in the matter. The question that agent considered now was: what to do about the para-investigator's unauthorized exploration of the past? He had found and read the files. He had spoken to Balfe. He had a personal association with parties in the case file. It had the potential to jeopardise a long-standing resister infiltration, monitoring and control exercise that had proved outstandingly successful. Not to mention the risk of destroying a long-established cover. The safest countermeasure would be to have him arrested on some charge and to die under questioning once he had revealed the extent of any information he had found. Or rather, not the safest, but the most thorough. It might, in fact, create more problems than it solved. That was always the risk. After all, he might have found, or even deduced, nothing beyond the cover story in the files. In fact, that seemed the most likely situation. His questions to Balfe had revealed no deeper suspicions. The very fact that he had risked tampering with the file was nearly enough evidence to tip the decision in favour of letting the incident go past. Most importantly, he had made no move to report Tarin's careless remarks. On the other hand, simply because he had said nothing yet A soft knock at the door sounded. Someone who knew that interruptions were unwelcome. "Come in."

The door opened and closed noiselessly. "Are you still busy?" The voice was as quiet and respectful as the knock. "I won't be long." "How long?" A hint of reproach crept in. "You promised we could go and feed the ducks before it got dark." Kate cancelled the connection to Int-Sec and switched off the screen while Valeria waited semipatiently beside her chair. Then she stood, picked her granddaughter up, and carried her out, locking the door behind them. What to do? She continued to mull the question over as she helped Valeria into her coat and walked with her along the road to the small park. Even after all these years, it was difficult to think about the organisational foul-up which had caused their handlers to withdraw Leo from the operation. Their relationship had been far more than professional. For one thing, after so many years of tedious sham marriage while she established herself with the resisters, it had been wonderful to have someone who knew. One person in her life with whom she didn't have to pretend. Leo had been matched to the assignment by their superiors, but they had been so good together, in every way. No one had ever suspected them not Marriot's friends, not even Jen. Together, they should have been able to control and monitor the resisters indefinitely. It had taken the Justice Department's bungling to destroy the operation just when it was beginning to provide useful information. Was she risking a repeat performance by allowing Toreth to go free? Would she risk more by having him silenced? They had run Tarin for years now as a perfect, unwitting source of information, with his carefully nurtured ideals and careless tongue. If he were to be reported, compromised, it would be a disaster. From that point of view, extending an invitation to Toreth had been a serious error on her part. When she had suggested the idea to Warrick, she had never expected Toreth to accept his psych file had suggested quite the opposite. However, also from his psych and security files, it seemed unlikely that, even if Toreth had found anything, he would tell anyone about it. The one person he might conceivably tell was also the one person least likely to let the information go any further. By the time they had reached the pond, she had made her mind up. She would do nothing, for now, and continue to monitor the files. At least it had demonstrated that the monitoring programs were functioning efficiently. Having made the decision, she found herself unexpectedly and profoundly relieved. Before she had time to examine the feeling, Valeria tugged gently on her hand. "Granny?" "Yes, sweetheart?" "Are you done?" "Done what?" "Thinking." Kate smiled. "Yes, I'm finished." "I want to feed the ducks, please." She knew it was unfair to have favourites although she'd never been good at avoiding it but she did like Val. Sharp and observant. Tarin's outraged report of her announcement that she wanted to be a para-investigator had nearly made Kate smile. She must try to get her an entry to Int-Sec when

she was old enough. Not as a para-investigator, of course, but her acute intelligence shouldn't be wasted. They threw pieces of stale bread to the ducks. The day was edging into twilight and the birds were more interested in roosting than feeding, but that probably wasn't enough to explain Valeria's serious expression. Kate expected that she looked rather serious herself as she considered the intensity of her relief that nothing needed to be done about the other Val. Toreth. She liked the man, and she worried that the feelings had clouded her judgement. The part of her that deeply loved her children Leo's children was glad that Keir had finally found someone, if an improbable someone, who seemed to make him happy. Unfortunately, that part of her could endanger the operation. She wondered briefly if she ought to refer the decision, but she could find no flaws in her arguments. It was, she concluded, a happy coincidence of logic and desire. One of the few in her dangerous, delicately balanced world, and she should accept it and be grateful. Eventually the bread was finished. They stood and watched the ducks pecking half-heartedly at the last pieces. "Granny?" Valeria asked. Kate crouched down beside her, ignoring a protest from her knees. "Yes, darling?" "Do you like Uncle Val?" Kate looked at her sharply, but there was no reason to think the child could have anything other than totally innocent motives for her question. "Yes, I do. Actually, I like him a lot. Why?" "Daddy doesn't like him." There was precious little point in denying that. "Mm. How about you?" Valeria smiled. "I like him. Even if he doesn't know any stories." "Well . . . that's fine, darling. Sometimes people like each other, and sometimes they don't. But maybe it would be best if you didn't talk to Daddy about him, mm? It might upset Daddy, and that wouldn't be nice. Talk to me about him, if you like." Valeria nodded. "Okay." Kate took her hand and they set off back home. "Why do you like him?" Valeria asked after a while. The girl did come up with the damndest questions, because it was the one thing Kate hadn't asked herself. The answer came at once, though, unambiguous: because he reminded her of Leo. "He's handsome," she said, and Valeria giggled.

Mirror Mirror
Warrick had been delayed at work. One damn thing after another, and by the end of it, he was ready to dismember the next person who came up to him with a problem that could easily have waited until Monday. When he finally escaped his office, the car was late, which meant another five minutes lost standing in the AERC atrium. If he'd been less annoyed, it might have amused him to once more notice the change in himself. Desperate to get away from SimTech. Asher and Lew had both commented on it in the past: Lew with a certain amount of silent disapproval, Asher with amusement tempered by occasional hints of concern. Even as he thought it, Warrick saw Lew, emerging from the lift. Fortunately, the car arrived and Warrick hurried out to meet it. He didn't know if Lew wanted him, but he'd rather not take the risk. Lew stood in something of a glass house when it came to questioning other's tastes in sexual entertainment. Of course, he was probably more upset by the early departures. There was no reason to assume he had any inkling of what was waiting for Warrick. Asher had some idea, and that was the source of her underlying disquiet. It's safe, he'd assured her, as he'd assured Dillian. Everything I do with him is perfectly safe. Or rather, acceptably safe, since absolute safety could never be guaranteed. That was the key to safety assessments, as he'd heard several times over the afternoon's meeting with the team from the Consumer Safety Division of the Department of Financial and Corporate Affairs. To be deemed safe, a product only had to be safe enough, and that could be a flexible concept. Getting into a car, even one fitted with the most modern autoguidance, was more dangerous than staying at home. Taking approved recreational pharmaceuticals was more dangerous than abstaining. Playing the game with Toreth was more dangerous than settling down for the evening with a glass of wine and a good book, but, oh, how very much more satisfying. Fulfilling a deep, primal need as nothing else could. An acceptable degree of risk. These days, meetings in hotels were a rarity, so when Toreth had left the message with a time and place, the usual Friday afternoon anticipation had doubled. Something special, something no doubt carefully planned. He loved imagining Toreth working these evenings out, building the scenarios for them both. By the time he reached the hotel and collected the keycard, the irritation at the delays had melted away into a delicious buzz of anticipation. The journey over had been quicker than he'd expected, so as long as Toreth didn't happen to hit the unusual side of his punctuality curve and arrive early, he'd even have time for a shower. When he opened the door, though, something caught his eye at once. A box lay in the centre of the bed, with a note scribbled on a piece of card. 'Be ready by ten past. T.' Toreth was usually late, by a minimum of five minutes. Not today, though. Today he would be on time to the second.

Toreth's minimalist approach to gift-wrapping was in evidence again the box was plain cardboard. Warrick laid the contents out on the bed: several hollow black metal bars a little thicker than his thumb, four leather cuffs, a belt and various pieces of chain. Plus a small plastic bag containing an assortment of bolts, screws and washers. The box had already been opened and, naturally, if there had been any instructions in there they were gone now. If he'd arrived on time the task would have been easy, but Toreth wouldn't care about an excuse like a delay at work. He checked his watch. The simplest thing to do would be to look up the manufacturer and find instructions from them, although in a way it was cheating. On the other hand, if he didn't do it he might not be ready, and then Toreth wouldn't stay. That was the one real, dreadful punishment for not playing the game up to standard. A quick examination of the box found only blank spaces where the labels had been carefully removed. No marks on the bars. The cuffs were equally uninformative, but the belt revealed the name on a tiny stamp on the leather, hidden inside. It took a couple of minutes to find the instructions before he expanded his hand screen, laid it on the bed, and started work. Of course, Toreth hadn't left a screwdriver, but Warrick had an exotic penknife with a ridiculous number of gadgets an old present from Dilly. Usually it did nothing except wear holes in his pockets, but when it did come in handy . . . he laughed out loud, imagining telling her about this latest instance. Probably better not to. He dismissed the image and concentrated. What didn't help was that, perforce, he had to imagine the finished item as he picked up the pieces, trying to see how they fit together. It did nothing at all for his concentration. Cuffs on wrists and ankles. Wrists locked to the belt . . . behind him? Yes, that looked right. His legs held apart by the rigid bar. Immobilized for whatever Toreth wanted to he dropped a bolt, and spent a panicky thirty seconds hunting for it. I'm an engineer, he told himself. I build things in my head. I can do this. He laid his watch on the bed so that he could keep an eye on it while he worked. Two bars went together in the wrong order and he had to waste more time backtracking, swearing softly. Frustrated and, he admitted to himself with a wry smile, loving it. If this had been the sim, he could have conjured the frame up (once initially created) and locked himself into it with a few thoughts, which was precisely the reason why the game didn't work in the sim. Even if he didn't use the sim tricks, the possibility would always be there. Here, the limitations and problems were unavoidably and excitingly real. Finally the thing was ready. When completed, the frame proved to be collapsible, the bars sliding together to make a neat package perfect for discreetly taking to hotels. He couldn't help stopping to admire it, even though he couldn't afford the time. Toreth could be surprisingly good at selecting presents, although they were hardly unselfish. Now . . . how to get it on. He considered the possibilities while he undressed, then started with the simple things. Ankles were easy, and the belt, but the wrist cuffs posed a serious problem, because they were permanently attached to the belt. In addition, the fastenings were inconveniently and unnecessarily complicated, featuring three narrow buckles on each one. Chosen deliberately, no doubt, for that exact reason. In the end he loosened the belt, twisted round to strap his right wrist into the cuff and then

refastened the belt. That left him only one cuff, which surely couldn't be too tricky, since he was using his right hand. One cuff, and no damn time. His gaze fixed to the watch on the bed, he struggled with the buckles. It looked as if Toreth was late after all, which was fortunate because the straps would not fasten. If Toreth came in now, when he was so close the buckle slipped from his fingers and he swore again so close to being ready, it would be unbearable. One buckle fastened, and he paused, trying to flex his wrists and stretch his cramping fingers. Not a good idea, because the sensation of restraint sent a shiver through him, then another. He forced himself to stillness and carried on. One more minute and another buckle three minutes over, and so nearly there. Were those footsteps outside? With a frantic effort, he managed the last buckle, hissing at the unexpected pain as a sharp edge dug into his fingertip beneath the nail. When he rubbed his finger and thumb together, he felt the stickiness of blood. Nothing serious, though. Besides, what mattered was that he was ready and when "Not bad," Toreth said. Warrick managed to stop the turn before he lost his balance completely. Carefully he looked to his left, to where Toreth stood in the bathroom doorway, hands in his pockets, utterly composed. "How long have you been there?" Warrick asked. "All the time. I was watching in the mirror." Toreth strolled across and lowered the lights, casting the room into shadow. The light from the open bathroom door spilled across the floor, lighting the space where Warrick stood and making the room around him seem darker, something more than a mere hotel room. Toreth walked round him, slowly, inspecting. "Not bad at all. Very nice, in fact. And just in time, too." "Yes." Warrick kept his eyes away from the treacherous watch on the bed, which showed fifteen minutes past, its face barely visible in the low light. Perhaps Toreth wouldn't see it now. Toreth stopped behind him and checked the wrist cuffs, tightening the straps. Warrick shivered again, lips parting as his breathing accelerated. Then Toreth paused and Warrick tensed, waiting for . . . something. He didn't know what was coming and the newness and uncertainly fluttered inside him. "You've hurt yourself," Toreth said. Cool, dispassionate observation, not concern. Warrick nodded. A feather-light touch stroked down over his back as Toreth knelt behind him. Kisses on his arm, down over his enclosed wrist, across his hand, and then Toreth took the bleeding finger into his mouth. He sucked gently, tongue licking firmly over and round, halfway between soothing and hurting, and Warrick closed his eyes. At the same time, Toreth's hands roamed over him, feeling to be in far more places at once than could be physically possible: ribs, stomach, legs. Up between his spread thighs, making him exquisitely aware of the vulnerability of the position the bars locked him into. His cock ached already, but Toreth's hands stayed clear of it, although they brushed close enough to make him moan with frustration.

Toreth released his finger and stood up. "Better?" Toreth asked. Indescribably, wonderfully perfect. He nodded again, words lost somewhere back in the wash of sensation. Then Warrick heard a zip unfasten, and Toreth pressed up close behind him, bare skin and hair touching Warrick's fingers. "Don't just fucking stand there. You've got hands use them." Not easy, but he obeyed, twisting his hands round to enclose Toreth's cock. Smooth, hard flesh filled his hands and Warrick moaned again, empathy and need. It took him a minute to find a rhythm, conscious of the cuffs with every movement. He focused inwards, losing awareness of the room around him, the hotel beyond the door. Toreth took a firm hold of his upper arms, pulling his shoulders back and down. Warrick arched his spine as Toreth bit down hard in the angle of his neck and shoulder, the pain making him whimper. As Warrick worked, Toreth's grip tightened, his breathing gradually quickening. "Keep going." Toreth's voice in his ear, harsh and passionate. "Keep it going or I'll break your fucking arms." His hands grew numb from pressure on the nerves, making every constricted flexing of his wrists more difficult. Fortunately, Toreth was thrusting into his hands now, his breathing ragged. "Ah, fuck Warrick." Pain flared down his arms as Toreth's fingers dug in, and Warrick bit his lip to stop himself from crying out. High now, dizzied by Toreth's voice and the flooding endorphins and the feeling of Toreth coming in his bound, helpless hands. Finally Toreth's hands loosened their grip, the release from the pressure and the sting of blood flowing back into his arms making Warrick groan. Distinct, discrete dabs of pain lingered, telling him that there would be finger marks still visible tomorrow bruises, beautiful reminders of how absolutely Toreth owned him at this moment. He waited, shivering, listening to Toreth's breathing slowing. Then Toreth moved back a little, only a few inches, and still close enough that his low voice curled up and down Warrick's spine. "So . . . what shall I do next?" Warrick gathered enough breath to speak. "Whatever you want." "We've got all evening. Plenty of time." Toreth's hands stroked over him again, over his shoulders and down his chest. "Plenty of time and such a lot of things we could try. But " He pinched Warrick's nipple, hard, making him gasp. "Did you really think I didn't see that watch?" Dismay robbed him of any reply. Toreth moved round in front of him, his sharp predator's face shadowed in the side lighting. "You were four minutes over the time I gave you to get ready. You know what that means." "Don't go." The words escaped before he could stop them. Toreth laughed. "No? Why not? I've had my fun." "Please." The instinct to kneel, to beg, was thwarted by the rigid strength of the bars, and his cock twitched.

Toreth smiled. "Again." "Please. Please stay. I I need it." Silence, stretching out, as Toreth pretended to think about it; Warrick knew that he must have decided already what would happen. Everything perfectly planned. "Okay. I'm going for a wash. I won't be long. If, by the time I'm done, you're on your knees and ready to say sorry properly, I'll think about staying." Without waiting for an answer, he turned and headed for the bathroom. As the door closed behind him, Warrick was already struggling frantically with the tightened buckles, his fingers slippery with come. This time he didn't even notice the stab of metal in his fingertips. If Toreth had closed the door, he couldn't be watching he really meant this one. Twenty seconds passed, then thirty, and the buckles still resisted. Water splashed in the bathroom. Good, because while it was running Toreth was still in there. Warrick forced himself to stop, to think past the arousal and Toreth's threat. He didn't have time to do it like this. If he leaned back, though, and braced the bar between the belt and the floor, and then stretched his fingers as far down the side as he could . . . he could just reach the catch that unlocked the first collapsible section. He pressed as hard as possible, given the circumstances, and for a moment he thought it wouldn't be enough. Then the fastener clicked free and he nearly fell as the bar shortened suddenly under his weight. He caught his balance, and reached down for the second catch. This one gave more easily, leaving him crouching awkwardly, but the water had stopped and that meant he didn't have long. One more section, and this time he could barely reach the release with the very tips of his fingers. Straining to force his wrists through the cuffs far enough to make the last millimetres he needed, leather creaking Then Warrick was on his knees, panting, the bar pressed against the base of his spine, locking him in position. Now he had no choice but to kneel, his ankles still held apart and his wrists pulled down towards the bar. Triumph and arousal flooded through him in equal measure, and he had only a few seconds to recover before the door opened. "Well . . . " Toreth paused, and Warrick crossed his fingers, heart in his mouth, keeping his gaze fixed on the floor. Please. Please "I suppose I'll have to give you a chance now, won't I?" Warrick looked up, blinking at the brightness, seeing nothing except Toreth's shape, haloed by the light. An unlikely angel, to put it mildly, but this was most definitely heaven. "Go on, then." Dark voice like a molten caress, heating him to his core. "Tell me how sorry you are." ~~~ Toreth leaned on the window frame of the hotel room, watching the paved area before the main entrance, and sipping his drink. Good job he hadn't written the card when he got here, because Warrick was late. It didn't matter that much. The present would keep, and if Warrick didn't show, he could always pick up a fuck in the bar downstairs. It had looked busy enough. Still, after all the effort invested so far, and an afternoon of happy anticipation, that would definitely be second best. Where was he? Surely he'd have called if he couldn't make it? To his irritation, Toreth found

himself wanting to check his comm again stupid, because it would notify him automatically if Warrick left a message. Then, finally, the SimTech car drew up, and the dark-haired figure emerged. Hurrying, too, and Toreth smiled. Time to finish the preparations. He checked his watch, did the calculation based on his own experiments with the cuffs, and added the time to the note. At least five minutes less than Warrick would need, if he had his sums right. He also checked round the room. It didn't matter if there were some signs of disturbance, since he had to have been here long enough to deliver the box, but he didn't want Warrick becoming suspicious. Everything seemed in order. Toreth downed the last of his drink. Then he rinsed his glass, dried it, replaced it on the side, and retreated into the bathroom, hiding out of sight behind the open door. There was always the chance that Warrick would come into the bathroom, although Toreth didn't think it was very likely. The note should ensure that Warrick stayed focused on the task in hand. After a minute or two, the main door to the room opened, and he held his breath. Footsteps entered the room, halting briefly before carrying on to the bed. Toreth kept still until he heard the clink of metal. Then he eased carefully forwards to a spot where he could see Warrick's reflection in the mirror. Before he started watching in earnest, he checked the visibility of his own reflection. The space behind the door was usefully shadowed, and he doubted Warrick would notice him. Not when he had so many other things to occupy his attention. What was he doing now? Examining the gear, apparently, with minute and methodical care, checking each piece in turn, and then setting it aside. Finally he heard a soft "a-ha!" of triumph, and Warrick pulled out his hand screen. Clever bastard. Of course, Toreth knew that already, and he'd factored it into the calculations. Now that Warrick had the instructions, he took his penknife from his jacket pocket and started work. Toreth thought the knife was absolutely the most ridiculous thing he'd seen in his life. Who the hell needed a penknife with comms, centimetre-accurate location mapping and a mini foldout screen? Warrick would enjoy the chance to use it, though. He heard Warrick laugh once, and then he bent to the task with silent concentration. Toreth leaned on the wall, checking his watch from time to time. Warrick was doing well, and better than he'd expected, but probably still not well enough. In the end it would depend on how quickly he managed the final part. Every so often Warrick would pause, a piece held in his hands, stroking the leather of a cuff, or running his thumb over the curve of a metal loop. Possibly he didn't even realise he was doing it. Toreth caught the glint of reflected light as something metallic fell to the ground, and he pulled back further out of sight as Warrick started hunting for whatever it was. Toreth could still hear him, though, and the low, frustrated swearing sent a spike of excitement through him. Warrick so rarely swore. He'd known Warrick would get off on this, on handling the gear, on the pressure of time and the fear of failure. But so far the effect was exceeding his highest expectations. When he risked looking back, the lost bit must have been found or abandoned, because Warrick was bent over the belt, fastening bolts. He also kept looking at the bed at his watch, presumably,

which was gone from his wrist. He was hurrying now, making mistakes. No chance that he'd finish with enough time to spare. At last, the assembly completed, Warrick laid the bars out on the bed and stood looking down at them. Toreth could see his smile, the profile view flattering him as usual. Next Warrick stripped, his eyes still fixed on the gear. Pale skin and dark hair quickly revealed wonderful visuals, and Toreth's body began to send messages suggesting that waiting wasn't so much fun any more. His eyes might be enjoying it, but his cock felt sadly neglected. Go out there now, was the firm suggestion. Go out there, throw him on the bed and fuck him, hard and fast. He'll love it, you'll love it, and we can do the games later. Sucking in his stomach, he slipped a hand inside his waistband. Just a touch, nothing too firm, and he sighed in silent satisfaction. With that nagging distraction taken in hand, he turned his attention back to Warrick. Toreth knew the task he'd set was possible, because he'd managed to get into the thing himself a couple of times, while he was investigating the timing. There weren't many ways it did work, and he grinned as Warrick started with a wrong one, taking the tempting route of doing up all the easy buckles first. He picked up the mistake fast enough, though, loosening the belt and turning away to fasten the cuff on his right wrist. Toreth risked edging forwards a little to get a better view. He stayed there as Warrick turned back, squaring his shoulders and fumbling to get the second cuff around his wrist. Toreth's occupied hand moved a little faster and he bumped his elbow on the door. Fortunately, at that exact moment Warrick swore out loud again, thereby missing the noise. Slipping buckle, presumably Toreth had a scratch or two on his own fingertips. Toreth eased back again. Fuck. Too close, when it was nearly done. Shortly afterwards Warrick's arms stopped moving and he paused for a moment, fingers flexing, breathing quickly. One buckle fastened, by the look of it. Reluctantly Toreth pulled his hand out from his trousers and checked the time. Warrick was well over time already, and two buckles left. Toreth watched, trying keep his breathing under control, as Warrick got back to work. His gaze was locked to the bed, lips moving silently as he fought with the cuff. Toreth couldn't see his wrists clearly, but from Warrick's brief, tense smile he guessed another strap had cooperated. Then his head came up sharply, and Toreth's stomach flipped had Warrick seen him? Apparently not, because Warrick craned his neck round towards the door, and his frantic struggle intensified. Some unwittingly helpful passerby in the corridor, probably. A short, sharp sound of distress and a final effort, then Warrick's shoulders suddenly relaxed. Time for his big entrance. Straightening his clothes, he slipped out from behind the door and took up his position, in his best casual pose. "Not bad," he drawled. Warrick started to turn, and Toreth almost jumped to catch him, but he managed to keep his balance. "How long have you been there?" Warrick asked. "All the time. I was watching in the mirror." He crossed the room and dimmed the lights, turning back to admire Warrick, highlighted in the light from the bathroom. He walked round him slowly,

enjoying the view. Warrick's gaze tracked him, his breathing still quick from the exertion. "Not bad at all," Toreth said. "Very nice, in fact." He paused, and then added, "And just in time, too." "Yes." The way Warrick kept his gaze firmly averted from the watch on the bed told Toreth that he knew exactly what the time was. He paused in his circling to check the cuffs. As he tightened the straps, the blood caught his eye. Red drop, welling on Warrick's fingertip. Saliva filled his mouth, and he swallowed. "You've hurt yourself," he said, managing to keep his voice cool. Warrick nodded. Toreth knelt behind him, not meaning to touch him. But Warrick's skin was like a magnet, attracting his hands and mouth. He tasted his arm, his hand and then, finally, sucked the fingertip into his mouth. His already hard cock tightened even more at the sweet, salty taste of blood. Warrick's blood. Something he'd never had the slightest urge to do with anyone else. Like other things, it was only with Warrick, one more facet of the occasionally unnerving urge to possess him utterly, own every part of him. Giving up any idea of restraint, he let his hands roam at will, stroking Warrick's thighs, imagining them spreading for him later. Much later. Warrick kneeling for him, by then wound to a fever pitch of desperation, begging for him, needing him . . . Mine. Oh, God, yes. By the end of the evening, Warrick would have no doubts about who he belonged to. It took an effort to release Warrick's finger, to stand up, to pull away the few inches he needed to keep control. He mustn't waste the careful set-up. "Better?" Toreth asked. Warrick nodded again, breathing quick and shallow, and it was suddenly too much. Stop playing around, and just get on to the next part of the plan. Toreth tugged down the zip to free his straining cock, and pressed forwards. "Don't just fucking stand there. You've got hands use them." He couldn't help a gasp as Warrick's hands enclosed him, but Warrick's own, much louder, moan covered the noise. Toreth smiled, holding himself still, making Warrick do the work. It took him a little while, but soon he had it. Now hurt him. He took a firm hold of Warrick's upper arms, pulling his shoulders back and down, positioning Warrick's hands and at the same time making sure he wouldn't be able to ease away to escape the pain. Warrick arched towards him, his neck an irresistible temptation. The hard bite drew out a whimper. Warrick's fingers had a skilful touch, even under the current circumstances, and he didn't need to remind himself to tighten his grip on Warrick's arms. The rhythm faltered for a moment. "Keep going. Keep it going or I'll break your fucking arms." Or possibly scream. Digging his fingers in, aiming for nerves, pulling Warrick closer, he squeezed until his own fingers ached. He'd meant to drag it out until Warrick's harsh breathing slipped closer to sobs. In the end, he couldn't. Briefly abandoning the game, he started to thrust, obeying the driving need, feeling the pressure building inside.

Don't say anything. A distant thought. Stick to the game. Don't say "Ah, fuck Warrick." Passion filling in his voice, uncontrollable and out of character, as if he cared through the heady rush of pleasure. When it was over, he unclenched his fingers, and Warrick groaned. Toreth stepped back, still panting, admiring the vivid red finger marks he'd left behind. They'd bruise up nicely, and last for a while. Stamping his property. He took his time fastening his zip, taking deep breaths, until he knew his voice would be steady, and then said, "So . . . what shall I do next?" "Whatever you want." Warrick's voice was hoarse, and the submission instant and unquestioning. "We've got all evening. Plenty of time." This was what he'd looked forwards to the most, the reason he'd gone through the elaborate preparations. He ran his hands over Warrick again, over his shoulders and down his chest, enjoying the rub of hair against his palms. "Plenty of time and such a lot of things we could try. But " He pinched Warrick's nipple, hard, making him gasp. "Did you really think I didn't see that watch?" A single, small exclamation of dismay, and then Warrick went absolutely still. He moved round in front of Warrick, savouring his stricken expression. Oh, yes. This was even more fun than the orgasm. Toreth smiled, keeping his voice unyielding. "You were four minutes over the time I gave you to get ready. You know what that means." "Don't go." He blurted out the desperate plea, and the genuine fear in his voice delighted Toreth. He laughed. "No? Why not? I've had my fun." "Please." Warrick's shoulders moved, pulling on the belt, and his cock twitched as he felt the restraints. Could anything be better than this? Yes a lot of things, and they were going to do plenty of them. "Again," Toreth said. "Please. Please stay." Warrick's tongue flicked over his lips, and Toreth imagined how dry his mouth must be. "I I need it." A good thing, really, that he'd included the hand job in the plan, because if he'd tried to do this without he didn't think he would've been able to stop himself jumping Warrick right this moment. Instead he stood for a while, pretending to think it over, soaking up the delicious sight of Warrick's flushed desperation. "Okay," he said finally. "I'm going for a wash. I won't be long. If, by the time I'm done, you're on your knees and ready to say sorry properly, I'll think about staying." Without waiting for an answer, he turned and headed for the bathroom, metal already rattling behind him. He closed the door and turned on the tap quickly, not wanting to miss the show. Leaving the water flowing, he crept back to the door, eased it open a tiny crack, and peeped through. Warrick didn't notice the movement because he had his eyes squeezed shut as he struggled with the cuffs. With slippery fingers and tightened straps, it wouldn't be easy.

Toreth intended to stay, of course, but it was far more fun to leave the question in doubt. What mattered was that Warrick believed he would leave, and from his expression, there was no doubt about that. After all, Toreth had left before. Those departures had been necessary if frustrating training, with evenings like this as the worthwhile reward. Even as he thought that, Warrick stilled and stood, chest heaving, staring down at the floor. What now? Toreth wondered. After a moment, Warrick lifted his head, and Toreth froze in alarm, but still Warrick didn't see him. He was frowning with concentration as he leaned back, putting his weight on the bar. His head tilted back, lips parting as he pressed against the cuffs. Wasting his time, Toreth knew, because there was no chance that the leather or steel would give way. Then Warrick arched even further, shoulders straining, and Toreth realised what he must be trying to do. Shit, he could break his back like that. No fucking way in hell could they explain that one away in casualty. Even as he put his hand on the door, the rod shortened suddenly with a click he heard over the running water, and Warrick nearly fell. Only nearly, though, and soon there was a second click and the bar collapsed by another section. Toreth grinned. Very, very clever, and the final effect would be fantastically fuckable. Time to turn off the tap, although it was a pity to miss the last part. As he returned, he heard the muffled thump of Warrick's knees hitting the ground, and his heavy breathing. Toreth ran his hands through his hair, summoned up a cold smile, and opened the door. "Well . . . " He paused, partly to draw out the tension, and partly because the scene before him drove the words out of his mind. Fuckable didn't do it justice, he thought, not anywhere near. Warrick knelt, head bowed, his dark hair curling with sweat, and in the light from the bathroom, more sweat gleamed on his chest and taut shoulders. The bar between his ankles spread his thighs and his erection, lost during the struggle with the cuffs, was swelling again under Toreth's gaze. Jesus fucking Christ, what could you charge for a sight like this? "I suppose I'll have to give you a chance now, won't I?" Toreth said finally. Warrick straightened, looking up at him, blinking, teeth bared in a mixture of triumph and relief. His. Absolutely and completely his. Whatever he asked at this moment, Warrick would do for him. Luckily, he had the right instruction prepared. "Go on, then. Tell me how sorry you are."

Game, Set
Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven

Chapter One
No one had told her, which had a surprise factor of minus several million. Why would anyone bother to tell her anything? All she had to do was reorganise Toreth's caseload, arrange facilities for the visitor and generally turn her life upside down. But, of course, she wasn't important enough to be told. The first Sara knew about it was on Monday, when a second desk arrived for Toreth's office. When she politely enquired what the hell was going on, she didn't get any sensible reply, beyond the information that the orders were from somewhere non-specifically 'higher up'. Toreth himself had been called in to a meeting with Tillotson first thing, and he hadn't reappeared. So she went to work on the comm, but the only story of note circulating was that there was a socioanalyst in the building, assignment unknown. That was old news. Toreth had met him late on Friday afternoon, when he'd spoken to senior paras from several sections, but she'd gone home before the meeting had ended. Hopefully there was no connection to the new desk, because she didn't fancy the idea of a spook in the office. She'd never met one, but she'd heard they were extremely creepy. By the time Toreth came back from Tillotson's office, she was nearly biting her nails with impatience. From his air of restrained fury, she guessed the news wasn't good. Before she could say anything, he stormed past her into his office. She followed him in and almost ran into him. He'd stopped inside the doorway to survey the new arrangement. "What's going on?" she asked. "I'm resigning, that's what's going on." He stalked over to his own desk and started sweeping up bits and pieces. "I'm going to clear my desk, and go back to tell Tillotson exactly where he can shove his fucking job, with illustrations, and then I'm going out to get hammered enough to forget the whole fucking morning." She stared at him, horrified by the sincerity in his voice. All she could manage to say was, "Really?" A long silence followed, then he dropped everything back on the desk. "No, of course not really. But I was this fucking close." He threw himself into his chair, just catching the edge of the desk as he nearly went over backwards. "This fucking close." "What's wrong?" "What isn't wrong? I've been " And he stopped, lost for words, which was something worth seeing. "I've been given to this fucking spook as some kind of bloody errand boy. Like a . . . a . . . like a pet. His own personal . . . it's outrageous. I'm a bloody senior. Tillotson stood there and as good as told me that if I don't give the smarmy fucker " "Should I come back later?" asked a velvet-smooth voice from behind her. Sara turned and found herself looking up into the widest, bluest, deepest, most come-hither eyes she had ever seen on a man. Long, fine lashes swept down and up as he blinked slowly. When she managed to tear her gaze away from his, she unconsciously braced herself for disappointment, but the rest of the tall, blond, elegant package standing in the office doorway wasn't half bad either. Far too old, unfortunately even older than Toreth. But still, God in heaven . . . It took her several seconds before she could even try to frame a reply. Then she found she couldn't remember what he'd said.

"I beg your pardon?" "Am I interrupting? I can go away and come back, if I'm being a terrible nuisance." He smiled, nearly causing her to lose track of the conversation again. "Although I would like to start work some time this morning, if that's not too much of an imposition." "Oh! You're the sp " She caught herself barely in time, although what she'd meant to say was still blinding obvious. Great first impression she was making here. "Socioanalyst, yes. Jean-Baptiste Carnac." He offered his hand. "You must be Ms Lovelady." His hand enveloped hers, warm and dry, his grasp neither aggressively tight nor unappealingly limp. Perfect. "Mm. Yes. That's me." When he released her hand, she added faintly, "Call me Sara." She thought she was prepared for it, but his smile dazzled her again. "Delighted to meet you, Sara, although I doubt you'd say the same about me, since I'm afraid I'll be making extra work for you." "It'll be a pleasure." Behind her she heard something snap hopefully nothing more exciting than the pencil Toreth had been holding. Time for a diversion before he started snapping anything else. "Look, why don't I show you where the section coffee room is, and generally do the tour and Toreth can," convince himself that killing a socioanalyst will look bad on his record, "get the office sorted out?" Carnac glanced up over her shoulder. Toreth didn't say anything, but he must have managed a nod, because Carnac looked back into her eyes and said, "That would be tremendously kind of you, Sara." So she took Carnac for coffee, thinking as she did that, old or not and spook or not she really wouldn't mind taking him for something else as well.

Chapter Two
The surprise wasn't that Carnac wasn't particularly good at blowjobs, it was that he was willing to give them at all. They broke two rules which Toreth had come to see as central to the socioanalyst's entire existence: they stopped him talking, and they interrupted the illusion that the world, solar system and probably entire galaxy revolved solely around him. Even Toreth could appreciate the irony of the complaint. But in a self-centred egotist competition, he was more than prepared to yield first place to the man currently on his knees in front of him. Not that he wasn't grateful, especially for the part where Carnac shut the fuck up for ten minutes. Even a not-terribly-good blowjob was better than none at all, and about a thousand times more enjoyable than listening to him talk. It was a tough call, but he'd eventually decided that the theme 'it's not easy being a socioanalyst, surrounded as one is by mundane minds who sabotage one's otherwise invariable success' was marginally more annoying than his diatribes on the deficiencies of I&I's systems and processes, or the lovingly detailed accounts of old cases. But more or less everything he said was irritating to a degree. Sharing an office with the man was driving Toreth mad. He'd suggested to Carnac that Sara would be able to find him a room of his own, but Carnac had said he preferred to maximise interaction with the organisation. Meaning that he didn't want to be sidelined in some cupboard at the far end of the building. Which, by a coincidence, was exactly what Toreth had been thinking of when he'd suggested it. So here they still were, together all day. There had to be some kind of plea-in-mitigation that would allow him to get away with throttling Carnac. Self-defence of his sanity, perhaps. The worst part wasn't the day-to-day irritation, or even the disruption to his current cases Jesus, teeth were not what he wanted to feel at this point, but at least the sharp scrape dampened down his arousal and bought him another couple of minutes' silence. No, the worst part was that it was all his own bloody fault. If he'd just ignored Carnac when he arrived, some other poor bastard would be the recipient of his ever-open mouth. But a socioanalyst was a rare sight at I&I, and experience working with one was a valuable career booster. Besides, the man could flirt at championship level. Toreth had never fucked a spook before and wouldn't be fucking one again, without references so he'd responded in kind. Curiosity killed the cat. Lucky fucking cat was all he could say, because the next thing he knew, Tillotson had called him into his office and handed him over to Carnac as his 'personal liaison'. Hah. He'd have to remember that one next time Sara asked him what Warrick was. Sara was another source of annoyance because she thought Carnac was God's bloody gift. It was the only time he could recall her looking actively envious of him fucking anyone. Carnac had infinite reservoirs of charm for dealing with the admins and he had the whole section full of them eating out of the palm of his hand in a couple of days. So now there wasn't even anyone willing to hear Toreth's complaints. Probably for the best, because Sara would have ruptured something laughing. It was, technically, sexual harassment, and he was almost tempted to make a complaint, if he could have stomached the utter humiliation. But Carnac got whatever he wanted from management, and since the fucking was the most bearable part of the whole experience, he probably ought not to tempt fate. At least the man had been quiet now for what? he managed to check his watch

discreetly for ten blessed minutes. This was the one kind of fucking which did shut him up. He'd never met anyone else who could talk so much during sex. It was frankly off-putting, trying to fuck someone to the accompaniment of musings on proximal and distal causation. Warrick was hardly a model of reticence, but at least when he managed anything more coherent than 'Christ, yes, fuck me harder', it was still closely connected to fucking. He didn't start reanalysing the hierarchical structure of I&I. Now he'd started thinking about fucking Warrick Warrick begging for him, Warrick pulling on chains and calling his name, Warrick's hair smelling of fresh sweat and that was sending quite the wrong kind of signals to his cock. Desperately, he tried to force his mind back onto something dull, to buy a few more minutes' peace and quiet. Too late. He managed to hold back for just a few seconds, clenching his fists against the wall. Then he was coming, closing his eyes and saying Warrick's name, in the vain hope that Carnac would care enough to take offence and get a new senior para assigned. He didn't, of course. He just stood up, wiping his mouth fastidiously and smiling, as Toreth tried to get his breathing back under control and refasten his clothes. There were moments, like now, when he was sure Carnac knew exactly how much Toreth detested him and was merely conducting a twisted experiment into how much he was willing to take for the sake of his CV before he told Carnac to go fuck himself. Toreth closed his eyes again, imagining how very satisfying that would be. Especially if he added a succinct evaluation of Carnac's sexual prowess, or lack of it. A delicate cough interrupted the happy fantasy. Opening his eyes, he found Carnac regarding him through a veil of yard-long lashes, which had once, very briefly, been attractive. As usual, he had the unnerving feeling that Carnac knew exactly what Toreth was thinking. "Shall we get back to work?" Carnac said. No purred. The man actually purred. Never, in his entire life, had Toreth wanted to finish an assignment as badly as he did this one. ~~~ Carnac loathed the assignment. He'd known that he would even before he'd been told what it was. It had been no more than the expected punishment for turning in the report he had been asked to make on his previous job, rather than the one they had wanted to read. Some things he wouldn't stoop to, though, and falsifying his conclusions was one of them. He might, as he often told himself, be prostituting his talents for the unappreciative Administration, but at least he wasn't faking the orgasms. Scant comfort at the moment when he was here, at the Investigation and Interrogation Division, assessing the probabilities of the employees becoming infected by the anti-Administration sentiments they heard during their working day. He hated the place, he hated the people, and most of all he hated the vindictive wasting of his time. Forcing him to come here was the beginning of the persecution. He could have compiled the report without ever leaving Strasbourg. Predictive analyses of the social and psychological dynamics of large organisations were his bread and butter. From long-term group behaviours down to shorterterm individual futures, he could have dissected I&I no less effectively from the comfort of his office at the Socioanalysis Division. There was little to no chance of any problems at I&I. The staff, at least those who lay within his

remit, were a variety of charming psychological aberrations that the Administration in its boundless wisdom had carefully channelled into the Division. Certainly none of them were ever likely to be stricken by a sudden fit of conscience over the work they did; anyone who might actually possess the requisite emotional development had been weeded out during the rigorous training. The real danger of subversion lay with the admins and other support staff, who were somewhat closer to normal human beings. However, they had been excluded from his investigation, a move which, he suspected, had been designed purely to layer the icing of pointlessness thickly onto the cake of boredom. A single day's visit would have been more than enough to sample the uniquely unpleasent atmosphere created by placing so many socially-functional personality disorders in such close proximity. The only entertainment he could expect for the duration was whatever he could make for himself. When Carnac began an assignment that mandated actual contact with the subjects always a bad start in his experience he made it one of his first tasks to have a personal liaison assigned to him. Someone with a reasonable degree of seniority, who would be a direct link into the people under study. If the assignment mattered or was, God forbid, challenging, he would take care to choose a liaison who would provide the greatest amount of information and insight, and be most useful in smoothing the course of the investigation. If, like this current task, it was a piece of time-wasting nonsense dictated by internal politics, he picked them on looks and orientation. If he had to be bored, his reasoning went, he might as well at least enjoy some non-intellectual stimulation. Carnac flirted with even-handed enthusiasm, but he fucked, and was fucked by, men. For preference, by attractive, well-built men with no desire to attempt any kind of intellectual relationship with him, which would only be profoundly unsatisfying for both parties. Val Toreth had been a natural choice on those grounds, and had proved more or less amenable to the physical requirements of his temporary role. He had also proved surprisingly interesting, or at least mildly unusual. On assignments like this one, Carnac was used to being treated as something made up of five parts CV points, four parts freak and, if he was especially lucky, one part human being. It didn't bother him any more, except when people made painfully inept attempts to cover it up and pretend that they liked him. He knew that he wasn't naturally likeable physically attractive, perhaps, but not likeable and he'd long ago given up attempting to pretend to be anything other than what he was, unless being liked was required. That kind of game-playing interfered with his work, and it took up energy better used elsewhere. Toreth didn't like him, and he didn't pretend to. He had been willing enough to return his interest at first meeting, probably out of curiosity, and to take up Carnac's offer of a drink, a meal and, subsequently, an hour or two in his hotel room. The next day, though, when Tillotson had accepted without question the request for Toreth's more official assignation, the para-investigator had been thoroughly disgusted by the turn of events and hadn't even attempted to hide it. That was partly Tillotson's fault, of course. It had been painful to watch him antagonising Toreth further with every word. Whatever his administrative talents, staff management did not number among them. Eventually, he'd asked Carnac to leave them alone, but Carnac could easily imagine the rest of the conversation, complete with heavy-handed threats as to what would happen if the unwelcome visitor wasn't kept happy. By the time he'd seen Toreth again, the man had been positively incandescent.

Fortunately, the change of general attitude hadn't affected Toreth's willingness to participate in the less official parts of his assignment; the air of sullen resentment with which he complied with Carnac's requests had its own subtle charm. And as a liaison, Toreth had additional redeeming qualities. For one thing, he generally stayed silent unless spoken to. When addressed directly, he gave a direct and useful response, and shut up again. This allowed Carnac to continue his own train of thought with minimum interruptions most other people's idea of conversation bored him terribly. For another thing, he couldn't recall Toreth asking him a single personal question, or even a question about his job as a socioanalyst. On the occasions when he said anything spontaneously, it was workrelated, intelligent and relevant. Years of answering moronic enquiries for the thousandth time made this a novel and restful experience. In another division, his first thought would have been to put his silence down to the man's general dislike of him. However, here in I&I, the explanation was obvious: Toreth simply didn't care. He had no interest in other people's lives, unless he was torturing the information out of them, or hunting for clues or had some other practical use for the data. His psych file described excellent observational skills and memory for details, both material and psychological, and Carnac duly noted the man's need to categorise and gain control over his environment. People as people, though, didn't matter to Toreth. In fact, they barely even existed as anything other than problems or toys. He appeared at first glance to be a classic, and therefore rather dull, result of I&I's policy of recruitment from the tail end of the human bell curve. Carnac had held that opinion for a day or so until he had, quite by chance, overheard Toreth and Sara talking. It had only been for a few minutes, but it had demonstrated to his satisfaction that to Toreth, Sara was, for want of a better word, 'real'. To a trained observer, the subtle differences in their interaction stood out starkly. In another situation, Carnac wouldn't even have consciously noted the existence of a commonplace friendship. Here it had broken his model of Toreth, and that was enough to pique his interest. His first thought had been, why her? Sara herself was nothing special, no more nor less than what she appeared to be. Indeed, whatever interest she held came from the fact that she was so straightforward, a trait he rarely encountered, especially within Administration departments. He marked it as a possible contributing factor to Toreth's attitude towards her. Suitably charmed, Sara had proved to be a bountiful source of information about Toreth. Carnac had been intrigued to discover the existence of someone referred to by Sara as Toreth's 'regular fuck' (did that make Carnac himself an irregular fuck?), whom he noted as a second potentially real person in Toreth's life. When he discovered this person had held the position for approximately eighteen months, his interest had been sharpened again. Not that the man was exactly a scintillating web of complexity, but he was a mildly intriguing aberration. So, to occupy his copious free time in this mind-numbing assignment, Carnac had decided to see what it took to make oneself real to a personality-disordered para-investigator. Or at least more real than the general masses. His own job was, in some aspects, not so very different from the interrogation part of Toreth's, distasteful as the thought was. He sat in his spacious office and wrote his reports, while Toreth worked here, in this awful place with its windowless rooms and hospital smell. They were both manipulators, though, persuading people to do things they may not want to, but couldn't help: Carnac directing

organisations with his delicate, subtle alterations of environments and psychological pressures, Toreth focusing on the individual, using his drugs and nerve induction equipment. It gave them something in common, even if Toreth was unlikely to see the similarities, and it would be interesting to see if the parallels might be turned into an emotional connection of some kind. Considering the time available, he had set himself the modest goal of three or more personal conversations, or an invitation to the man's flat. He would award himself a bonus prize for an offer of an introduction to the regular fuck, who sounded rather interesting in his own right. Doctor Keir Warrick. He'd met someone of that name years ago at the Data Division Encryption Unit, during one of his first assignments. At the time, the man had been a humble Administration researcher, although even then he had impressed Carnac as someone with potential. It was rare enough to meet an original mind, or at least a mind capable of the occasional original thought. If his old acquaintance was indeed Toreth's regular fuck, it would be a coincidence, but coincidences happened all the time. Only the general mass of humanity, pathetically incapable of dealing with even the simplest probabilistic concepts, would read anything into it. The odds were very high that it was the same man, given the details he had obtained from Sara. It would be interesting to see how Keir's potential had unfolded, or if, like so many other people Carnac had met, it had been eradicated by the grind of daily life. In this case, the latter seemed unlikely, given his achievements. The concept of computer-simulated realities was intriguing, and also a field Carnac knew delightfully little about. There were few enough of those left. Toreth hadn't told him anything about Warrick, of course, and it would be a violation of his selfimposed rules for this project to broach the subject without some lead-in. But from the details Sara had disclosed, it was obvious that Toreth's affections, such as they were, were thoroughly engaged. That regrettably decreased the number of available approaches towards him. Carnac had no illusions that mere sex would be enough to generate any meaningful connection. For the time being, he settled for maintaining Toreth's awareness of him as more than part of the furniture by annoying him. It had the advantage of requiring very little more than Carnac's normal, unmoderated behaviour. It wouldn't be enough, but it would do for the time being. Something else would come along, Carnac felt sure.

Chapter Three
On Thursday morning, the fourth day of Carnac's unwelcome occupation of his office, Sara came in with an expression suggesting that she thought she had interesting gossip. "He knows Warrick," she announced. "Who knows Warrick?" Toreth asked, knowing perfectly well whom she meant, but hoping in vain it would be someone else. Carnac was out of his hair this morning, bothering the psych assessors about their profiling techniques, and he'd rather not have to think about the man more than necessary. "Carnac knows him. From years ago, I think, but he definitely knows him. Isn't that a weird coincidence?" "Not really." And not that he cared if it was. She looked disappointed, but before she could say anything else an unpleasant idea struck him. "Why was he talking about Warrick at all?" Sara stared at him for a moment, and he could see the lies racing behind her eyes. Luckily for his fragile temper, she didn't use any of them. "I, um, think I mentioned him first. He, er, asked about you. Whether you, um . . . " "Whether I, um, what?" "Whether you had a regular thing going on." He felt his anger poised, balanced on a knife-edge between Sara and Carnac. Then it tipped decisively. Bastard. What the fuck was he playing at? "And you just told him?" he asked. She shook her head, but it wasn't a denial. "I yes. Yes, I did. God, I'm sorry." She did sound it, which was slightly mollifying. "I don't know why . . . I didn't think." "No, you didn't." He was angry enough for some to spill over. "You were too busy gazing into his bright blue fuck-me eyes, weren't you? Well, you're wasting your time. Unless you're planning on having the operation, you don't have a prayer." "Really?" She actually looked a little crestfallen, and his jaw clenched. He took a deep breath. Not her fault, he told himself firmly. Carnac had been fishing, obviously, and he could hardly be expected not to land her. When would the man finish here, fuck off, and stop disordering Toreth's nice, quiet life? He ought to ask what else she'd said, but he didn't want to hear it. "Just go away," he said. "Go away, and try not to tell him anything more. If there is anything you haven't told him already." He watched her go, then called up the list of prisoners with currently active high-level damage waivers. Time to see if he couldn't find something to encourage Carnac on his way. ~~~ At the end of the first week, Carnac sat in his hotel room, listening to music and reading interrogation transcripts that he wished he had in hard-copy form so that he could tear every page into tiny pieces and flush them down the toilet. He had arrived at I&I with a conviction that interrogation was crude, wasteful and barbaric, and nothing he had learned since had shaken that. However, he had added revolting and grotesque to the collection of adjectives.

Despite the futility of the investigation, he had conscientiously created a project outline which required, among other things, numerous initial interviews with interrogators, investigators and their hybrid cousins, the para-investigators. Job title had made little difference to his findings. His subjects had varied in attitude from bored to hostile. Questions about aspects of the job they found unpleasant had elicited a range of baffled expressions, and an impressive list of management, procedural and paperwork grievances. Faced with prisoner and interrogation scenarios which could be expected to provoke sympathy and outrage in actual human beings, they had given answers which might have been lifted verbatim from the I&I training manual. Except that, of course, they hadn't been. The replies were spontaneous and they had genuinely believed every word. The last faint hopes that he might discover something unexpected (that, say, the Administration's carefully trained monstrosities were all secret bleeding hearts who faked their interrogation transcripts) were quickly dashed. Even with his self-created hobby project, it was still simultaneously one of the dullest and the most distasteful assignments Carnac had ever experienced. On the fourth day of his sentence (as he was beginning to think of it), at the end of an afternoon spent going over some of the theoretical aspects of interrogation, Toreth had said to him, "You know, you ought to see this stuff first hand. I could arrange something for tomorrow, if you've got the time." In other words, you've come to poke your nose into our work, so can you handle seeing it? A pointless, irritating test of machismo. Regrettably, it was also absolutely necessary that he go through with it if he was to expect any cooperation within the Division. It would be worth putting up with anything, he had thought, to make the stay there shorter. On reflection, he could almost count that as one of his rare misjudgments. He would give a great deal not to have the memory of today, ready to spring to mind in the future whenever he casually included 'send for interrogation' in a strategy outline. Toreth had actually enjoyed it. Not the interrogation per se (which was, after all, merely a day's work for him), but the opportunity to demonstrate his profession to an outsider who might appreciate it. He had, in essence, been showing off, making it a textbook job for Carnac's benefit. That it was also clearly intended to traumatise the unwanted spook was quite a separate issue. From a purely technical viewpoint, Toreth was very good at it. Horrendously, stomach-turningly good. He'd even managed to work in a running commentary, with only a small reduction in the efficiency of the interrogation. It had added, perhaps, an extra twenty minutes of suffering for the prisoner and for Carnac. Empathy was a requirement for a socioanalyst. He knew how other people thought, what they felt. What they wanted, what made them too afraid to try to obtain it, what would tip them over one edge or another. It was an instinctive skill that he could no longer switch off. Usually, though, the knowledge was applied at a distance. He worked through the filter of security files, psych profiles, and the compiled results of research and thousands of case studies. He proposed and others disposed. This had been a new experience for him. Minds, personalities, psyches these were Carnac's stock in trade. Tedious as he found most people in the flesh, he'd never realised how ghastly it would be to see someone being destroyed in front of him. To watch Toreth find every crack, every emerging weakness, and to exploit them mercilessly to strip away another layer of resistance. Turning the prisoner into the thing Toreth required, not the person he had been before he entered this hell.

When one thoroughly understood how people in general behaved, people in the particular became dismally predictable. Sitting in that room, trying not to listen to what was being said and done, he'd known exactly what would happen from the moment they'd brought in the prisoner. He'd read the man's file and it had been nothing if not profoundly ordinary. Mildly surprising, in fact, that someone so average had found the determination to rebel against Administration rule. In a way, the worst part had been knowing that the man would break in the end, and that all the pain and degradation his resistance generated was ultimately futile. Knowing, indeed, when he would break and that it wouldn't be yet. After an hour or two he'd had to fight back the urge to plead with the prisoner to give it up, for both their sakes. There had been one positive outcome from the interrogation: he had always been curious about the phrase, 'the stench of fear'. Emotions seemed to be an unlikely source of an olfactory experience. Well, now he understood. "He'll crack tomorrow," Toreth had said with casual, uncaring confidence, after the guards had finally taken the man back to his cell. "Of course, there's no real need to do it the woman we arrested with him has already talked. She didn't have the same quality of interrogation resistance treatments he'd had. But he came in with a level eight waiver, so I thought he'd make a good example. Do you want to finish it off in the morning? I know it's Saturday, but I can come in if you'd like to see it." He'd managed a polite refusal, although by that time he could cheerfully have murdered Toreth, and every other interrogator in the building, so that what he had just witnessed would never happen to another human being again. For a few irrational minutes he had wanted nothing more than to get away from the interrogation building, throw up, and resign from the Socioanalysis Division, even if it meant he had to sleep on the streets for the rest of his natural life. It had passed, of course his training carried him through moments like that. Then, as they had walked through the endless security doors, back up to the relative sanity of the investigation levels, Toreth had turned to him and asked, "So, do you want to fuck?" It had been the only time since they'd met that he had directly initiated the sex. Once they were back in the office, Carnac had let him fuck him, because the distraction of having Toreth inside him was better than dwelling on the memory of what he'd watched the man do. They had to work together for the remainder of the assignment, after all. It was the first time they had got as far as penetration, but there wasn't a great deal of discussion involved, merely a gesture enquiring whether he preferred the wall or desk. He'd decided the desk would be easier on his calves. Neither was there any question about who would be doing what to whom. Toreth was a talented partner, when he made the effort to be. That time he had been calculating and controlled. Minimal foreplay, and then Toreth's weight above him, deliberately applied. He'd hurt him not much, just enough to make a point and he'd made sure that Carnac came first. After that he had held him down on the desk as he finished, fucking him hard, not making any sound at all as he came. Then he'd pulled out and walked off, leaving Carnac flat on the desk, sticky and breathless. On reflection, an entertainingly stereotypical display of dominance and territoriality, pressing home, so to speak, his physical superiority and training. Carnac hadn't cared. In fact, he'd rather enjoyed it, apart from a forgetful moment later on when, sitting down on a too-hard chair, his eyes had crossed so far that he'd briefly stared down his own optic nerves. Toreth, of course, had been hoping that the brutal sex and the interrogation would in combination

encourage him to ask for a new departmental liaison. Far from it. Carnac had encountered enough apprehension and cringing respect in the course of his career that Toreth's attitude was, at least, refreshing. If he'd cared about the job in hand, it would have been different. As it was, it simply let him know that he had succeeded in making Toreth take notice of him. He might try Sara again on Monday. She had become unexpectedly reticent over the last couple of days, which probably meant that she had let slip to Toreth that Carnac had been asking questions about him. Annoying, but there had been no practical way to keep her quiet. In any case, he suspected he had already got most of the useful information out of her, and what she had held back would be inconveniently difficult to extract. He put down the transcripts and considered his progress so far. What had he learned from Sara? Reading between the lines not a challenge with the woman Toreth seemed to have had an uninterestingly unpleasant childhood, which held some explanations, but no immediately useful leverage. It had been impressive that she knew anything about it at all (further unrequired evidence that Toreth had a genuine relationship with his admin), and mildly interesting that she had actually met his parents. Unfortunately, the details of the encounter had fallen under 'information held back'. She had also slept with him, as Carnac had suspected she must have. Just once, and there had been no explanation offered as to why, although according to her, one or two encounters seemed to be a modal length relationship for Toreth. That was an interesting fact in itself an interesting pathology. Perhaps he had been mistaken in his earlier assessment, and continued sexual contact might yield results through sheer repetition: familiarity breeding intimacy, rather than contempt. It was worth a try, as well as being what he had planned to do anyway. Now that he had made his impression, it might be time to see if he could moderate Toreth's view of him from dislike to something more suitable for his project.

Chapter Four
They returned to Warrick's flat after a morning at the gym that had, unusually, failed to put Toreth in a better mood. That was a shame, because he'd only recently managed to chivvy Warrick along to the gym at all. Swimming was about the only thing that he would find time for, although Toreth suspected (immodestly) that it had more to do with seeing him wet and mostly naked than any enthusiasm for exercise. Although he didn't know why that should be such a draw, when Warrick could see him wet and entirely naked any time he wanted to. Arriving back at the flat, they'd drifted automatically to the bedroom. But instead of a warm post-exercise buzz, Toreth felt irritable and restless and, worst of all, he couldn't stop thinking about Carnac. Not anything very specific, just the general awareness of his presence in the city; the fact that the man would be in I&I when he got in tomorrow morning; and that unless he'd had a personality transplant over the weekend, he'd be as much of a fucking nuisance as ever. Toreth took his shirt off and stared moodily into the mirror. How long did it take to work up to permanent frown lines? Fuck that he'd end up with grey hairs if he didn't get his office back to himself soon. And right now, even when he wasn't present, Carnac was still annoying him. Worse, he was cutting into his time with Warrick. "Toreth?" He looked round to find Warrick lying on his stomach on the bed, with his feet resting against the headboard, watching him. His expression was more or less neutral, but judging by the way his clothes were scattered on the floor rather than folded on a chair, he was keen for company. Toreth discovered, rather to his surprise, that he wasn't in the mood. "I think I might go home." "Oh. All right." Flattering disappointment, but not flattering enough to make him change his mind. "But before you go, are you going to tell me what's wrong?" "Why the fuck should anything be wrong?" Warrick gave him one of his particularly patient looks, which were an inspiration to homicide even under normal circumstances. As an alternative to strangling him, Toreth decided to tell him about Carnac. "Work." If Warrick didn't want to hear about I&I, he shouldn't ask, but Toreth thought he'd give him a chance to object. When Warrick didn't say anything, Toreth sat down on the small sofa under the window and continued. "We've been saddled with a socioanalyst who's checking us for subversive tendencies. I'd rather have Internal Audit for six months. It's all bollocks, anyway. The last time anyone got arrested for anti-Administration activities was years ago. And that was a bunch of admins down on level three it was nothing to do with us." He could hear a petulant edge creeping into his voice. Warrick was listening with sympathy, though, or at least what passed at a glance as a working imitation, and Toreth was enjoying the chance to vent his irritation too much to look more closely.

"Mind you, if he stays much longer everyone will be turning political. I'm surprised no one's thumped him yet. I swear Mike Belkin was getting close, but even he knows better than to fuck with a socioanalyst." Unlike Toreth himself, unfortunately. "But do you know what he's been asking people? Trained paras? 'Have you ever experienced a feeling of admiration for the willingness of political prisoners to suffer for their beliefs?' Jesus Christ. Socioanalysis must be staffed by morons. No one who gives a shit about that sort of thing makes it through the first week of training at I&I." He noticed that Warrick's gaze had shifted away to a point about a metre left of his shoulder, so he decided to drop that line of complaint. "The real pisser is that I've been stuck with the job of nannying the bastard until he finally writes his report and fucks off. 'Personal liaison', which means I have to hand most of my cases over to someone else and follow him around, doing sod all useful." Or sod quite a lot, actually. Too much, which wasn't something he said very often. He was beginning to feel as if a layer of Carnac was sticking to his skin, contaminating him. Stupid idea. He dismissed it. "I've had a wonderful week of it. The rest of the paras clam up if I get within three metres of them, because they're worried about what I'll pass on to him. And Sara's following him around, practically drooling on the floor, just because he's a world-class fucking flirt and he gave her the full blue-eyes-and-killer-smile treatment when he first showed up." And not that I fell for it as well. Oh, no. "What's his name?" Warrick asked, which was an unexpected question since Toreth hadn't even mentioned yet that they were fucking. "Carnac. Actually, he told Sara he knew you." "Well, well." Warrick was smiling, and Toreth had the feeling that he hadn't needed to be told the name. "Talks a lot, does he? At inopportune moments?" "Yes, he does. You have met him, then?" But now Warrick had started to laugh. "Yes, I've met him. Rather more than 'met', in fact." Toreth stared. "He fucked you?" Warrick raised his eyebrows. "Is it really that improbable that he might have been interested in me?" "No. No, of course not. I meant " He groped for words, and settled for Sara's. "It's a weird coincidence." "Yes, I suppose it is. Anyway, it was years back, when I was working for the Administration. I'm surprised he even remembers me. He was studying the psychology of security systems. Very good work, as I recall. I haven't met many socioanalysts, but he was the best I've seen." Oh, God. He wasn't sure if he could bear to hear Warrick singing Carnac's praises. "If he's so good, why is he pissing his time away at I&I?" "I have no idea. Of course, if he's still contracted to the Administration, then he'll have to do whatever projects they give him. I do know he had some moral objection to working for corporates." "Moral objection?" Not an easy word to connect with the Carnac he knew and loathed. "What kind of moral objection?" "You'll have to ask him. I never did." "Was he as bloody annoying then as he is now?"

"Well . . . " Warrick considered for a moment. "Not to me. I admit it helps if you get to know him, though, and many people would probably say it wasn't worth the effort. I thought he was . . . an interesting person. But I can't imagine ever considering him as a close friend." "I know him well enough to know that he's a waste of office space." That wasn't entirely true, but it was a relief to find one person who wasn't a committed member of the Carnac fan club. "And that he certainly didn't learn much from you about sucking cocks." A moment's stillness, then Warrick grinned. "You say the sweetest things." "Fuck off." He looked at Warrick closely, feeling mildly aggrieved that he was discussing the situation so calmly. This wasn't Toreth's usual one-night thing and he felt, somehow, that it ought to get more of a reaction. "Do you mind?" "Mind what?" "That he's . . . that I'm fucking him?" Warrick shrugged, relaxed and blatantly unconcerned. Or was that 'ostentatiously unconcerned'? "Well now, that would entirely depend on whether you were enjoying it. And if so, how much." "The actual fucking isn't bad. It's just the rest of the time that I want to kill him." "Then no, I don't mind." Warrick cocked his head, half smiling. "Or would you prefer that I did? Should I declare a proprietorial interest? Perhaps get you labelled?" He drew a little rectangle in the air. "'This para-investigator belongs to . . . '" He wasn't putting up with that. "Get up." Warrick looked at him for a moment, unmoving, smile still in place. "So you would prefer it?" Oh, yes. Provocation, and Warrick knew he'd have to pay for it. "You'll know if I want you to do anything, because I'll tell you to do it. Right now I'm telling you to come here." He paused, Warrick lying still and watching him. "Come here," he repeated. "No, I don't think so." Toreth had quite forgotten that he'd been leaving and that he wasn't in the mood. Warrick wasn't keen on keeping much gear here in his own flat, but that didn't matter. Props were fun, but unnecessary, and he could always improvise. He got off the sofa and stood over the bed, looking down at Warrick. "You don't bloody learn, do you? How complicated is it?" Warrick made a move to get off the bed, quick, but nowhere near quick enough. Brief struggle, then Toreth was pinning him down easily as he twisted. Holding him tight, but not hurting him. Not yet. Soon, he'd want it, although he'd still complain about the bruises afterwards. Toreth could tune it so finely, so easily, these days, giving Warrick exactly what he needed. That was the satisfying part of this . . . regular thing. He lowered his head and bit, hard, turning the uneven breaths into moans. Swimming pool-clean body, beginning to take on a tang of sweat. Pulling away a little, he watched the marks turning red against Warrick's pale skin. "Now, are you going to keep still?" Warrick didn't say anything maybe couldn't but he didn't stop struggling, which Toreth was delighted to interpret as a 'no'. Reaching down onto the floor, he swept his hand round until he found Warrick's discarded trousers, and pulled the belt free. A loop round Warrick's wrists, and he buckled it tight.

Then he rolled away and sat up, arms round his knees, looking down at Warrick. He always enjoyed watching him like this, when he was so caught up in the game. Warrick twisted against the leather strap, his shoulders flexing, his chest heaving. Probably more exercise than he'd got at the gym. Eyes closed, dark hair disarrayed and starting to curl with sweat. Pale skin, marked by Toreth's mouth. Panting through parted lips, mouth twisting as he writhed. Toreth had done this to him, and the idea held a kick like a drug. He wanted to fuck him now, and he wanted to wait, to watch, to make it last. And if it didn't last this time, it didn't matter, because they could do it again later. Tomorrow. Some time. Many times. Wonderful regular thing. Finally, Warrick opened his eyes. Dark, dark eyes, asking for it before his mouth did. "Fuck me."

Chapter Five
Carnac worked as Toreth watched him, appearing oblivious to the scrutiny. He was also quiet, which improved Toreth's mood considerably. In fact, for whatever reason, Carnac had been astonishingly tolerable so far this week. That was mildly annoying in itself, since it meant he'd wasted all that irritated apprehension over the weekend. Admittedly, it was only Tuesday afternoon, which gave the bastard more than half the week to return to aggravating form, but if Carnac could manage to keep it up until he finished his pointless investigation, Toreth might even not have to kill him. That made him think of the conversation he'd had with Warrick. "Carnac?" He looked up, eyebrows lifting with surprise at the interruption. "Yes?" "Are you Administration or corporate?" Carnac leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Is that a personal question?" Toreth blinked. "Well, yeah, I suppose so. Forget I asked." "No, no, I don't object to answering, I merely wished to clarify the context." He smiled, looking distinctly self-satisfied. "I'm neither. I freelance." "So what the hell are you doing here?" "Ah. I do not, alas, freelance all the time. I'm still paying off my training obligation to the Administration. At the moment I'm thirty-four point six percent freelance, which works out to one hundred and twenty-six point two nine days a year when I can do as I please, and two hundred and thirty-eight point seven one during which," he reached out and tapped a pile of papers, "I have to plough through tedious shit like this." Toreth might have been offended, if he hadn't had exactly the same opinion of the enterprise. "You can't find a corporation to pay it off for you?" "Easily. However, that would merely result in transforming an onerous debt to the Administration into a far more onerous debt to a corporation." "No free payoffs available?" Carnac shook his head. "The training cost of a fully qualified socioanalyst is approximately three orders of magnitude greater than that of a para-investigator. Corporations are understandably reluctant to offer any deal that does not guarantee a fair return on their investment. Most of the corporate definitions of 'a fair return' I've seen included the rest of my life, and the lives of my hypothetical unborn children, even unto the seventh generation. I don't find slavery to my tastes, so I prefer to buy my own freedom." "Three orders of . . . ?" Toreth whistled. "And you've got it down to under seventy percent? What the fuck do you charge?" "What the laws of market forces dictate not as much as I would like, but as much as people can afford. Why are you still working for the Administration? I'm certain that you could find a corporation willing to offer more generous terms." "I like my life the way it is. Anyway, like you said, would it make any difference? I don't fall for 'the grass is greener'." Carnac nodded slowly. "No, of course not. May I ask a personal question?"

Something about his manner put Toreth's hackles up, but that was hardly unusual. "All right." "I'm given to understand that you have a more long-term personal arrangement of some kind, outside I&I. I hope I won't be the cause of any difficulties?" No point asking Carnac where he got his information. "No. No problem at all. He doesn't care." Carnac's analytical talents seemed to be well up to the task of spotting a 'fuck off and die' tone of voice, because he merely nodded again and returned to his work. ~~~ In his hotel room that evening, Carnac reviewed the progress of his official investigation (as uninspiringly good as could be expected) and his private study (also good, and more interesting). His new approach seemed to be working out very well. One personal conversation, initiated by Toreth, was a significant payoff for two days of careful pleasantness. A third of the way to his first goal and, unfortunately, plenty more time to complete the project. At this rate he would be finished with Toreth long before his time at I&I expired. Sometimes winning was no fun. The comm interrupted his thoughts. He was delightfully astonished to recognise the caller. "Keir Warrick! What a surprise, and I do mean that." Keir smiled, and Carnac was delighted again to see that he understood why that was noteworthy. "I heard that you were in the area and I thought you might be at something of a loose end." "Oh, you have no idea never looser, regrettably. I take it that you're getting your information from an I&I employee?" "Toreth seemed to think that the project was largely pointless." "I don't mean any insult to him when I say that any idiot would notice that. The chance of finding anything intellectually rewarding in the assignment is how does the fairy tale go? The king set the miller's daughter the impossible task of spinning straw into gold. That is a reasonable analogy, although I might pick a less fragrant substance than straw as a metaphor for that place. You have no idea how much I would give to move to something even half as interesting as the study at the DDEU." "I can offer you dinner on Thursday, if that would do instead." Carnac hesitated. Accepting the invitation would invalidate his aim of persuading Toreth to introduce him to Keir. On the other hand, refusing would deprive him of what would probably be an enjoyable evening. Moreover, he might be able to uncover some fresh information on his subject from a new source, now that Sara's shallow seam had been mined out a consideration which tipped the balance in favour of accepting. He found himself smiling; that had been nicely rationalised. "A perfectly adequate substitute, yes," he told Warrick. ~~~ Anticipation of the evening to come had made the next two days at I&I the least unpleasant Carnac had suffered through since his arrival. The restaurant was the most neutral of neutral territories. Exclusively corporate, it wasn't, Carnac noted, cheap, but price mattered little to either of them. Keir remembered the past at least well enough to choose Oriental, Carnac's favourite. However, the lighting was bright, the service brisk, and the decor expensive but severe not an ambience to encourage the renewal of old intimacies. They perused the menu and ordered. As they waited for the food to arrive, Carnac tolerated a stretch of social conversation regarding work and the time that had passed since their last meeting. It

wasn't too dull, because it gave him a brief overview of the sim, which sounded every bit as interesting as he had hoped. Probing the effect of hard-earned corporate status on the man he'd known as a scientist was almost as engaging. "Did you remember to vote today?" Carnac asked. Warrick looked at him blankly. "I'm sorry?" "Weren't the Parliament of the Regions elections today? I thought that the New London representative was on the list this year." "Then I'm sure I did." Warrick smiled, the same neat, controlled expression Carnac remembered so fondly. "Corporate perks I'm registered to submit my votes automatically." "Arranged in what is no doubt the most socially correct manner." "Truthfully? I don't remember the exact details." Warrick gave a small shrug. "I asked Gerry to set it up for me." "You know, I've always admired your refreshing mix of idealism and pragmatism." A tiny flicker of alarm creased Warrick's friendly demeanor. "Idealism?" "In an intellectual sense, purely." Carnac held up his hand in apology. "Forgive me, I intended no unfortunate implication. All I meant was, you pursue truth at the expense of personal comfort. You could have taken your pick of Administration or corporate posts, and instead you chose to take a tremendous gamble in order to realize your dream, to put it rather tritely. And it has paid off handsomely, so I understand." "I have no criticism of the Administration's voting system," Warrick said with emphasis, as though the latter comments hadn't even registered. "I'm sure." Carnac couldn't resist. For someone like himself, in a place such as this, risk was negligible and could result in nothing worse than a reminder to remember the good name of Socioanalysis. "I admit that there's a Platonic beauty to the idea that we have finally achieved the pure distilled essence of universal democracy: providing the inept masses with the illusion of an influence over the state which they are utterly unqualified to exercise in actuality. Meanwhile, the Council rules in name, and the Heads of Departments rule in fact, and all is right in the Administration." This time, Warrick remained silent. Carnac sighed to himself. Of course, he couldn't expect Keir to forget to whom he was speaking, and no doubt Toreth had informed him of the nature of Carnac's project at I&I. In the old days, though, Warrick might have answered. Somewhere along the roads they had travelled apart, he had learned more caution. Or Carnac himself had come to represent more of a threat. "But then I suppose none of that is of much interest to you," Carnac said lightly. "Why should it be? The system suits both of us very well, and a corporate such as yourself has the opportunity for far more direct and personal contact with the arbiters of political power than mere votes can provide." Warrick looked at him rather more sharply than Carnac felt the comment merited. Had Warrick been politicking heavily on behalf of SimTech? It seemed somewhat unlikely, from Carnac's knowledge of him, but not impossible. In the first instance, though, he felt an obligation to pursue his self-appointed inquiries into Toreth. The sim would wait until later. After they had finished their first pass through the selection of dishes set out for them on the table, Carnac asked, "How is your lovely wife?" "She's my lovely ex-wife."

"Ah. I thought she would be, by now. It was a mistake to marry her." Keir paused, mid-selection, and looked at him thoughtfully. "Actually, I didn't think I had, when I saw you last." "No, but you were going to. Still, all's well that ends well, and similar platitudes." After a moment Keir said, "Don't you ever get bored of asking questions when you already know the answers?" That offered a nice entry point. "Yes, but people seem to prefer it to my simply telling them what they think. However, here's a genuine question I don't know the answer to: how do you cope with Toreth?" The switch clearly caught Keir off guard. "With what about him?" "The things he does in the course of his working day." Carnac cocked his head, ostentatiously considering. "You couldn't, of course. Which means you don't know, which means you haven't asked. And you most certainly haven't seen. I do believe I'm disappointed in you, Keir. I never thought you were the ostrich type." He bridled slightly. "Not that it is any of your business, but I have seen." Interesting. When? On reflection, it made sense that Keir would have made some effort to see with what he was getting involved. Carnac had always admired his intellectual honesty. "In that case, I apologise and withdraw the remark. And I return to my earlier question: how can you stand it?" "You tell me. You're fucking him as well. How do you manage it?" The unexpected crudity of the verb, or perhaps the crisp delivery, discomforted Carnac for a moment. He realised he had placed too much weight on Toreth's conviction that Keir wouldn't care about their temporary liaison. This might present a problem for his plans for Toreth. He reordered his approach and continued. "Irrelevant. I'm trying to get through a boring assignment without entirely losing my sanity. You, on the other hand, are in love with him." Keir went pale. "Don't be ridiculous." He realised in passing that he was willing to forgive Keir the occasional burst of stupidity such as this, because most of the time he managed to be almost rational. "Please, do remember who I am. Do you really want me to explain how obvious it is?" Rhetorical question, fortunately. Warrick wouldn't say yes, so he wouldn't have to confess that he was primarily relying on Sara's opinion. "I've been studying Toreth. He fascinates me." "Really." "Yes." Time to test the strength of Warrick's detachment. "He destroys people's lives, their minds and their self-worth. He perpetrates acts which most people would find impossible. He listens to people in pain, begging for their lives, for the lives of their loved ones. And none of it touches him because he doesn't perceive other people as real. Would you agree with that?" "It's an opinion I've heard expressed before." Unreadable expressions and coldness can give away as much as anything else. "Yet, somehow, he manages to accept your love and to love you in return, insofar as he is capable, although I'm sure the word has never occurred to him. Indeed, he trusts you, which is actually more significant. I imagine that you still tolerate a measure of thoughtlessness and indeed cruelty on his part, but your inevitable dissatisfaction must be outweighed by the rewards of pleasure and

affection. A relationship is maintained, against all probability. It's really terribly interesting." Keir groaned. "Please tell me you haven't said any of that to him." "Good Lord, of course not. He'd kill me, somewhere around the middle of the first sentence, and the extent of his self-deception is another fascinating aspect to the situation. Now, will you answer my question?" After a long silence Keir said, "You're right. I don't think about it. My self-deception, if you like." When he didn't comment on that, Keir looked at him expectantly. "Well?" "Well nothing. I don't give relationship advice." Especially when, as in this case, the only advice he could give would be: he's dangerous, leave him. "Not even if it's asked for?" "I'm not cheap, and in this case I couldn't honestly recommend the expense, since you wouldn't follow it." Keir nodded. Maybe he guessed what the advice would be. "So why ask the question in the first place?" "I was curious, that's all it's an unusual psychological situation of which I have few examples. I presume that you're satisfied with it, and with him. I'll admit that I can see his attractive qualities for someone who enjoys being dominated in a sexual context." It was unfortunate, on reflection, that Keir was in mid-drink when he said that. As he mopped tea from his trousers and the table, he said, "Jean-Baptiste, that is an extremely obnoxious habit." "Yes, I'm rather afraid it is. However, that doesn't make the observation any less true." "How do you know?" "It's obvious, from your choice of partners if nothing else. Actually, if ever the subject had arisen, I could have told you before. Melissa, the dear " He shook his head, suppressing a smile at the memory of Keir's last-ditch and sadly misguided attempt to satisfy his relationship requirements in a more socially acceptable format. He had sincerely loved the woman, and laughter would offend. "However, you wouldn't have been ready to hear it back then." Warrick looked up. "I'm surprised that you'd worry about that." "Oh, I'm not saying that I wouldn't have said it, had the topic been broached, just that it would've been a potentially damaging thing for you to hear." "And you say Toreth doesn't treat people as real." It would do no good to explain that it was more a question of people being so pitifully unaware of their own fears and desires that there was little point making the effort to spare them pain. They suffered anyway, as they thrashed blindly in the incomprehensible quicksand of their meaningless lives. On the other hand, the parallels had occurred to him as well, so it would be dishonest to deny the accusation entirely. "I will concede a certain similarity in some aspects. However, that is part of why he's so intriguing." Something he hadn't seen before occurred to him. "He's emotionally immature and, indeed, potentially dangerous, and yet he has his 'regular fuck' and I don't. Does that strike you as unfair?" Keir laughed, although without sounding terribly amused. "Actually, no, it doesn't. But anyway, would you want one?"

That kind of thought-provoking question was the reason he didn't mind spending an evening with Keir. "Do you know, I have absolutely no idea. And you cannot imagine how much the novelty of that appeals to me." "Then, if you'll take some advice, you'd be better off looking at Socioanalysis than I&I." Touch of defensiveness, quite unnecessary Carnac didn't have the right suicidal tendencies to go after Toreth as a serious partner, or any of the rest of the I&I menagerie. It was probably as far as Keir would permit himself to go in laying claim to Toreth, though, so a little reassurance was only fair. "Neither, I would say. I don't see much potential for long-term contentment with either sociopaths or egomaniacs." Keir smiled slightly. "Well, then, good luck in finding someone who does." Touche. As they continued the meal, and the conversation turned to the sim, Carnac found himself using some of his attention to measure his companion up to the role of partner. Considering the starting point that no one would ever be suitable, Keir wasn't a bad fit. Interesting, intelligent, independent, rich enough to function as an equal. Tolerant, as his liaison with Toreth amply demonstrated. Carnac knew full well that tolerance would be a major requirement. Considered in that light, Toreth really didn't deserve Keir not that merit played much part in such matters. More frustratingly, he realised that choosing Toreth as his personal liaison had irretrievably ruined whatever small chance might have existed of engaging Keir's interest. Yet, without that choice, Keir would never have contacted him. One of life's supremely annoying paradoxes. Eventually, after they had gone through dessert, coffee and quite revolting authentic Eastern liqueurs, Carnac looked at his watch. "I should go. I have another scintillating day at I&I ahead of me tomorrow." Then he waited, making the silence an invitation. Just in case he was, for once, wrong. He wasn't, of course. Keir smiled, shook his head. "Thanks for the offer, but no." "Oh?" "I'd hate to spoil old memories." Carnac understood at once, but he made the comment for form's sake. "As I recall, you terminated the proceedings back then, in short order." Keir rose, folding his damp napkin neatly before setting it down. "Precisely." They shared a car as far as Carnac's hotel and he permitted himself to keep hoping for the length of the journey that Keir might change his mind. Which, naturally, he didn't. As he prepared for bed, Carnac gave their conversation some serious consideration. Perhaps it would be worth investing some time in refreshing his understanding of indices of attractiveness and drawing up a profile for a partner. After all, if an individual as damaged as Toreth could find his regular fuck, there had to be a chance for himself. Not, of course, that they were so similar that the comparison meant a great deal. In the end, he decided that it had been an interesting fantasy, for an evening, but he didn't think he'd pursue it. The likelihood of the search yielding a candidate who was both suitable and available was far too small to justify the expenditure of effort. Barring an event of miraculous improbability, he would have to continue to content himself with his personal liaisons.

Still, when the investigation was over, perhaps he would contact Warrick again and ask if it would be possible to try out the sim. No ulterior motives were required for that. Or perhaps he could see if Toreth could arrange it. That might make an informative test of his progress. All in all, he'd had an enjoyable evening.

Chapter Six
The next day, Warrick sat on the virtual beach, skipping virtual stones across the calm sea, and trying to enjoy the heat of the virtual sun. He wasn't, much. This was the first personal sim time he'd taken on his own for a while, and he knew what he was doing hiding. Taking some time to think, in his safe, beautiful sim that had been a refuge from the real world for a long time. He'd chosen the beach because he liked it, and because Toreth didn't. Or didn't now. At first he'd claimed to love it, but then Warrick had tried to demo underwater breathing to him. Toreth had tried it once, failed miserably, and then announced that it wasn't his sort of thing, and that he wasn't doing it again. End of discussion. After that, he'd always preferred one of the other rooms. Warrick had wondered about it, but he hadn't asked. There was no point. There was a particular kind of conversational shutdown, signalling that any further probing would provoke trouble. Like the time when, quite without expecting any problems, he'd asked about Toreth's family. Missing the signs, he'd pressed too hard; he hadn't seen Toreth for a week after that. A week Toreth had no doubt spent working his way through enough strangers that he could eventually forget what had happened and come back. Dilly had asked how he could tolerate it, and sometimes he wondered the same thing. Ultimately, the reason was that the strangers didn't matter; he'd grown used to ignoring them. Not that it wasn't . . . unpleasant, now and then, and he wasn't going to lie to himself about that. It was a balance between living with Toreth's infidelity and not trying to fool himself that he didn't care at all. Inevitable dissatisfaction outweighed by the rewards of pleasure and affection. The reason he was here, sulking in the sim as Dilly would say, was because of Carnac. He'd met Toreth's casual partners before on occasion, they were hard to avoid. Sometimes Toreth lied about them, sometimes he didn't bother, and sometimes he went out of his way to make damn sure Warrick knew about them. That was usually another sign that Warrick had, by Toreth's standards, done something wrong. Then there would be an argument which would at some point transmute seamlessly into sex, and then everything would be all right once more. Or at least back to normal. The casual partners, though, however deliberately flaunted, didn't usually want to sit down to dinner and discuss the situation. That was partly his own fault for not thinking things through. He'd felt curious to see Carnac again, to find out what he was doing and if he had changed. He should have known Carnac would expect him to demonstrate an interesting opinion on Toreth. Also on I&I, which had led to the stupid slip-up of mentioning Marian. Dangerous, however oblique it had been. Thank God Carnac hadn't pursued that mistake. Carnac was, annoyingly, right about I&I. It would make things intolerable to think too often about how Toreth knew what he did about pain and how to use it. Seeing the recording of Marian's interrogation had been bad enough. Watching her die had been worse, not only because of her death but also because of Toreth's reaction to it. While he himself had been appalled by what he'd helped to do, Toreth hadn't cared. It had meant nothing to him, except that he was out of trouble and safe from Psychoprogramming. Another point to Carnac. When Toreth had come back up to his office . . . well, it hadn't been Warrick's most shining performance of composure under stress. He didn't kill people every day, though, or even help arrange

for them to die. Seeing it in the sim hadn't prepared him for it. He'd wanted nothing more than to leave, to hear it was over and done with and to get away from I&I forever. Toreth had stopped him, physically stopped him, and kept him in the office long enough to complete the charade they had devised. Toreth had been angry. Maybe, in retrospect, also frightened by the cost of it going wrong. 'Do you want to fuck everything up? Do you want to end up down on level C, where she was, spilling everything for one of the others? You'll stay in here long enough to make it look good, whatever it takes. I'm not going to risk ending up dead as well, just because you're too fucking gutless to stick it out. It was your fucking idea live with it.' And, God help him, even then, even right then, he'd wanted Toreth. It hadn't hurt or hadn't helped that Toreth had been holding him against the wall while he delivered his little speech. The controlled anger in his voice, his hands on him . . . it had combined irresistibly with the adrenaline generated by their desperate plan. Being brutally honest which he might as well be since he was here inside his own mind with no one else to hear him it had gone straight to his cock, and Toreth had realised that straight away, too. He'd managed to resist Toreth for all of twenty seconds. Maybe even thirty. Mm. Something to be proud of there. Then he'd let Toreth fuck him, against the desk, by the screen where he'd watched Marian die, and he'd enjoyed every moment of it. The best sex they'd had, up until then close and hot and urgent. They'd come together, perfectly together, and he'd drawn blood biting his lip to keep quiet. Afterwards, he'd managed to get himself back under control, and the sex had, strangely, helped that. Endorphins, probably. He'd still hesitated on his way out, before he'd opened the door. Toreth had put his hands on his shoulders from behind, and he'd braced himself for another blast of contempt. Instead it had been calm instructions and a reassurance that everything was going to be fine. Then, finally, he'd said, 'I'll be in touch.' Even while he was still sickened by what had happened, Warrick hadn't thought for a moment that it might be the end of things between them. They were bound together by what they'd done for each other. Or was it really just the sex? He smiled wryly. It might not be that entirely but, God, it would almost be enough on its own to stop him thinking about the other things. Incredible then, and even better since. He rubbed his wrists, thinking about last Saturday morning at his flat. Would it always be that good? Could it possibly be? He lay back in the warm sand, tempted to stop trying to think about the difficult, unpleasant things and instead to concentrate on the rewards of pleasure. He tried to imagine them both in some vague number of years, still doing it, still playing the game. To his surprise, he could, easily. In fact, he couldn't imagine ever stopping wanting it. He would never, he knew, find anyone else who could do that to him. Then there were the other encounters, rarer and so more individually memorable. Sunday morning sex, when they had plenty of time and Toreth might briefly let his defences down. Not often, or for long, but the fact that it happened at all showed that Carnac and Marian were wrong Toreth was more than his job at I&I and his psych file. Warrick didn't need to read psychology textbooks to know that. Slow, passionate, after-breakfast sex provided all the evidence required. There were additional things he wouldn't mind trying, too. Fucking Toreth, for one. He'd done it

here in the sim, during SMS runs, which, in fairness, you could say didn't count since Toreth was in sensory deprivation at the time. Toreth hadn't complained about it afterwards, though. In the real world it would probably be different, something else he'd learned from Toreth. Sometimes, when Warrick was pulling on the chains, desperately close to coming, he would get a sudden flash of their positions reversed: Toreth bound, while he fucked him. Just the thought of it, of being inside him, of how it would feel, was almost enough to make him resolve to go round to Toreth's flat tonight and ask him. I want you. Let me, please. A little give and take isn't an unreasonable request, is it? He wouldn't go, though, even though normally he had no problem asking for what he wanted. It was just that he'd never been able to think of a way of wording it that didn't leave him with the fear that Toreth might refuse without thinking about it. Once he had said no, he wouldn't let himself change his mind. In truth, Warrick had no concrete reason even to suspect that Toreth would turn him down. Toreth's hedonism was generally all-encompassing and enthusiastically experimental. However, this was something that required trust and a certain relinquishing of control and he hadn't needed Carnac to tell him that Toreth's trust was a far rarer commodity than his sexual attention. So he'd decided to wait until, eventually, Toreth might suggest it himself. It was all the more irksome because he knew that Toreth sometimes took it from his one-night, no-consequence partners. Them and not him perhaps because the limited surrender the act required was easier with someone Toreth would never see again. Warrick smiled wryly. An evening with Carnac had made him excessively analytical. What Toreth did with his casual partners wasn't something Warrick had ever wanted to know about in detail, but he'd caught comments, let slip accidentally or deliberately. Like this time, when it had been the fact that Carnac had sucked him off. In Toreth's office, possibly. Despite himself, Warrick played with the image. Easy to create the scene. He knew how Toreth would sound, how he would move, how he would respond. What he liked. Except, presumably, that he hadn't been saying Warrick's name when he came. Or had he? He should have asked Carnac. No, he shouldn't have. What he should do was stop thinking about it, get out of the sim and get back to work. Why was he letting this get to him so much? It was Carnac. Or, more accurately, what Carnac had told him. 'You, on the other hand, are in love with him.' He'd also said Toreth loved him in return. Of course, he knew Carnac well enough not to believe every word he said, especially when he was fishing for a reaction. And they were just words. Putting a label on whatever feelings either of them might have didn't change them, or make them any more significant. There had been plenty of labels and 'I love you's with Lissa, and that hadn't turned out to be the lasting romance of the century. It wasn't just sex between them any more (at least not on his part), and he'd known that for a while. He'd wanted it, in fact. That knowledge didn't tell him what it was, though. Dilly had asked him about it at New Year. A direct 'do you love him?' which he'd weaselled out of answering. She'd let him get away with it, too, which implied she didn't want to hear the answer. Maybe she thought she knew. He wondered for a moment what Sara thought. Then he decided that if he was reduced to taking a poll on the question, then that in itself probably gave him the answer. If he wasn't sure, he couldn't be, could he? He stuck by his non-answer to Dilly: it would be an incredibly stupid thing to do.

Even if it were true, would that change anything? Was that why he was still thinking about Carnac? No, it wouldn't, and it wasn't. Even without Toreth's track record, bizarrely reassuring in this context, Carnac wasn't a serious threat, for all his 'I find him fascinating' routine. Toreth disliked Carnac, while Carnac's opinion of Toreth didn't seem to leave much room to worry about his showing a long-term interest. So why hadn't he asked Carnac, politely or otherwise, to stop fucking his . . . whatever? Because back to this again he had to put up with it whether he liked it or not, because Toreth wasn't about to stop. Besides, Toreth would be furious if he heard he'd warned Carnac off, and Warrick certainly didn't trust Carnac to keep his mouth shut about it. A light touch against his leg made him look down. There was no visible clock in the beach room, and he'd always meant to do something about that now someone had beaten him to it. On the sand beside him sat a large crab, with a clock face set into its violet shell. Its eyestalks goggled at him briefly, then it clicked its claws. "Time's up, Doctor Warrick," it said in a voice he recognised as one of the staff's from the Artificial Life lab, and then it sidled down to the water. Warrick stood up, automatically brushing the sand from his clothes without using his hands, and called up the control panel. He hesitated for a while, though, staring out over the glittering, unreal ocean. Half an hour of useful sim time wasted in self-indulgent self-absorption. After that investment, he must have solved the problem. Carnac didn't matter that much, that was his conclusion. If he let himself get obsessed by this one, then the next one would only be worse. Time to get back into the real world and get on with real things. If he ever caught them fucking on a Sunday, then he'd worry.

Chapter Seven
Life at I&I had settled into a routine; it was still dull and unpleasant, but it allowed Carnac to work more effectively. Coffee breaks, primarily taken in the coffee rooms, were an interruption, but apparently a cultural requirement. In the interests of completeness, he'd asked Toreth to take him to coffee rooms in various sections. He'd discovered a few things for one, that General Criminal was by no means the worst place in the building to have coffee. That honour went to the Interrogation levels and the interrogators, who were very like para-investigators, only with fewer interpersonal skills. From a distance, the social dynamics of the freak show might have been of mild interest. While actually sitting in the same room as people discussing difficult prisoners, they made his fingers itch for a heavy blunt object. As would be expected in a job that was bound to engender a degree of paranoia, I&I employees seemed to conduct an inordinate amount of their business via unofficial interactions. While unsurprising, the observation would fill a space in the report. Whereupon, no doubt, I&I senior management would seize on the fact and try to mandate some kind of reduction in the practice, thereby damaging morale and efficiency. The usual effect of writing an intelligent report and handing it to morons. He would find the prospect quite depressing, if he didn't so thoroughly despise the lot of them. They were drinking coffee again when Toreth surprised him with another spontaneous question. "How long have you been doing this?" Carnac tipped his head. "That's rather open-ended." "I meant your job. Socioanalysis." Interesting question. An oblique approach to discovering his age, or a genuine enquiry? "Counting training, or since I qualified?" "Either." "Since I was fully licensed the end of my first independent case thirteen years less a few weeks. Since I entered the official training scheme, a little over thirty-seven years." Toreth blinked. "Fuck, they do start you young." "Historically, the Division took recruits as old as twelve, but the end results were less satisfactory. I was picked out as having potential by postnatal neural screening. All the initial training and testing was carried out locally." He left the location unspecified, and added a pause, but Toreth didn't ask for details. "Then, after my four-year assessments proved acceptable, I was transferred to the central Socioanalysis training facility and officially enrolled." "You didn't see your family much, then." He sounded as if he thought that was no bad thing. Not surprising, in view of Sara's indiscretions. "Controlled visits are permitted it isn't a prison." Time to try something a little more ambitious. "The arrangements were perfectly satisfactory. I occasionally felt sorry for my siblings, though, overshadowed as they were by my success. My parents were inordinately proud of me." Silence. Then, "That must have been nice for you." He'd never heard Toreth's voice so dispassionate, not even when he'd been laying out the terms of the damage waiver to his prisoner. He decided not to push that further.

"Feel free to ask anything else," Carnac said. He thought Toreth might close the conversation, but after a moment he asked, "Is there much of a dropout rate?" "No. As you can imagine, with the per head investment, the entry screening is rigorous. Neural changes during adolescence account for the greatest number of losses, but these days development is more effectively managed. I benefited from some of the early trials." Toreth smiled, not very pleasantly. "Sounds like you were quite a lab rat." "I thought everyone had heard the stories about our training. I've encountered some quite lurid rumours from time to time." "I don't believe everything I hear. People talk a lot of crap about para training, too. So " His eyes narrowed. "You're forty-one." "Yes." Gratifying to have his guess confirmed. "And?" "And nothing." Toreth shrugged. "You don't look it." "Thank you." Another shrug. "Just an observation." He checked his watch and stood up. "I have to get down to interrogation. I won't be long, but one of my junior's cases is wrapping up and I need to sign it off." "Before you leave, I have a question." Toreth stopped in the doorway. "What?" A touch defensive. Good that would make him more likely to agree to an apparently innocuous request. "I have some free time on Sunday, and I hoped you might be available to help me fill it." "Oh. Yes, I suppose so. Is that it?" "Yes. I'll see you later." Carnac watched him go. Second personal conversation, which hadn't yielded anything that wasn't classic, unsurprising, and absolutely in agreement with his psych file. Still, it was always mildly interesting to see how profound and destructive an effect a childhood could have. He was grateful, at times like this, that his own had been so carefully controlled. ~~~ "I want to see my wife." "As your Justice rep explained to you, that's not possible." (pause 3 sec) One of the things that made Sara such a good admin was her talent for multitasking. While proofreading transcripts ready to send off to Justice and painting her nails in preparation for a Friday night out, she had enough attention left over to worry about Toreth. Or to be more accurate, to worry about Carnac and whatever he was planning. Thinking about Carnac at all made her furious, mostly with herself. How could she have told him those things about Toreth? Tactical gossip was her speciality. She should have known better, been more careful, but she'd felt flattered by his attention, and told him far too much. She wouldn't have blamed Toreth if he'd never spoken to her again. The fact that he'd taken it so well only made her feel worse. Then, this week, the atmosphere had changed. Carnac was as ingratiating to Toreth as he always

had been to the admins. More so, in fact. She didn't like to think there was anything dangerous behind it even now she knew what the man was capable of she couldn't help responding a little to him when he was deliberately charming. But in her heart she knew he was Up To No Good. "You'll remain in custody until we've had a chance to question your daughter." . . . (signal inadequate) . . . Hell. Abrupt reduction in volume. The microphones needed checking, because they should have compensated. After making a note for maintenance, she manually adjusted the volume, listened, and watched the system add in: (pause 4 sec) "No. You can't." She authorised the manual intervention and the transcript started up again. "I'm afraid we have no choice. We have to have the information." "She's underage. She " "Will be fifteen in three days. We are confident that in this case Justice will give us a waiver for retrospective interrogation. The application is already being processed." (pause 8 sec) "Please. She doesn't know anything." "Unfortunate for her, if true. Nevertheless, we will proceed, if we have no alternative." (pause 10 sec) "If you cooperate now, there is a possibility of a deal. That possibility stays open for only so long. Three days." (pause 25 sec) She allowed her conscious attention to tune out the recording again and watched the transcript. After a while, names, dates and places, all nicely articulated and accurately recorded, began to flow smoothly up the screen. She'd be able to get away early after all if it ran like this to the end. Really, she shouldn't get involved. The memory of her last foray into helping with Toreth's personal life was still sharp, particularly the part where he'd called her a lying cunt in front of the rest of the office. He was old enough to make his own mistakes and live with the consequences. On the other hand, if he screwed things up with Warrick, the consequences would be unbearable for her to live with. Looked at like that, it was pre-emptive self-defence. She didn't doubt that he was more than capable of screwing things up. Or, rather, Carnac was more than capable of making him do it, for whatever reason. The unfortunate part was that she simply couldn't think of a way of broaching it with Toreth, not even via her usually reliable method of getting him pissed enough to handle reality. What could she say to him? Her guess about Carnac's strategy was only a guess, although she felt the evidence analysis system would give it a high confidence. Having been on the receiving end, she recognised the deliberate application of charm, the pleasant and perfectly measured focus of friendly attention. And with Toreth, it had the element she hadn't at the time noticed missing from Carnac's attack on her defences seduction. Worse, she'd seen Toreth's response, the slackening of dislike and suspicion, and the growing ease. How could she possibly find the words to warn him? He's trying to get you involved with him. He's going to string you along until he's finished whatever mind-fuck game he's playing and then he's going to drop you cold and go back to

Socioanalysis. He wouldn't believe her. And, Christ, if he did believe her, he'd kill Carnac. He'd have to. She might not be a spook or even a para, but she knew how Toreth's mind worked. He wouldn't be able to bear the humiliation. The transcript finished, and she authorised it, filed and submitted. Done for the day or at least officially done. She tapped on Toreth's door, got no reply, and went in. God, the place stank of sex. At their age you'd think they'd have a bit more restraint. Or a bit less stamina. Toreth was at his desk, alone, folding paper. Half a dozen crumpled origami birds littered the desk. She thought she'd seen Carnac leave, but she'd better check before she started this. "Is he still here?" Toreth shook his head. "Come and gone." "I can tell. You should get some air-freshener." He just nodded. Not his usual sparkling self, which was worrying. He looked preoccupied, in the way she'd only ever seen him look with Warrick. Please don't let that mean what she thought it meant. "I was wondering . . . " How should she phrase this? He looked up. "What?" "He asked me to arrange some things for Sunday. A taxi booking and lunch. For two." He grinned briefly. "Yeah. So what? Jealous?" She shook her head. "Aren't you going somewhere with Warrick on Sunday? Some SimTech thing?" She braced herself, expecting him to bite her head off for interfering, but there was only silence. Eventually, he said, "How do you know?" "'Cause you told me, a few weeks ago. I remember stuff like that, remember?" "Then you ought to remember it's in the evening." He paused. "I can make both. No problem." He'd forgotten. Totally and utterly forgotten. She gave him a deliberately bright smile. "That's okay, then. Sorry to bother you. I'm off, now. See you Monday have a good weekend." He didn't even reply. Back at her desk she gathered her things together and wondered what the hell she was going to do. This was more serious than she'd thought. Two-timing his boyfriends, almost like a normal person. Except that when you thought about who he was, and who the boyfriends were, it was like watching a slow-motion recording of a train accident, the inevitable carnage approaching with plenty of time to appreciate it. She could call Warrick. Call Warrick, warn him that Carnac was up to something, and let him handle it. She didn't like to think how pissed off Toreth would be if he found out she'd done that. Still, it would be worth being called a cunt again, if it stopped Carnac hurting him. Or should she wait and see how things went on Sunday, and then call?

Chapter Eight
Sunday lunch had been nice: long, expensive, and well lubricated. Then they'd gone to a gallery, of all places, which had something to do with someone Carnac knew. Toreth hadn't been paying that much attention, but it had only been two-thirds as boring as he'd expected. The hotel afterwards had been much more fun better than Carnac's usual standard of self-absorbed fuck, anyway. Warrick was right; the man was bearable, when you got to know him. Now Toreth was horrendously late. He'd barely had time to dash home, change into something smart, and get round to Warrick's before 'late' became so late it turned into 'didn't show'. He thought up excuses in the lift up to the flat. For some reason, mentioning Carnac felt like a bad idea, so he settled on something simple and easy to remember. He'd half expected, and half hoped, that Warrick might have gone without him, but he was still waiting. Not to mention looking thoroughly fucked off. "You're late," Warrick said unnecessarily, as he let him into the flat. "I know. I'm sorry. I was at the gym and I lost track of time." He smiled with all the apologetic charm he could muster. "I'll make up for it, I promise." It might have worked, except that he tried to follow it up with a kiss. Warrick pulled back, turning his head away sharply. "What?" "You weren't . . . you weren't at the gym." "Yes, I was." Even as he said it, he knew it was a mistake. "Please, at least don't lie about it. I can smell him on you." His voice was tight with anger. "Carnac. At least I assume it's him, unless you're fucking someone else as well." Toreth blinked, surprised at the sudden venom. "All right. Yes, you're right. I'll have a shower. It won't take a minute." "You do that." Warrick took a deep breath. "Go home, have a shower and don't come back here." "What?" "Go away. Don't come back. I don't think I can make it any simpler unless I draw pictures." The icy words brought a touch of real fear stupid, because Warrick didn't mean it like that. Couldn't. "Why, for fuck's sake?" Warrick laughed without any humour at all. "Quite. I suddenly find that I don't have the patience for this any more. Not on a Sunday." Understanding, he was simultaneously angry and unsettled. "That's not what you said before. What happened to 'I don't own you, I don't want to own you'?" No mention of any days of the week, as far as he could remember. Warrick sighed with exaggerated patience. "Toreth, I'm not saying 'don't fuck anyone else'. I'm not even saying 'don't fuck Carnac'. I'm saying . . . " He frowned, as if he wasn't entirely sure himself. "What I'm saying is that as long as you are fucking him, I will be busy doing other things. I don't think that's an unreasonable position to take, and if you think otherwise, then it has just become your problem, not mine."

"He'll be gone in a couple of weeks." No response. He gave it one more try. "I don't see why it's such a big deal." "Yes, I'm quite aware of that. Now, please leave." Warrick opened the door, held it open. So he left. ~~~ On Monday, Toreth came in in a foul mood. Sara gave him until lunchtime on the slim hope that it might be a hangover. Then she waited until he'd gone out for lunch with Carnac and called SimTech. "I'd like to speak to Doctor Warrick, please. Tell him it's the inestimable Sara." One day she'd have to look the word up. She'd always vaguely worried that it would turn out to be something unflattering. The screen changed to show Warrick, doing 'mild surprise and polite interest'. "Hello, Sara." "Hi." Get to the point. "I need to see you. About Toreth." All expression vanished. "I'm afraid I'm busy." She knew what that meant. "It won't take long, I promise." "If he wishes to leave me a message, he can call me himself." Oh oh. Flying debris from a row that must have been a good one. No further explanation for Toreth's bad mood was required, anyway. The question was, had they argued about Carnac? "I want to talk to you. Toreth has no idea I'm calling. Please, Warrick." Then she held her breath while he thought it over. "Very well. Public or private?" She briefly imagined Toreth accidentally seeing them together. Unlikely, but she daren't risk it. "Private, please." He nodded once. "My flat, eight o'clock." After giving her the address, he cancelled the connection without saying goodbye. ~~~ When he let her into the flat his expression was for once perfectly readable. If it hadn't been, his opening words were a bit of a clue. After he had shown her through to the living room and distracted as she was she still noticed that it was a nice flat he offered her a seat, sat down opposite her, and said, "If you've come all this way to let me know that their relationship is rather more than professional, then I'm afraid you've had a wasted journey." At least he knew, which she had been worried about. The bad temper she could excuse. "It's not that. It's Carnac. He gives me the creeps. He's fucking with Toreth in more ways than the usual." Warrick frowned. "Explain." "He's got some game going, only I'm not sure what. I think he's trying to hook Toreth and then he's going to do something . . . Jesus, I wish I knew what." "Mm." Thoughtful pause. "Would you like a drink? Coffee? Tea? Something alcoholic?"

"Coffee would be great, thanks." She didn't mind the change of subject he was still thinking about what she'd said. She followed him through into the kitchen (huge and full, as Toreth had told her, of a bewildering array of cooking equipment) and watched as he made expensive coffee in an expensive antique brewer, some weird-looking type of thing she'd never seen before. She'd forgotten how loaded he was. Loaded and domesticated. If Toreth ever decided he didn't want Warrick any more, she might be tempted herself. Once the coffee had been made, they sat down in the kitchen, which she guessed to be a step up in intimacy from the living room. He watched as she added milk and sugar to her coffee, then asked the question she'd been dreading. "What makes you think Carnac has any particular plans?" "I'm . . . well, it's hard to say, as such." She shrugged. "It's the way he is. He was God's own bastard to start with to Toreth, anyway. He drove him mad and it had to be deliberate because he can be so bloody smooth you could skate on him. Not that that stopped Toreth screwing him, of course. It never does." Warrick closed his eyes very briefly. "Sorry," she said. "That's quite all right." Liquid nitrogen politeness. "Carry on." "Anyway, then he did a real number on me." She looked down at her cup. "He got me to tell him all kinds of stuff about Toreth." "Oh?" "Yeah." She looked up and smiled, despite the situation. "All kinds of stuff I'm not going to tell you. After that he started being, well . . . nicer. Nothing you could point out specifically as wrong, but just . . . . Toreth's getting less and less annoyed with having him around. And he's still screwing him. I mean, still. I don't like it." Warrick smiled wryly. "You think his displaying interest in someone for any length of time is a bad thing?" "You know what I mean." "Yes, of course." He sat for a while, turning his coffee cup slowly round in the saucer, expression closed. "I spoke to him," he said eventually. "Toreth?" "Carnac. We had dinner." She stared, far too stunned to say anything. Her expression triggered a fleeting smile. "Nothing very exciting happened. We chatted about various things, primarily the sim, and he made a not terribly serious pass at me. However, he did mention Toreth and, adding what he said together with what you've said, I think your guess as to his motives is substantially correct." "Does Toreth know you saw him?" "The occasion to mention it never arose. Needless to say . . . " "I won't say a word. Warrick, what's 'substantially correct' supposed to mean? What's he doing? Why is he doing it?"

Warrick looked past her for a moment, frowning, then said, "have you ever . . . seen Toreth's psych file?" Meaning he had? "No. But he's a para. They're all the same, aren't they? More or less. He's " She hesitated, but if he'd seen the bloody file he must know. Still, she didn't want to say it out loud. Toreth would hate the idea of them talking about him like this. It sounded better in the generic and non-specific. "They're not normal, basically. That's how they get selected for training in the first place." "Right. So how many people would you say Toreth trusts? Really trusts?" It took her a moment to make sense of the question, before understanding triggered a memory. "Oh, God. Carnac asked me that." She smacked her forehead. "And I told him: me and you. I'm an idiot. Could I have screwed it up any more?" "Probably not. He thought it was 'terribly interesting'. And also that . . . " "What?" He shook his head. "That he, ah, maintains a relationship with us. That we're real people to him." She never thought of it in quite those terms before, and it was weirdly flattering to think that out of everyone, it was her. Warrick as well, of course, but her first. Flattering and horrible, because it made her betrayal that much more awful. Warrick was still speaking. "The point is that, I suspect, Carnac's curious as to how and why Toreth does trust us, because his file suggests it's something rather improbable. I expect he's testing a theory." Her stomach sank it sounded nastily plausible. Spooky mind-fuck games. "A theory? Getting Toreth to trust him is testing a theory? Because he's fucking curious?" "That's only what I think he's doing. I can't be sure." He sounded pretty bloody sure. "And then Carnac's going to turn round and tell him he was just fucking with him? In the mind-fucking sense." "That I don't know. I don't know why he would want to, or what it would add to the hypothesis. But you're at I&I and I'm not, so perhaps you're right." "Oh." Her stomach seemed to have taken up gymnastics. "It'd kill him." Her earlier fear returned. "And then he'd kill Carnac." Warrick didn't comment. "Aren't you going to say anything to him? About what Carnac's doing?" "No." "No?" "He can work it out for himself. He's a grown man, Sara, and he's not stupid." She tried to think of a tactful way of saying, Yes, but emotionally he's about ten. On a good day. "Maybe he could . . . do with a hint?" she suggested. "It's not that simple." He fell silent, looking lost for words, and, for the first time she could recall, she felt sorry for him. Much as she liked Toreth, he would be the world's worst nightmare to try anything serious with. "Carnac is his problem," Warrick said eventually. "As I've already made clear to him." A sudden chill, real enough to give her goose bumps. "Already?"

"Toreth was here yesterday. Briefly. I told him that unless and until he was finished with Carnac, I would be unavailable. Looking at it in this light, that may have been something of a mistake." Oh, Christ. He wasn't wrong there. She understood why he'd done it she even agreed with it but still, oh, Christ. Lousy, rotten timing, hers and his. If only she'd called him on Friday. Still, regrets butter no parsnips, as her mother said. Whatever the hell that meant. Warrick was pouring more coffee for them both. "What are you going to do?" she asked when he'd finished. "Nothing." Flat and final. "Can't you talk to Carnac?" "Why suggest I do it? You're working with him." "He wouldn't listen to me." "Nor to me." He added a quarter of a teaspoon of sugar to his cup and stirred it. Three left, three right, three left again, before he tapped the spoon against the edge of the cup and set it in the saucer. Then he pushed the cup away. "One thing I do know for certain about Carnac is that if he has a set goal he will carry it through. He would deny there was any ulterior motive to his treatment of Toreth, and then carry on." "Warrick, please, you can't let him " "Sara." He stood up and took a few paces away across the kitchen. When he turned, his expression gave away no emotion. "What exactly would you propose that I do?" That's what she'd wanted him to tell her. "I don't know." "Quite. I have to stand by what I told him. I can't unsay it, still less can I go back on it. Frankly, I don't want to, however unpleasant the consequences. Beyond that, I have no idea how to tell him, without doing exactly the same damage as Carnac would. But I'll bear what you've said in mind." Bear it in mind. He was worse than Toreth sometimes. Pair of bloody control freaks they deserved each other. There was one last question she had to ask. "Will you take him back? When Carnac's . . . finished with him?" He hesitated for so long she didn't think he would reply, and she hadn't really expected him to, but in the end he answered with a question. "Do you think he'd want to come back?" She didn't say anything. She didn't need to. Of course he wouldn't, not if he realised what Carnac had done to him. Most especially if he thought Warrick might know. Fine. If Warrick couldn't, or wouldn't, do anything, she'd just have to make sure by herself that it didn't come to that. ~~~ Eavesdropping was a bad habit Sara couldn't get rid of. She'd stopped biting her nails years ago, she'd given up sugar in tea (but not coffee), and she even ate a moderately well balanced diet (if you counted vitamin supplements as a food group), but she couldn't give up listening to conversations she wasn't supposed to. For one thing, at I&I it was a required survival trait. So much went on unofficially that the only way to stay ahead of the game was to be plugged into the network and to have enough juicy tidbits to buy the good stuff in return.

On Tuesday morning she'd got in very early and performed a small readjustment to the comms unit on Toreth's desk. She'd felt slightly guilty, but not much. It was for his own good, after all. She'd listened on and off all yesterday without hearing anything either useful or too alarming. Now it was getting towards late afternoon on Wednesday. She'd had the comm switched off for a couple of hours while she ate a late lunch at her desk and dealt with stupid queries regarding Toreth's offloaded cases. Some people couldn't manage to follow instructions, even written in words of no more than two syllables. The last one complete, it occurred to her that it was long past time to offer them a coffee. Not for the first time, she wondered how she'd ever got into the routine with Toreth, since refreshments appeared nowhere in her job description. A bad habit she'd picked up from the other seniors' admins, probably. She didn't actually mind, not when it was Toreth, but she objected to having to make coffee for Carnac as well. Maybe she should just poison it. She tapped the official link and after a few moments Toreth answered. "Yes?" "Does anyone want a drink?" Brief pause. "No. No thanks, we'll go along to the coffee room in a bit." He sounded breathless, and she only needed one guess to work out what was going on. "Okay." She cancelled the connection, listened while her conscience explained that this would be a bad thing to do, and then commenced spying. After a couple of minutes, she began to wish she'd taken the extra risk of setting up the visual link as well. She'd only have got line-of-sight from the desk, but from the sound of it they were quite close to it and the curiosity was beginning to feel potentially fatal. The only one she could hear was Toreth, which meant that Carnac either had his mouth full or was naturally very quiet. What she could hear from Toreth backed up her first guess. It was strange, listening to them screwing, able to glance up and see the other admins working away at their desks. It would be a fairly safe bet that none of them were listening to anything half as interesting. She wondered briefly what she could charge for broadcasting the audio. Toreth was getting close to coming, and it surprised her that she could tell so easily. It was the change in pitch of his voice more than the words. She'd only heard it once at very close range, as he'd held her close on top of him during their one and only fuck, and then a few times since when she'd overheard him under more conventional circumstances. She shifted in her chair, getting a little uncomfortable now, but unable to bring herself to switch it off. As a compromise, she lowered the volume, Toreth's voice fading to a faint whisper. "Deeper. Take it deeper. Yes. That's it, that's, uh . . . " There he goes, she thought, catching herself in an oddly affectionate smile. Suddenly she heard Carnac coughing, quite violently, and then after a while Toreth speaking over it, sounding almost concerned. "Fuck, I'm sorry. Are you okay?" "No . . . lasting harm inflicted." More coughing, then, "I'll take it as a compliment." Toreth laughed. "If you like. I don't have any serious complaints anyway." "No. It didn't feel as if you did."

The voices stopped, so she turned the volume back up to catch the sound of chairs moving, a zip fastening. "Do you fancy coffee now, or do you want to finish things here?" Toreth said at length. "Finish off, I think." The movements settled down, a distance from the comm. They must be at Carnac's desk. She turned up the volume again, wondering whether she should set up his desk as well. Probably too much of a risk. "What are you doing tomorrow?" Toreth asked. "Ah . . . the remaining interrogation specialists' interviews. Provided they go according to plan, and there are no more 'unavoidable absences', that should be the last day of those." "Do you need me for them? Only I have some things I ought to do on my remaining case." "Please feel free to take the morning, but I would appreciate your attendance in the afternoon." "That's fine. Have you got the transcripts?" "Yes. Sara has arranged it all, with her usual efficiency." "I hope you're going to say something nice about her in your report." Well, at least he hadn't entirely forgotten her. "Alas, she lies outside my area of enquiry. But I shall make sure I mention to the powers that be that she's been most helpful." "Thanks." "There is nothing to thank me for I would've done it in any case. Working with her has been a pleasure. I've visited a lot of divisions, and she is undoubtedly one of the most effective administrative assistants I have encountered. In fact, I'm tempted to offer her a job at Socioanalysis." Disgusted with herself, she still felt a little glow of pleasure at the compliments. Eavesdropping wasn't all bad. Toreth laughed. "I'm afraid I can't let you do that. She's mine." "Are you quite sure that she isn't open to offers? We pay very generously." "You won't get anywhere. People have tried to poach her before." "Really? Yes, I imagine that they would have. And she's been here for nine years? You're very good at this, left-handed." For a moment, she didn't understand the comment, delivered in exactly the same tone as the preceding ones. Then Toreth said, "I'm ambidextrous, for all the important things. But I'm still better right-handed." A squeak, as a chair swivelled, and Carnac said. "Oh, yes. So you are. A little tighter. Yes, that's good. Really . . . very good." Then silence for a while, broken only by a sharp, cut-off gasp. Eventually, slightly breathless, Carnac said, "It must be gratifying that she's so loyal." Oh, Jesus. Oh, God, no. Carnac had been talking about her, and at the same time he'd been . . . She felt sick. Really, genuinely sick, so that she missed a section of the conversation while she concentrated on keeping her lunch down. When she caught up with them again, Carnac was saying, "Sara mentioned that she volunteers for testing in the sim." "Yeah, she does. I don't mind giving her the time off. I think she had some holiday booked this

week. Though she might have cancelled it." Of course she'd cancelled it, because she was doing a ton of extra work for the oversexed prick sharing his office. "The sim sounds fascinating," Carnac said. "I imagine the waiting list for volunteers is quite long." "Yes, I think so. Months, at least. Sara jumped the queue, mind you." There was a brief hesitation, then he added, "Warrick arranged it." "I see. As a favour to a friend? Perhaps you might ask him if I could try it some time?" Sara smiled with twisted satisfaction. Oh, no Toreth wouldn't, and he wouldn't say why, either. "Sorry, I can't. I'm not seeing him at the moment." She actually yelped out loud in sheer horror. Looking up, she was relieved to see that most of the rest of the section had gone for coffee, and that the couple of people left seemed not to have registered the noise. For a moment, her hand hovered over the comm, not wanting to hear the rest. "Ah." Delicate exclamation from Carnac, followed by a delicate pause. "Nothing to do with us, I hope?" Us? Where the fuck did Carnac get 'us' from? "In a way," Toreth said. "When I said that " "Forget it, Carnac. It's . . . well, it's no big deal. He'll get over it." "I'm glad to hear I shall cause no lasting damage." Don't say any more, she begged silently, but he didn't hear her. "No damage at all. We don't see each other all the time anyway it's not a serious thing." She wished that his voice wasn't so transparent when he talked about Warrick. 'Not a serious thing.' Oh, God. She'd like to think she only noticed because she knew Toreth so well, but surely Carnac could hear it, too? "That's good," he said, and she knew that he had. Hearing the smug smile in Carnac's voice, she felt tempted to fix the problem then and there by going in and braining the spook with a chair. After a moment, Toreth said, "Coffee?" By the time they came out she was industriously reorganising interrogation schedules, seething fury hidden under her best professional shield. She would fix this, somehow. She'd make up for her stupid, careless blabbing. Carnac wouldn't get what he wanted, even if Toreth did kill her for it. ~~~ Carnac didn't drink, as a rule. He enjoyed clarity of thought too much, and organic solvents were not healthful companions for the human nervous system. If the occasion merited celebration, though, he would allow himself a glass or two of wine. It was good for the heart, after all, and his family had a tendency towards mild heart problems on the distaff side. All genetically audited and perfectly adequately monitored for, but he found the small excuse amusing. This evening, he was celebrating the conclusion of his first set of objectives with Toreth three conversations of a personal nature. He suspected that he had continued to underestimate the depth of

Toreth's attachment to Warrick. Certainly what he had read from Toreth today suggested as much. Luckily for his current project, the man seemed perfectly oblivious as to the strength of his feelings or, possibly more accurately, to be capable of deceiving himself to a remarkable degree. Carnac sipped the wine, paying close attention to the cool slide of liquid over his tongue. Rare treats were to be savoured, or they became commonplace and pointless. He and Toreth had an evening appointment on the coming Saturday. Carnac had decided that this would be the time to press for his next goal of a visit to Toreth's flat. He felt confident of success, given his progress so far. The only disappointment was that it would leave four more days at I&I until he could legitimately return to Socioanalysis, hand in his report and get on to some real work before his brain atrophied entirely from disuse. He was too good, sometimes. Or Toreth had proved an easier target than he'd anticipated. As he rarely made mistakes, Carnac's first instinct was always to attribute errors to faults in the original data supplied. Perhaps he should suggest a review of Toreth's psych file, with some more extensive assessments with higher discriminatory power. Not part of his remit, though, and he had no particular inclination to help I&I refine its recruitment and staff management criteria. Instead, he wondered about adjusting his sights upwards. Changing the scoring system after the game began wasn't really in the spirit of self-appointed challenges, but he was bored enough to waive the rule in this case. What further intimacy could one reasonably aim for with Toreth, assuming the upcoming evening went as planned? He still seemed, in Carnac's judgement, reluctant to initiate sex, or to suggest activities outside working hours. Passive resistance, proving that there was still more to take from him. What would serve as a demonstration that Carnac had completely broken through? The obvious thing was a request to see Carnac again after his assignment had ended. Was that too ambitious? Perhaps. On the other hand, one didn't learn unless one was prepared to stretch oneself. A request, then, for a continuation of the liaison. A request that Carnac would refuse in no uncertain terms, with a full and detailed explanation as to why. Toreth would be left in no doubt as to how expertly and easily he'd been played, although naturally he'd do that part by comm. There was no point risking life and limb and he'd still be able to see Toreth's face. Really, a para-investigator ought to appreciate the elegance of the scheme and the depth of pain inflicted using nothing but words and a little patience for the set-up. The sophistication of the approach was probably outside his reach, though. Even if it were within his grasp under normal circumstances, he would be in no condition to admire it. With his profoundly limited resources, Toreth was not emotionally equipped to handle a shock of this kind without serious consequences. One of those consequences would be that Toreth's relationship with Keir would be damaged or, more likely, destroyed completely. His trust was so fragile a thing that to have it so comprehensively violated by one person would very probably render him unable to maintain his limited affections towards the only other two people with whom he had connected. Carnac was in two minds as to whether this was a minus or a plus. Taking the broader view, it did Keir no good to be tied to someone so manifestly unsuitable. One might even construe it as doing him a favour. A little short-term pain for a greater long-term gain. He smiled thinly and poured a second glass of wine. Looking beyond the levels of rationalisation, he foresaw a highly pleasing result: it would be a most satisfying recompense for the unpleasantness of the demonstration interrogation.

~~~ Despite her resolution, Sara let the rest of the week go past in worrying and formulating deadend plans. She had at least, via a friend of a friend of a friend on the admin network, discovered that Carnac was expected back at Socioanalysis sometime next week. Unfortunately, the pressure of a looming deadline didn't cause any great ideas to spring to mind. It didn't help that the atmosphere in the office was so . . . pleasant. Friendly. It was only occasionally that she caught Toreth looking, if not unhappy, then at least a little preoccupied. Not that she got to speak to him much. Carnac was monopolising his coffee breaks, and she wondered if he was deliberately keeping Toreth away from her. It was Friday again before she found something that might count as inspiration. There was one sure-fire way to get Toreth to sit up and take notice. One thing that could snap him out of this awful downwards spiral of intimacy. She really ought to have thought of it before. Maybe the idea of using his feelings as a lever felt too much like what Carnac was doing to him. But she was doing it to help, not to play mind-fuck games. That wouldn't make him any less pissed off if he found out. Productivity suffered in the afternoon as she considered the plan from as many angles as she could, finally deciding it was acceptable. Although, right now so would be pretty much anything that seemed to have even half a chance of working. Still, she had an approach. And, even better, she had the perfect tool to exploit it. The next question was, when should she try? Should she leave it until next week? The idea of letting Carnac have free rein to screw with Toreth for any longer made her grind her teeth, but on the other hand, if everything went horribly wrong, it would be a disaster to have the two of them in the same office for any longer than was necessary.

Chapter Nine
It had taken Carnac longer than he had anticipated to work Toreth round to the invitation. It was late on Saturday evening when he finally achieved his goal and stepped through the doorway. He had had to manipulate more than he'd really wanted to, but he didn't feel that he had broken any rules. If Toreth gave it any thought he would be certain that the invitation was his own idea, even if he might have trouble explaining to himself why he'd wanted to extend it. The flat was a mess, which had been one of the two possibilities this, or obsessive tidiness. If he could have found anyone willing to take such a sure bet, he would happily place a large sum on Toreth's parents' home being show-house perfect. If he recalled correctly, Warrick's home had been extremely tidy. An interesting parallel there which he might point out to Toreth later. "Do you want a drink?" Toreth asked. "Coffee, thanks." That would, at least, involve boiling water and so might not actually constitute a health hazard. "Bedroom's through there." Carnac could take a hint, and besides, he was curious. The bedroom proved to be less of a mess than the small living room, and to have some unusual fixtures. Bolts had been set in the wall, although without the chains they were plainly designed to anchor. Presumably those were kept somewhere out of sight. Leather straps hung from the bed head and foot. All rather uncomfortable-looking, and not really Carnac's thing. Opening a wardrobe, he found the contents neat and well ordered. On reflection, the brief surprise lessened. Smart clothing was a necessary part of the facade Toreth presented to the outside world, his unimpeachable physical and sartorial shield. Plenty of worn clothes lay scattered on the floor where they had been discarded. Snake skins, his mind supplied whimsically. Carnac recalled a psychology tutor who had maintained that a person's home was a direct reflection of their state of mind; he would have been absolutely enthralled by Toreth's flat. Carnac looked around the room, at the positioning of the furniture, and took a guess as to where the rest of the bondage equipage might be found. When he opened the drawer, he discovered a box that contained a rather expensive-looking set of chains, metal wristbands, and a metal collar that looked positively painful. There were also more leather straps, blindfolds, a gag or two, and two pairs of handcuffs that had probably made an unauthorised escape from I&I. Warrick must find the arrangement quite satisfactory indeed. "See anything you like the look of?" He hadn't heard Toreth come in. He closed the drawer and turned round. "Not really." Toreth smiled, handing him a coffee. "No? I thought you might have." Just for a moment, Carnac wondered what it would be like. It would be an excellent opportunity to try the experience, because he was certain Toreth would be very good at it. Then he dismissed the idea. Fucking or being fucked by I&I's finest was one thing. Allowing them to immobilise one first required an entirely different level of trust, and one he couldn't manufacture. "No," he said, more firmly. Toreth merely nodded. He stood for a moment, looking at the bolts in the wall, blowing on his

coffee. Then he turned back to Carnac and smiled. "So, do you want to fuck?" ~~~ Toreth couldn't sleep, which considering what a night they'd made of it was fairly astonishing. He lay in bed and listened to Carnac breathing next to him (snoring, actually, which he really should've expected), and stared sightlessly at the ceiling until he had to accept that he was awake, and going to stay that way. Getting up, he located a pair of trousers and went to hunt through the fridge for something to drink. He found and threw out a couple of containers of no longer fresh juice that Warrick had left behind last time he'd been there. In the end he had to settle for something processed that might, at one time in its long life, have been somewhere near a grapefruit. He also discovered a carton of takeaway noodles of uncertain ancestry, still with a fork in it. That sort of thing drove Warrick mad, but as far as Toreth was concerned, it just meant that the cutlery was already with the food when he needed it. Like now. Sitting on the floor by the fridge, he picked through the noodles and tried to work out what was wrong. He felt strange, as though the ground was shifting under his feet. Lots of little things felt wrong, and somehow they added up to this formless worry stopping him from sleeping. It felt wrong that Carnac was here, in his flat. He couldn't even remember how or why he'd invited him back. It didn't really matter, in an absolute sense. It was out of place and disturbing, though, all the more so since Carnac was here and Warrick wasn't. Then there was a constant niggle of annoyance that he couldn't go to Warrick's. Normally he didn't worry about not seeing him for a day or two. Or even longer, although they'd been seeing a lot of each other lately. Maybe that was the problem the regular thing turning into a habit. It might be no bad thing not to see him for a while. It would serve Warrick right, because he'd been completely unreasonable about the whole thing. Then the memory of last Sunday came back, making him feel even more unsteady and off-balance. Warrick so cold, really angry it hadn't bothered him until now, but . . . Something else wrong: Carnac in the office yesterday. Reading the screen from behind him, one hand kneading Toreth's shoulder, the other reaching down to rub his cock through his trousers. Bizarrely, he almost hadn't noticed what Carnac was doing until it had felt so good that it triggered some instinct, something like his current disquiet, and he'd tried to pull away. But Carnac had slid his hand round his shoulder to hold him back and murmured, "Don't move. I know you like it." So he hadn't moved. Instead he'd closed his eyes and enjoyed the moment, until he'd come into Carnac's hand, arching against the arm across his chest and saying . . . Carnac's name? But that was too bizarre. He couldn't have done it his memory was playing tricks. Besides, whatever he'd said, it was stupid to feel uneasy about it. He should be grateful that the man had turned out to be less annoying than he'd seemed at first, as well as a rather better fuck. He was even becoming tolerable to talk to. Earlier in the week they'd discussed Sara nothing he specifically remembered, but Carnac seemed to like her, or at least appreciate her efficiency, which was always good to hear. Toreth valued his reputation as someone who could attract the best to his team. Carnac would be gone soon, anyway. He'd mentioned next week as the end of the investigation. After that Toreth would have his office back to himself. He couldn't remember if Carnac had ever said

where he was based. The Socioanalysis Division Centre at Strasbourg, he'd always assumed, insofar as he'd ever thought about it. The Administration could send Carnac anywhere they liked, of course, or he could be on to his freelance time after this job. Either way, he might well be in New London. And available. It wouldn't be entirely a bad thing to see him again. Sometime. There wouldn't be any need to mention it to Warrick. Maybe he'd ask during the week sometime where Carnac was going next. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling. 'I know you like it.' Carnac had no business knowing something like that. ~~~ Sara stood around the corner from the entrance to Toreth's flat, drinking out of a quarter bottle of vodka and hating every mouthful. God, it was revolting stuff neat, but she didn't have the leisure for mixers. The problem with Toreth was that there was no point pretending about something like being drunk. He'd see through it in a minute. So she had to be drunk, but still capable of following the plan. The other problem was that she would have to lie, quite a lot, about what she knew and how she knew it. She had everything prepared and corroborated, ready in the unlikely event that he'd check, but he was too damn good at spotting lies to make it a comfortable idea. And if he worked out what she was doing . . . no. Don't think about that. It was for his own good. It would have a been a lot easier and far more pleasant to have done this in stages over the evening, in the normal way. Except that that would've been too much like admitting she was going through with it. Besides, she'd spent most of the evening sorting out her alibis and getting the story straight. So, here she was, downing spirits on an empty stomach. At least that would mean she'd need to drink less of the stuff. When she'd had a quarter of the bottle, she used the next mouthful to wash down a couple of tablets she'd wangled from Daedra Kincaidy in the pharmacy. She'd feel like seventeen kinds of shit in the morning, but some things had to be done. As she kept drinking, the alcohol settled into her limbs and tongue, but the focus of her thoughts sharpened. Drunk around the edges and sober in the middle. Daedra had come through on this one. When she felt convincingly plastered, she dropped the bottle into a waste recycler and let herself into the building. She could have let herself into his flat as well, but she didn't like to, when he was there. There was no answer on the comm, for such a long time that she began to worry that he wasn't even in. Why hadn't she checked? God, it was horrible being sober enough to feel yourself being drunk. Just when she was about to resort to banging on the door, he opened it. "Sara? Are you all right?" She caught herself thinking, how sweet, and had to fight down an urge to giggle. Concentrate. "I changed my code," she said. "For home. And now I've forgotten it. Can't get in." He looked over his shoulder, and she realised straight away what that meant. The shock nearly sobered her completely. Carnac was here, in his flat. In his flat. Toreth never, ever invited his fucks back home. Unless you counted Warrick, which of course you didn't. What if she was too late again and he'd said or done something really stupid?

Please, please, please God, let Carnac be asleep. "'M really sorry." She leaned against the doorframe, half an act and half needing the support. "Can I crash, an' I'll sort it out in the morning?" "Yeah, of course you can." He took her through to the living room, cleared junk from the sofa and disappeared in search of bedding. Moving very quietly, she noticed. She wondered if he could be embarrassed by Carnac's being here. It seemed unlikely. It hadn't bothered him the couple of times she'd slept or rather not slept here, with Warrick doing his well-screwed cat impersonation in the bedroom, and she somehow couldn't imagine Carnac as very vocal. Or . . . if he was embarrassed it was for another reason. Maybe the fact that Carnac was here at all. That was a cheering idea. He came back with blankets and a pillow. Sweet, she thought again. "Looks like you had a good evening," he said. "Where've you been?" This was the tricky bit. "With Daedra. She can really put it away, you know?" He grinned. "Probably had chemical help. Never get into a drinking competition with a pharmacist." Too sharp for comfort. "Yeah, I should've remembered. It was just me and her oh, 'cept we ran into Dillian. Small world, huh?" That was an out-and-out lie, but he'd never call Dillian to check, not when asking Daedra would be so much easier. Dillian didn't like him and, if you excluded his compulsion to fuck her, the feeling was probably mutual. Still, the name definitely caught his attention. "Yeah? How is she?" Hesitation, which she kept quiet for. "Did she say anything about Warrick?" "Warrick? Not really." He'd asked. Thank God, he'd asked. She let the giggle escape. "Oh, 'cept he was chatting him up." "Who was chatting who up?" "Carnac. Chatting Warrick up." His eyes narrowed. "What? Where?" "Dunno. Dillian said they had dinner. Didn't he say?" "No . . . he didn't. When?" He hadn't known. Better still, he wasn't questioning whether it had happened, just when. Good. "Not sure." She lay down on the sofa. "Dillian reckons he was dead keen on him, way back when. Carnac on Warrick." She blinked, trying to fake a belated realisation. "Warrick wouldn't, though. Screw Carnac." She pulled the cover over herself and curled up, yawning. "I mean, he's got you fucking him cross-eyed. Why'd he want Carnac? One-man whatsit. Man." Toreth didn't answer. Final bit of the plan, and she was done he could tie it all together for himself. "Anyway, they were talking about the sim, Dillian said so. That's Carnac's kind of thing, isn't it? Mind-fucking. I bet he'd go mad for it." "Yes. Yes, I bet he would." Soft and dangerous. Oh yes, that was what she wanted to hear the Toreth she knew and had the

odd nightmare about. She closed her eyes and let her breathing drift off. She could feel him standing by the sofa, and she counted seconds, willing him to leave. He wouldn't go to talk to Carnac. He'd go see Warrick. He had to. Go see Warrick. Don't let me have put myself through this for nothing. Go on. Go to Warrick. Go on. Eventually, he left, and she held her breath until she heard, of all things, the shower running. It went on for a long time, and every second she expected to hear Carnac's voice. Then it stopped, and a few minutes after that she heard the outer door open and close. She gave him a good twenty minutes head start, then weaved her way unsteadily out of the flat and caught a taxi home. Tempting as it was to stay until the morning and see Carnac, it wouldn't be a good idea, because she really didn't like the thought of him connecting her to Toreth's disappearance. She could always tell Toreth she'd remembered her code after all. She felt extraordinarily pleased with herself. It had been a pretty good plan, if she did say so herself. Toreth wouldn't say a word about what she'd told him because it would make him look jealous, and he hated that. Warrick wouldn't say he'd spoken to her, because then Toreth would know they'd been talking about him. Shame she couldn't have told Warrick what she was planning, but it wouldn't have been fair. He'd have been left having to lie to Toreth, and that would've knackered the plan for certain. As it was, all he had to do was let Toreth in, screw him, and not ask too many questions. He must be getting good at that by now.

Chapter Ten
As he stepped out onto the street, it occurred to Toreth how very satisfying it would have been to have thrown Carnac out of the flat. Preferably through the window. But he'd been afraid that if Carnac had woken up and said anything, just one fucking word about Warrick, he would've hit him. It had taken him ten minutes, and a long shower, even to be able to go back into the bedroom to get his clothes without giving in to the urge anyway. Bastard. Planning his next fuck already. Which Toreth didn't care about of course he didn't, why the hell would he? except that he seemed to think it might be Warrick. Fuck that. Warrick was his, and no one else's. 'This SimTech director belongs to . . . ' him, not Carnac. Definitely not Carnac. That was never going to happen. In the shower, his mind had veered towards the idea once or twice Carnac fucking Warrick, in the sim or in the real world. Carnac telling him, "I know you like it." And then . . . then he'd wanted to strangle him. Not a good career move. Lately, he'd somehow ended up thinking about Carnac too much and let Warrick slip out of his mind. That was a testament to how incredibly annoying Carnac was. He ought to buy Sara another bunch of flowers for making him notice that, as well as inadvertently passing on Carnac's plans. On the other hand she mightn't remember doing either. Best to forget it, and to concentrate on sorting things out with Warrick. Toreth had to make absolutely sure that when Carnac was done at I&I he didn't find a welcome elsewhere. Interested in the sim. Nice line, and Toreth should know. So he stood in the street, and wondered where to go for the rest of the night. A hotel or Warrick's? The hotel was the logical choice. It was so logical that, in the end, he had to admit that he was trying to talk himself into going to Warrick's. Why else had he had the shower? There was the small problem of what Warrick had said the last time he'd seen him. Much as he hated the idea, he'd still have to think of his career and fuck Carnac in the office, on demand, until he finally went, and then he could forget the man. Easiest just to tell Warrick it was over only another week and it would be true. If it wasn't finished in the technical sense, it was in the . . . whatever. No more fucking outside working hours, anyway. No more Sundays, which was what had annoyed Warrick. That would be enough. Maybe Warrick wouldn't even ask. It had been a few days, and he was bound to have got over his sulk by now. That theory didn't mesh well with reality when he activated the comm for the flat. It took a while for Warrick to answer (not surprising, when Toreth looked at his watch) and when he did, he didn't sound delighted to see his visitor. "What the hell are you doing here?" No picture, just a voice. Deja vu. At least this time he wasn't going to throw up anywhere, and he could manage the words. "I just want to talk to you." "Perhaps I didn't make myself clear before." "That's all finished," he said, trying not to think about Carnac asleep in his flat. A short silence followed, then Warrick said, "All right. Come up."

He wondered if Warrick would have dressed by the time he got upstairs, but he hadn't. He opened the door in his dressing gown, looking sleepy and irritable. And fuckable. God, he looked good. How could he have forgotten in just a few days how much he could want him? Especially when there was a bad temper to coax him out of. "Do you know what time it is?" Warrick said. "Half-past two." "Oh, good. I had wondered if you bother to check before you wake me up. Well, come in, then." Warrick closed the door behind him, but didn't reset the security. "What do you want to talk about?" Toreth hesitated. Now that he was here, he had no idea, since he hadn't thought beyond the conviction that Warrick would be happy to hear he was done with Carnac and . . . things would be all right. Everything would be fine and they'd fuck, or they'd fuck and everything would be fine. Warrick sighed. "If you don't have anything to say, do you think I could get back to sleep?" "I had a shower." Warrick looked at him blankly for a moment, then said, "I see." Toreth thought hoped that he caught sight of a brief smile as Warrick turned away to reset the alarm. "And?" "And . . . I didn't want to talk." He hooked his fingers through the belt of Warrick's dressing gown. "I'd much rather fuck." "What a surprise." Warrick resisted the pull. "You disappear for a week " Unfair, for once. "The fuck I did. You threw me out." "You disappear for a week and then you expect to walk back in here, and find me ready for you?" If he was smiling, it didn't show in his voice. "Grateful for your attention?" Toreth blinked. What the hell else should he expect? Warrick turned round, the belt sliding through Toreth's fingers. He kept his grip, but Warrick ignored it. He was pale with anger, which didn't help Toreth's concentration in the least. Having Warrick so close was making him achingly hard. The last fuck with Carnac seemed like a distant memory. He itched to touch Warrick, strip him, fuck him right here in the hall. He'd need another shower in a minute, a very cold one. "Do you imagine that I don't have anything better to do with my life than to wait around for you to turn up unannounced at some God-forsaken hour of the night and fuck me?" Warrick asked. Well, yes. "No, of course not." "Very convincing." He fell back on formula. "Warrick, I'm sorry." Raised eyebrow. "About what, exactly?" Bastard. "I'm sorry I woke you up, and . . . " And whatever. Whatever it was that would put it right. Why was he making it more difficult than usual? "Mm." Warrick turned and walked off, getting free by the simple expedient of unfastening the belt so that it pulled through the loops of the gown. Still holding the belt, he followed Warrick into the bedroom, fighting down the first stirrings of doubt. Dinner. Sara said they'd had dinner. What if Carnac had already said something to Warrick? What if they'd already . . .

Doubt edged into fear, with anger not far behind. He caught Warrick's arm, harder than he'd meant to. Warrick stopped dead and turned, looking down at Toreth's hand until he released him. Then he walked away again, not far, and stood staring into the mirror without seeming to focus on it. Toreth didn't try to touch him again. "Warrick, listen, I'm sorry about last weekend. But it's finished." He felt desperate enough to repeat the lie and risk drawing more attention to it. "That's what you said, wasn't it? What you wanted?" He had deja vu again, although he couldn't imagine why; he found himself beginning to wish he'd gone to a hotel instead, or anywhere else but here. It had been stupid to come back. He should've waited and sorted it all out later, when Carnac was gone for good. Better just to leave. At least try to get out of here with some dignity. "If you want me to go away again, I'll go. But " What had Warrick said, before? "Will you tell me what's wrong first?" "If it were anyone else " Warrick shook his head. "But you have no idea, do you?" Not when you're being so fucking cryptic. "If you'll just fucking tell me, then I will." After a long moment of silence, Warrick shook his head. "It's nothing I want to talk about at half past two in the morning. And . . . no, I have no particular wish for you to leave." He smiled slightly, reflected. "You do pick your moments, don't you?" For what? He went over and rested his hands on Warrick's shoulders, wanting everything to be all right again. Wanting to feel safe, solid ground. "So do you want to fuck?" Warrick didn't say no, not yet, so he added, "Anything. Anything you want." That got his attention. Warrick looked up, catching his eyes in the mirror. "Anything?" "Yes." He dipped his head, lowered his voice, watching Warrick's face. "Anything at all. Just ask me, I'll do it for you." Warrick turned round to face him. "Even . . . let me fuck you?" "Yes, of course, if that's what you want. I said anything." He grinned with sheer relief. "Hell, you can tie me up and fuck me if you'd like to." "I don't know." Warrick tilted his head, considering. "I might. Would you?" "What?" The offer hadn't been meant seriously, and the reply unbalanced him all over again. Warrick didn't ask again. He simply stood there, expression neutral, waiting for a reply. Toreth didn't have one, not straight away. Did he want to? Did it matter what he wanted? He'd promised, so he couldn't back out. Before he could change his mind, he offered the belt to Warrick, who smiled brilliantly. "Really?" Warrick asked. "I said anything, didn't I?" He shook the silk slightly. "Go on." When Warrick took the belt, Toreth held his hands out. "No," Warrick said. "Behind your back." Yes, of course. He stepped past Warrick, facing the mirror, and put his arms behind him, crossing his wrists. He could see Warrick, behind him, his face and shoulders and glimpses of the rest of him as he moved, touching him. Fastening the belt round his wrists. Unfastening clothes. He watched,

fascinated. When had anyone last undressed him (at least when he was conscious)? He always enjoyed fucking in front of mirrors, or windows, or anywhere else where he could see Warrick's face reflected. Never before with himself in front and Warrick behind, though. The reversal was weirdly disorienting. Unexpectedly arousing. He was going to let Warrick fuck him. Let him, hell he wanted it. Not in the sim, but for the first time here in the real world. He tried to get the anticipation under some kind of control. No reason to think it would be anything that special. It wasn't as if he'd never been fucked before. Just never by Warrick. And like this, never by anyone. He twisted his wrists, feeling the fabric give a little as the knot tightened. To his surprise, he felt his pulse pick up speed, and trusting his voice seemed like a bad idea. They did it in the sim, or something like it Warrick stripping his movements and senses away one by one until there was only touch left. This wasn't anything like as extreme a surrender . . . but it was real. Once Warrick had removed all the clothes that could be removed under the circumstances, he pulled Toreth's shirt back over his shoulders, pinning his arms more effectively than the belt. Toreth focused on Warrick's face in the mirror, his lips moving as he spoke. "Close your eyes." It seemed a pity to lose the picture, but he did it. Playing the game. He felt Warrick's hands on his bare shoulders, thumbs stroking. "I should bite you, don't you think?" He cleared his throat. "Whatever you want." Toreth felt Warrick's weight shift, then a touch of soft lips on the back of his neck. Kisses, not a bite, until he relaxed. Then he gasped as teeth sank in. Hard mouth, sucking hard, as his spine tried to curl into a ball to escape. He gasped again when it stopped. God, was that one going to bruise. Warrick was silent for a moment, surveying his handiwork mouth work then Toreth heard him mutter, "That won't wash off." Labelling him. His stomach tightened at the idea, with a prickle of hot and cold. Not wanting to think about that, he licked his lips and whispered, "Fuck me." Trying the words. Behind him, Warrick went quite still. "Fuck me." It sounded good. Tasted good. He had no idea why he wanted it so much right now, but when he added, "Please," he meant it. The hands on his shoulders tightened. "Say that again." Warrick playing the role, and meaning it, too. In return, Toreth decided to try the whole thing. "I want you to fuck me." Warrick. Not Carnac. Not a hundred other nameless fucks. He wanted Warrick, right now. Because he couldn't say any of that, he pressed back against Warrick, bound fingers finding his cock and making him gasp. "Fuck me. I need it." I need you.

Warrick's fingers dug into his shoulders. "Then maybe we should go to bed." He opened his eyes. "No." The refusal was out of character, but he didn't care. "Do it here, in front of the mirror." "That " Warrick stopped, coughed, started again. "That might be tricky. It would be a lot easier with your hands free." Which was a good point, although it brought an unexpected twinge of disappointment. "Okay." The belt pinched his skin briefly, then loosened. He quickly stripped off his shirt and, before Warrick could discard the belt, he turned round and offered his wrists again. Warrick raised an eyebrow, surprised by the acquiescence. "You don't have to " "No, I don't." If Warrick wanted it, that was a good enough reason for tonight. Without further comment, Warrick bound his wrists again, and turned him back to face the mirror. He reached out, touching his own hands in the glass. Warrick crouched beside him, resting his cheek against his hip, and stroked his hand up the back of his thighs, making Toreth think of the first virtual fuck in the sim. Despite the fact that he wanted this he really did he could feel the muscles tensing under Warrick's touch, however much he willed them to relax. The hand slid over his buttocks, down between them, and the muscles clenched again, a shiver running down his back. Warrick paused. "Are you " "Oh, for fuck's sake, yes I am." "I didn't even finish." "I'm fine, I'm sure, I'm whatever." "I was going to ask, are you cold?" "Oh." He thought about it, trying to isolate the information from a nervous system occupied by other things. "Yes, a bit." "I thought you might be. Housekeeping: temperature up four degrees in the bedroom." Warrick ran his other hand up over Toreth's stomach, tracing the muscles. "The problem being, of course, that you lack any sort of insulation." He turned his head and kissed Toreth's hip, lips moving against him as he spoke. "Not that I'm complaining, you understand. Quite the opposite. I could sit and admire the lack for hours, despite what it would do to your already monstrously overinflated ego. Or even kneel and admire. Anyway, I usually turn the heating up before you get here, or set the system to do it if we've gone out." "All right, all right. Next time I'll call." "Better all round. Not that it takes long to kick in." It didn't. Or possibly the excuse wasn't needed any more, because Warrick hadn't stopped touching him, and while he wasn't paying attention the tension had quietly slipped away. Now Warrick looked round, then checked his dressing gown pockets and produced a tube. "That's not where you usually keep it." "No, I " Warrick laughed. "I picked it up off the side when I heard the comm. Reflex, I suppose. I knew it was you who the hell else would it be at this time?" He felt safe enough to risk teasing. "So I can expect to walk in here and find you ready for me?"

"Apparently, yes, you can." "Well, then, in future I'll oh!" Cool gel, firmly applied. He started, forgetting his hands were tied. He'd been watching Warrick's face, not his hands. "Serves you right," Warrick said. "That wasn't nice." "Sorry." Even less convincing than his own apology earlier. "How about that?" Warrick's finger slipped easily inside him, and Toreth let his shoulders roll back. "Mmm. Yes." Looking between Warrick beside him and their reflection in the mirror was excitingly strange. He had nothing to do except watch being done to, not doing. Warrick watched him in return, intent on his reactions. It wasn't really the optimum position for relaxed, thorough foreplay, but the bed would have felt too claustrophobic, too . . . submissive. Although that was a pretty stupid thing to think, when he was standing here with his hands tied up and his head bowed, aching for more than just fingers inside him. He was thinking about this far too much. So don't, he told himself. Just enjoy. Warrick was incredibly good at this. He wondered where he learned it. With whom. It couldn't be Carnac, of course. That thought triggered another, the memory of the fuck in the office. He'd said Carnac's name as he came. He knew he had. What if, for some stupid reason, he did it again? Warrick would throw a fit, or maybe even throw him out again. Toreth felt himself tensing up again. He was Thinking again. Warrick moved around to kneel in front of him, giving a thoroughly appreciated view of his back and arse, from mid-thigh upwards. He couldn't see, in the mirror, what Warrick was doing, but he didn't need to, because he felt a hand on his cock and then a brief, hot breath before Warrick's mouth closed round his cock. Tonguing him, light and shallow. Not enough to push him too far, but enough to distract him from whatever the hell he'd been thinking about. Don't think. Just enjoy it going on. On and on, until he'd forgotten where it was leading, or even that his wrists were tied. Toreth's eyes drifted closed without his noticing. His hands rested lightly on Warrick's head, stroking absently through his thick, soft hair. Then Warrick's fingers and mouth were gone, leaving him cold again. Someone was breathing loudly, very close by. He was trying to frame a protest, when he realised that Warrick had said something. He looked down, meeting Warrick's hot gaze. "What?" Toreth asked. "I said, ready?" Oh, God, yes. He nodded, then, bracing his hands against the glass, he closed his eyes again. Not because he was expecting it to hurt, but because he wanted to remember the feeling. Warrick stood up, moved round behind him and put an arm round his waist. Slight height adjustment. Then . . . nothing. "You have to ask for it," Warrick said after a moment. Of course. He managed to gather enough breath to speak. "Fuck me."

"Again." "I want you " and a pause before he remembered to add, " to fuck me." He could feel Warrick's cock against him, so tormentingly close to where he needed it. He could see why Warrick got such a kick out of this part of the game the anticipation was killing him. "Now?" "Yes, now. Please." Pressure, stretching him, starting to fill him. Warrick's hands on his hip and shoulder. He clenched his fists against the glass, biting back a moan, not wanting to give away how very, very much he wanted this. Warrick stopped, halfway, and he could feel the effort it took. Did Warrick think he hadn't done this before? Take a breath. "Go on. I'm okay." "You . . . you might be. But I'm not." Warrick drew his breath in sharply as Toreth pushed back towards him. "God, don't. I need a minute. Or this will be the highest ratio of foreplay to fuck on record. I haven't . . . done this for a while." He took another breath, let it out slowly. "And it really isn't like the sim. So strange, because there's no reason why it should be different. The modelling is relatively simple and very accurate." He eased deeper and sighed. "No. Not at all the same." Toreth smiled, watching himself, and Warrick behind him, face hidden as he breathed raggedly into his shoulder. That felt better, somehow, knowing that Warrick wanted it so badly. "I'm not going anywhere." "I should think not, after dragging me out of bed." Warrick pushed forwards, all the way, and his hands tightened on him. "Mmh. Dragging me out of bed, demanding sex, and " "Warrick." "Mm?" "Shut up." Too many conversational fucks with Carnac he didn't want to remember, and thinking about Carnac was dangerous. "Shut up and fuck me." Saying the words gave him the same weird thrill, and from the way Warrick pressed against him, shuddering, he wasn't getting bored of hearing them yet. "Toreth, if you keep . . . saying that . . . " "Fuck me." Himself in the mirror, and Warrick behind him. "Fuck me. I want to feel it. Do it. Now. Fuck me. I want " Whatever self-control Warrick had managed to gather wasn't up to that, and he pulled back, thrust in hard. Then again, a little clumsy out of practise as he'd said, or nearly out of control. Toreth shifted his feet, angled his hips to meet each stroke until yes that was it. Oh, yes. Every movement building the pleasure. He moaned out loud, not caring now because Warrick was already making more than enough noise to cover it. "Yes, oh God yes, so good . . . " Warrick's voice muffled against him, showing precisely how close he was. Even though they'd never fucked quite like this before, Toreth could read him as easily as ever. It wouldn't last long, but it didn't matter because whatever had been wrong before, everything was all right. He wasn't so close, yet, but he was desperate to be touched, needing it now. If he'd been able to get a hand free, he would have done it himself, but the knots had tightened hopelessly and he couldn't slip a hand through.

"Warrick." Warrick didn't hear him probably couldn't even hear himself by now, words blurring into harsh sobs. He struggled for a moment, panting, almost panicking if he hadn't been so aroused. He couldn't bear the idea that Warrick might come without him, leaving him like this. From now on he was tying, not being tied. He raised his voice. "Please. Warrick, please." Nothing so coherent as a reply, but he got a response, which was much better. A hand sliding down to take hold of his cock, just exactly, perfectly how he needed it. How he liked it. Bracing himself against the mirror, he pushed back hard. He forgot about the belt around his wrists. Everything he wanted was elsewhere: Warrick against him, skin on skin, inside him, his arms round him, hand stroking him faster, hot breath against his neck, all wonderful, all making a lie out of the idea that it was nothing special. He gave himself up completely to the overwhelming sensations, gasping Warrick's name without having to think about it at all. ~~~ Toreth awoke to the sharp burn of pins and needles in his hands and a pillow wedged uncomfortably under one shoulder. Then he realised that Warrick still had his arms around him and that his face was pressed into Warrick's chest, hair tickling as he breathed. He could taste salted skin again. As well as his hands, his calves were aching and he could feel the bites on his neck, both the first one and some more he didn't remember getting. He was sticky, and slightly, pleasantly, sore. Just enough to know that he'd been having fun. At least they had made it as far as the bed before they fell asleep. It felt good, lying there. It felt better than the fuck itself. Almost. He gave it a minute, a long minute (probably nearer five, but who was counting?), then shrugged his way free and sat up. Warrick opened his eyes and looked up enquiringly. "Get this stupid belt off me," Toreth said. Warrick laughed. "Do you ever wake up in a good mood?" ~~~ He had been in the shower for about thirty seconds when Toreth joined him. It was a little disconcerting, because Warrick had more than half expected to get back to the bedroom to find Toreth gone. That would have been a pity, but he wouldn't have minded a little time alone to sort out his thoughts. Still, he wasn't complaining. Not after that. It had been more than worth waiting for, and the belt had been an unexpected bonus, although in the end he'd actually enjoyed that part of it a lot less that he'd expected, and he wondered how it would have been in the sim. Sex is strange, he thought whimsically, as Toreth stepped under the spray, nudging him aside. An illustration of the difference between theory and practise, fantasy and reality sim and reality. Endless scope for entertaining investigations and comparisons. He really needed to set up a focused research programme to explore the purely psychological limitations of the sim experience. Warrick raised the temperature of the water, before Toreth asked him to. Toreth found something else to complain about, anyway.

"Have you seen the state of my neck?" he said, turning his back towards him. Impressive suck marks, hints of teeth here and there. More impressive than he'd intended or remembered, but Toreth didn't sound genuinely annoyed. "Indeed I have. I had an excellent view." "Couldn't you have done it a bit lower down?" "I'm afraid not." He worked the soap into a lather between his hands and smoothed it over the offending bites, then down over Toreth's back. "Although to be quite fair, I seem to have bitten your shoulders as well. Sorry." "What the hell is Sara going to think tomorrow?" "She's going to think " The soap escaped, but there was enough on Toreth now that it didn't matter for the moment. Warrick pressed up against him, enjoying the view all over again. "She's going to think that I fucked you senseless." Toreth turned round in his arms. "You should've noticed by now that I usually fall asleep afterwards. That says nothing at all about the quality of the fuck." "I see." He bent down to find the soap, surprising Toreth on the way back up with a quick slightly soapy suck. More of a lick, but it made him jump. Not a good thing in a shower. Warrick steadied him, then asked, "It wasn't up to standard?" He continued washing them both while Toreth pretended to think about it. It would've been more convincing without the smirk. "It wasn't bad," he said eventually. "I wouldn't mind doing it again some time without the belt, though. You?" "Mm." His expression must have said the rest, in highly flattering terms, because Toreth laughed. "You could have asked, you know, if you wanted it that much." And Toreth could have said no, couldn't he? Warrick didn't want to know the answer to that, though, because kicking himself at this point would be risky. Too much soap around. Anyway, the feel of hard muscles, also slippery with soap, was giving him ideas he'd like to follow up later. Tomorrow morning this morning rather which was Sunday. "Are you staying for the rest of the night? Insofar as there is any." "If that's okay?" "Perfectly." "Thanks." Toreth pushed wet hair back from his face. "Actually, I don't have anywhere else to go. My bed's full of snoring spook." Warrick stared at him, wanting so badly to have heard that wrong. All he could think was that he'd been crassly, unbelievably stupid, and that everything Toreth had said earlier, and worse, everything he'd done since, had been a lie. The moment passed, but it left Carnac's words behind. 'A measure of thoughtlessness and indeed cruelty on his part . . . ' He didn't think that, right now, he could bear to hear any more. Toreth seemed to be expecting a comment of some kind, though. "That's why you came here?" Warrick asked. "Yeah." Toreth smiled brightly. "I didn't want to wake him up, because if he'd opened his fucking

mouth, I would've put my fist through it and out the back of his head." "Oh." It was the only thing he could think of to follow that up. That, and assorted questions, none of which Toreth would answer. At least the unspoken message was clear Carnac had, for whatever reasons, seriously outstayed his welcome. However he'd ended up at Toreth's flat tonight, he wouldn't be there again. Still, the worry and doubt lingered. He couldn't ignore it, and his self-respect wouldn't let him. He stepped back, and the water washed the soap away from where their bodies had been pressed too close together for it to reach. "Just to get one thing absolutely clear, you do remember our prior conversation? You won't be seeing Carnac again?" "Of course I'll be seeing him. He's still squatting in my office." "That's not what I meant." Where had the unaccustomed euphemism come from? There was a long silence, so long that he was half expecting the answer when it came. "Warrick, be reasonable. Please. I can't not fuck him while he's at I&I. That's what he volunteered me for. Even Tillotson realised that, and he didn't like it but he made it pretty bloody clear I had to do what I was told." For a moment, between outrage and disbelief, he genuinely couldn't breathe, never mind speak. Then, before he said anything, the sense of the words fought its way through to his consciousness. Did Toreth really mean that? Could he mean that? "You're saying that you don't want to?" It sounded so ridiculous he expected Toreth to laugh. Instead, Toreth reddened, obvious even through the flush of the hot water. "No, I don't. Look, if you're that interested, I didn't particularly want to fuck him in the first place, and now it's getting . . . " He shrugged. "You know me. Twice is once too many." "Then . . . don't do it?" He wondered if the idea had never occurred to Toreth his initial expression suggested that might be the case. But after a few seconds, he shook his head, scattering water. "It's not that simple. He'll shaft me in the report instead, and his opinion means a lot. I don't need that kind of thing in my file. If I piss him off, I can kiss my career goodbye." "He won't do that. He'll write an honest report. If you've been doing your job well, then that's what he'll say." Never mind what 'doing your job well' meant. That wasn't the issue right now. Toreth mulled the suggestion over, his expression serious this time. "Are you sure?" "It's what he did for me at the Data Division." He frowned, dubious. "You told him you didn't want to fuck any more, and he just said 'okay'?" "Yes. Precisely so. And he put a very favourable mention of my work in his report." "Oh. Right. Then I'll tell him tomorrow." He grinned happily, a minor but irritating problem solved. "See? I told you it was no big deal." Warrick could have hit him. "Thank you." That was almost that. As they were drying off, Warrick remembered something. Something he ought to mention. Maybe now wasn't the time, but there wouldn't be a better time, either. "I had dinner with him," he said. "With Carnac." Toreth looked up. "I . . . You didn't tell me." His voice held a hint of accusation.

"I'm telling you now. It was a few days ago. He told me " "Forget it," Toreth said sharply, then shrugged. "Who gives a fuck about him, anyway?"

Chapter Eleven
Carnac arrived at the I&I offices early on Monday. Waking up yesterday to find Toreth gone had been a slight surprise. He didn't have many of those in his life, so he was keen to discover the explanation. He had a good idea of where he had gone, since Toreth's personal comm had refused his calls all yesterday, and so had Warrick's. His hard work was undone and Warrick had once again resumed his position as the central massif of Toreth's barren emotional landscape. Yet he was perfectly confident that it was impossible for Warrick to have called Toreth, or vice versa, as things had stood when he'd fallen asleep on Saturday night. Something unexpected had, most irritatingly, interfered with his plans. Toreth arrived exactly on time and came straight over to sit on the edge of Carnac's desk. He picked up a piece of paper and started folding it. "You had dinner with Warrick," he said. It was most definitely a statement, not a question. Carnac realised at once that he'd made a very serious mistake in not following through all the possible consequences of his impromptu acceptance of Keir's invitation. He should have told Toreth about it before. Honesty was the key to gaining his trust. "Yes, I did," he said. Toreth nodded. "Did you fuck him?" he asked in the same measured tones. "No." "Did you try to?" With his plan ruined anyway there was no real point in deception, but with Toreth in such close proximity it seemed wise. "No." Toreth glanced up from the paper, finger stilling on a folded edge. "For a socioanalyst, you're a fucking awful liar." Nevertheless, Toreth seemed to like the answer. Of course it demonstrated that Carnac was afraid of him, which he was, to a certain extent. He was also curious as to how and when Toreth had found out about the dinner, since that confidence hadn't come from a guess. Had this triggered the new turn of events? "Lying isn't an official part of our training," Carnac said evenly. "As regards the other matter, I asked him, and he said no." "Piece of free advice: don't ask him again. He's not available." Possessiveness rang in every syllable potentially dangerous possessiveness, if Carnac was any judge. "I don't waste my time chasing reluctant partners when I have a willing one." Toreth smiled pleasantly. "Not any more you haven't. Find yourself another liaison." "Oh?" That was another surprise; he'd thought Toreth's ambition would keep him in line for the duration. "Yes." Toreth set a completed paper bird down on the desk, not badly made. "I'm bored with it, and besides, it's long past time someone told you that you're a lousy fuck. I have better sex on my own." That hurt. Pathetically mundane as the insult had been, and primitive and irrational as the feeling was, it still hurt. Enough that he spoke without thinking.

"You're not bored you're frightened." A moment of absolute silence and stillness followed, long enough for Carnac to begin to wonder how quickly he could make it to the door. Almost certainly not quickly enough. Then Toreth spoke, slowly and coldly. "You don't know the first fucking thing about me." He could have said so much. Toreth was so vulnerable to his own unexamined emotions, so deeply in denial of his needs and motivations, that it would be trivially easy to come up with a response that would devastate him. An interconnected cascade of pain to demonstrate how very wrong he was. I know that your parents resented your existence, and never gave you a second's love or approval that didn't carry with it a reminder of your failure to live up to their impossible demands. I know that you trust exactly two people in your life, and that the only way you are capable of understanding that feeling is by trying to own them. I know that you want Keir, more than you have wanted anything in your adult life, and that that uncontrollable need makes you sick with fear. I know that, in the end, the pathetically little you have to offer him will no longer be enough, and he will leave you. And I know that there will be nothing you will be able to do to make him stay. On the other hand, having his testicles torn off and stuffed down his throat didn't appeal half as much as, say, not. Destroying Toreth's future with Warrick wasn't worth major surgery. Carnac stood up. "Of course not. I apologise. Consider your assignment concluded. And don't worry I'll write a glowing report for your file." He wasn't expecting a reciprocal apology, and he didn't get one. "Shut the door on your way out," Toreth said. Then Toreth sat down at his own desk and ignored him. As Carnac gathered his belongings, he watched Toreth surreptitiously. He could see the tension draining out of him. This experience wouldn't last long for Toreth. By the time Carnac's report was finished, he would be background noise again in Toreth's life. Something that had come and gone and perhaps been mildly unpleasant, but had barely touched the important parts. So. He could, he supposed, call it a technical victory on points, but there was no point cheating at solitaire. Chalk this one up as a failure. After a brief hesitation, he took the paper bird and added it to the top of the pile. Memento. As he left, he paused in the doorway to look back. Toreth didn't look up. On his way past her desk, he smiled at Sara. She smiled back, faux sympathetically. He judged her to be pleased by his departure, but unsurprised. So that was where the information regarding his dinner with Warrick had originated. It must have been very cleverly phrased to get the reaction it had. The woman was clearly capable of more subtlety than he had anticipated careless of him to discount her. Really, he hadn't been on form. Perhaps the toxic atmosphere of I&I had unsettled him more than he'd realised. "Do you need any help with that?" Sara asked, her courteous admin manner perfectly in place. "No, thank you. And thank you for all your time." She smiled again. "Try Senior Para Chevril, if you're looking for a new personal liaison." Since the senior para's profile had indicated that he was as straight as a die, Carnac took her

suggestion in the spirit it was offered, and went to inform I&I upper echelons that he'd finished his study and was returning to Socioanalysis. He could write the report as well there as anywhere, and, quite frankly, fuck his bosses if they wanted him to serve out his full time here. He knew where he wasn't welcome. He should, by now.

As Long As It Lasted
Five years before Mind Fuck . . . There had been drinks at the bar, and with the meal, and at the club. Toreth had also borrowed a handful of assorted fun from a friend in the pharmacy and that had mixed very pleasantly into the course of the evening. On the way back to his flat, he'd stopped off to buy a bottle of something bubbly and expensive. Sara deserved it. Exceeding the limits of a damage waiver was a serious charge, about the most serious that only resulted in dismissal from I&I and not anything more penal. It had been all the more serious because the complainant had been rich enough to afford a whole circus of trained attack lawyers. Sara had fixed it for him. When he'd asked her how she'd found out that Justice was backing the complainant, she'd just shushed him, and said, "We admins have our little secrets as well, you know." I&I higher-ups, who'd been quite happy to hand feed him to the dogs when it looked like a quick route out of the situation, had jumped smartly when their own empires were threatened. The help he'd been desperate for had rolled out overnight and the complaint withdrawn within a few days. All thanks to Sara and, strangest of all, she hadn't wanted anything in return. She hadn't even told him she was behind it. Chevril had found out from his admin and congratulated Toreth. Sara had shrugged off Toreth's thanks and said she'd do it for any of her friends. For once in his life someone had done him a favour without even a hint of strings attached, and it was a strange feeling. Now he lay on the sofa in the flat that he never invited anyone back to, wishing he'd tidied up, and listening to her talking. She was out of sight, by the window. "'S a nice flat," she said. "It's a tip." "Yeah, but it's cosy. Anyway, it's no more of a tip than mine. Maybe a bit more. Yeah. A bit. But it's nice. Near work. Mine's miles away. You can practic practically fall out of bed and into the office." She leaned over the back of the sofa, then further over, and then she slid down onto him. Luckily, her glass was empty. He caught her automatically, and she ended up on top of him, her thighs astride his. She leaned on his chest and gazed into his face with drunken friendliness. Her stomach pressed down warmly on his cock, which responded enthusiastically. He took the glass from her and put it on the table. "Hello," he said. "Hello. Mmm . . . you're comfy." She wriggled into him and looked at him again, expectantly. He should have taken the opportunity to kiss her, but he found himself hesitating. She'd worked for him for two years, now, and she'd never showed any desire to do this before. In fact, over the first few months she'd turned down his advances firmly and consistently until he'd given up. He strongly suspected this U-turn was due more to the particular combination of drugs and alcohol than to any new appreciation of his charms.

He should have made a better note of what he'd given her. Still, he felt an uncharacteristic need to clarify the situation. Simple and direct was best. "Are you sure you want to do this?" "Do this?" She blinked at him. "'M not doing anything. Know why? 'Cause you're my boss. And I don't screw at work. It's messy." She giggled. "Well, 's always messy. Different mess. Though not with you. Wouldn't be a mess, 'cause I love you." Why did she have to go and spoil it? "Don't be silly." "It's not silly." She inched closer, her eyes crossing slightly. "It's why I saved your arse with Tillotson and everyone. 'Cause you're my friend and I love you." He could have thrown her off easily, of course. But he didn't. Her breath, sweet with alcohol, smelled of something distantly remembered. Pomegranates, part of his brain supplied, while the rest of it wondered what the hell he was going to do. Left to its own devices, his body was getting on with business as usual and somehow he had ended up with his arms round her, pulling her down against him. Small, soft breasts against his chest, and her hips moving gently against him. "Sara " "Shh," she said, and kissed him, wetly, wonderfully. She might not even remember, whispered a treacherous but distinctly convincing voice. Even if she does, where's the harm? Fuck her. She wants it. You want it. What the hell's the problem? The problem was . . . the problem was that it was Sara. Even though he was far from sober himself, he still knew full well that she didn't really want to do it. She'd hate him in the morning, if she did remember, and while that was no novelty in general, he discovered suddenly and quite unexpectedly that he didn't want Sara to hate him under any circumstances. Especially not now, when she'd put herself on the line for him. Suppose she applied for a transfer? Or left I&I entirely? He couldn't do it. Shouldn't do it, rather, because he most definitely could and if he didn't stop himself in the next minute or two, he was going to. "Sara, don't." Another mild objection, which wouldn't be any more use than the last one. So tempting to let her stay there. "Shush." She kissed him again, one hand cupping his face elbow wedged uncomfortably in his ribs and the other hand sliding down him. Then she was groping him, the kiss fading away as she concentrated fiercely on the fastening of his trousers. Pissed as she was, she'd manage it before long. He really ought to . . . move. Soon. Then she succeeded, and her hand slipped inside. He had a nasty moment, imagining her fingernails as he'd last seen them, long and blood red. Then her fingers closed gently round his cock and he forgot about sharp nails, and about the ridiculous idea that he wasn't going to do this. Let instinct and long practice take over. He ran his fingers through her hair, tilting her head for a more careful, thorough kiss. She kissed him back, still stroking his cock, gentle caresses making him want a firmer grip. He slid his other hand up her thigh, stopped at the top and slipped his fingers round the scanty fabric of her knickers. Tracing their edge around her hip, he discovered that they seemed to consist entirely of lace. He'd always wondered, but before now he'd never fucked anyone he'd felt like asking . ..

"Are those comfortable?" She lifted her head. "Comfortable?" "There's not much to them." "Yeah, they are. Not cheap, but comfy. Because they're not cheap. Soft lace. See?" She took her hand away from his cock, put it over his and guided him further round, further down. "I see," he said seriously. "Very nice." She giggled, then drew her breath in sharply as he stroked his fingers along between her legs, exploring the territory. "Very nice," he said. Not to mention very wet. Wetter than was justified by a few minutes' groping and a couple of kisses. "How long have you been thinking about this?" he murmured into her ear. One finger slipped into her, stroking, as he began to rub her with his palm, small circles gently to start with, gauging her reaction. She let out a long breath and, on the end of it, said, "All evening." "You've been thinking about me fucking you all evening?" She nodded, her hair brushing his face. "Yes." "Before that?" She giggled again, a brief, cut-off hiccup. "Sometimes." He slipped another finger into her, pressing harder with the heel of his hand. No complaints so far. "Tell me about it." "No." He started to take his hand away, and she grabbed his wrist with gratifying speed, pushing him back down into her. "Tell you what," he said. "I'll keep going if you tell me what you were thinking about me. And when." She hesitated for a moment longer, then let go of his wrist. "'kay. Remember when you took me to play squash and I was rubbish?" "Yes." He shifted his arm, getting more comfortable, and settled into a rhythm. "Mmm. Up a bit. Harder. Yes that's right." "And?" "And, okay, anyway, apart from the fact that I'm just so pathetic at sport, I kept missing the ball 'cause I was looking at you in those incredible shorts." He smiled, flattered. "Go on." "That's it. Just you in shorts. Nice body." She ran her hand down his chest. "Very nice body." "Do you really want me to stop?" "No, I . . . oh, all right, no. That wasn't it." She hesitated again, long pauses between the sentences, but he let her take her time because he knew she wouldn't stop.

"By the time we finished I was so hot. God, I wanted you. And I don't screw at work, told you that already. But if you'd asked . . . just then I'd have let you do me right there on the court. With the whole Division watching if they'd been there. Glass box. I'd have done it. I wanted you that much. That much." She squeezed around him, his fingers suddenly gliding slick against tight muscle. "And?" he prompted when she relaxed. "And, anyway, it was late so there was no one else there. In the changing rooms. Empty. Just me. Being so fucking hot for you. So I had a shower, hot shower. And I did what you're doing right now." She fell silent again, her breath coming in whimpers. He speeded up, feeling an ache starting in his arm but knowing it wouldn't matter now. He kissed her ear lightly, felt her shiver. "Come on. Tell me the end." "No. Yes. All right. Yes. I mas . . . I masturbated in the shower, thinking about you. And I came, thinking about you screwing me. Against the tiles. Under the water." She drew in a deep breath as he kept kissing, breathing into her ear. "And that's all there was, that's everything, I promise. I came, thinking about you. Like I'm going to . . . please, keep it going . . . keep it, oh . . . " That had done it. She went over the edge, words trailing off into a long, soft moan into his neck. He pushed his fingers into her, relishing the strong muscles spasming. Oh, but that was going to feel good around his cock, if she let him fuck her. When she stilled, he slipped his fingers out of her and wiped them on the nearest bit of fabric they were so close together he couldn't really tell to whom it belonged. "Sara?" "Mmm." She lifted her head, and even though her face was shadowed he could see how wide her pupils were. If he was counting favours, then he owed the I&I pharmacy a large one. Lucky that they'd never find out. "What?" "Better than the shower?" She laughed throatily. "Oh, yes." She kissed him a few times, running her hand through his hair. "Definitely better." She kissed her way away from his mouth, down to his shoulder, and nibbled gently, unfastening his shirt to get at his chest. He was wondering how to phrase a polite request for her to skip the preliminaries and move on to something more active when she nudged his thigh with her knee, pushing him sideways. He eased his hip away from the back of the sofa so that she could move further up his body, her soaking knickers brushing up along his cock. He reached down, but she pushed his hands away. "I'll do it." It would've been a great deal easier if she'd taken her knickers off. But he didn't want to risk them getting too far apart and giving her a chance to remember properly that she didn't fuck at work. The idea made him uneasy. So, not really wanting to, he gave it one more try more insurance for the morning than anything. "Sara, are you sure " She leaned down, kissed him, and knelt up again. "'course I'm sure." Her hand enclosed his cock again, positioning him, and then she stopped, looking down at him, abruptly serious. "Are you sure?" He blinked at her. "God, yes. Quite sure."

In some strange way, he wasn't. But the tiny whisper of doubt lasted barely another three seconds, until she came down onto him slowly, and he groaned out loud. Wet heat engulfed him, and he only realised he'd closed his eyes when he opened them to find her looking down at him, still wide-eyed and solemn. She tilted her head. "Good?" "Not . . . at all bad." She rocked against him, pressing down. "Know what I want?" He shook his head. "I want to come again. With you inside me." "I was inside you before." "Not like that." She squeezed tight around him. "Like this. Filling me." No complaints from down here. "If you like." "I like. 'S different. Feels different. You wouldn't . . . oh, of course you would. Or you might. Is it different?" He smiled up at her. "Is what different?" "Coming." She was starting to breathe faster again, rubbing against him harder. "Coming with a man screwing you, instead of coming without." "Yes, it is." She nodded, her eyes closing. "Thought it would be." Normally talking during sex bored him, but with Sara it was . . . sweet. Charming. A variant on her usual funny, dirty, undemanding conversation, with the delightful addition of fucking her. Or, as it happened, her fucking him. He unfastened her blouse, then slipped it back over her shoulders. Coordinating underwear, of course. He'd always loved her skin colour, and now the beautiful honey tones set off the white lace. He'd heard the opinion expressed at I&I, always well out of Sara's hearing, that she'd be more attractive with bigger tits. Obviously expressed by people who hadn't enjoyed this angle, he thought smugly. He stroked his palms over the soft lace and softer skin, cupping her breasts as she pressed forwards. It wasn't getting anywhere productive from his point of view, but he didn't mind. It felt very nice, and he had an incredible view of her above him. Sara the perfect admin, flushed, her eyes closed, her lips parted, her breathing turning into the whimpers he'd heard before. He reached up, brushing her lips with his fingers and she opened her mouth wider, closing her lips around them, sucking hard. The sensation ran like wildfire down his arm and spine, straight into his groin, making him moan. She ran her tongue across his fingertips, back and forth. God, that was good. If she didn't get on with it, he wouldn't be able to stop himself rolling her over on the sofa and fucking her, very hard and not for very long. Then he had to pull his fingers away quickly as he felt her start to bite down. Her hands dug into his shoulders and her head fell forwards, and she moaned again as she began to contract around his cock, still pressing down hard onto him. He meant to wait for her to finish, but his remaining self-control abruptly evaporated. Grabbing her hips, he lifted her and then pulled her down, thrusting up to meet her. "Move, Sara. Now. Fuck

me." She did, bracing herself on the back of the sofa and his shoulder. She wasn't very well coordinated neither of them were but it didn't matter. The sofa wasn't terribly comfortable, they still had all their clothes on, and her knickers were stretched against the side of his cock, but those things didn't matter either. It felt like something stolen, and it was. Perfect admin, perfect fuck. He was taking something she hadn't meant to give him, letting her do something that her mind hadn't wanted and her body had been gagging for. The idea of that had him almost there, and the feel of her tight around him, still twitching from her own orgasm, was enough to carry him the rest of the way. Then he was coming, coming into her. Sara. He pulled her down, pressing her close and kissing her hard for as long as it lasted. ~~~ When he woke up, he found her chin dug into his shoulder and what felt like about six elbows jammed into other bits of him. For someone so petite, she felt like a hell of a weight. He had a terrible crick in his neck and he was extremely messy. Taking hold of her wrists, he eased her up and slid out from underneath her, leaving her lying on the sofa, blinking at him with drunken bemusement as he sat on the floor beside her. "Where're you going?" she asked. "To bed." "Oh. Okay." She rolled onto her side and curled up. "Night, then. Love you. D'you know I love you?" "You told me before." She smiled, her eyes closing. "Good. Love you. Don't forget." And she fell asleep again. Not fucking likely. He'd meant to go at once, but he sat for a while, watching her, stroking her hair away from her forehead. Asleep she looked so . . . young. So vulnerable, so un-Sara. All the passion and animation drained from her expressive face. He licked his lips, still tasting the last kiss. Not something he usually did, kissing as he came. Maybe he should take it up, because it had felt great. Her breath going into him as he squeezed her against him. Pomegranates. He dug out a duvet to cover her. Then he had a quick shower and went to bed, wondering what she'd have to say about it all tomorrow. Wondering, too, if she'd want to do it again, which wasn't something he found himself thinking very often. On the very brink of sleep, he had a thought that he didn't remember in the morning. 'Love you.' So that was what it sounded like when someone knew you, and they still meant it. ~~~ They'd left the windows clear last night, so the living room had been light for a few hours by the time he came back from his trip out. Even so, Sara was only just beginning to stir, probably woken by his return. Completely hidden by the blanket, the first sign of life was a heartfelt complaint. "Oh . . . Christ in heaven. Oh, God, my head." There was a short silence, broken only by soft moans, reminding him of last night, even though

this was hangover induced rather than anything more fun. Then her nose poked out, and she said, "What can I smell?" He began to empty the shopping bag onto the table. "Real coffee and . . . bacon sandwiches." That produced a surprisingly lively reaction. "Bacon? You are an angel." She pushed the cover aside and looked up at him. "Well, maybe not an actual angel." He sat down on the floor by the sofa, the same place he'd sat last night. She struggled upright, shook her head, then winced. She sat, eyes closed, combing her hair straight with her fingers. "How do you feel?" he asked. "Absolutely fucking awful. I'm never touching another drop of alcohol as long as I live." "A week?" "Maybe even two." She opened her eyes and reached carefully for a sandwich. "You?" "Oh, I'm fine. Years of practise." He took the lids off the coffees. "Is this your flat?" she asked through a mouthful of sandwich. "I don't remember ending up here. In fact, I don't remember a single thing after we left the club. Did I do anything horrendously embarrassing?" "Nothing at all," he said automatically. Then he took a sip of coffee, thought about it, and added, "Well, not unless you'd be horrendously embarrassed by crawling all over me and offering to fuck me." She stared at him, her mouth falling open. Then she licked crumbs from her lips and said, "Jesus. Tell me I didn't." "I'm pretty sure you did. It was fairly memorable." "Oh, God. I'm really sorry. I don't " Then she stopped dead, suspicion dawning on her face. "You . . . we didn't?" Either she'd forgotten everything, or she was a very good actor. For a moment he thought about telling the truth just to find out which. Then he shook his head. "You fell asleep before there was any serious damage done. Even I have a minimum consciousness level requirement for a fuck, however fuckable the woman is who's passed out on top of me." She looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. "Thanks. Because, you know, I'd have to apply for a transfer. If we had." He took a sandwich. "I don't see why." She had a mouthful of coffee. "Ah, that's hot. Because it's a disaster. Screwing, not the coffee. Coffee's fine. The whole fundamental idea, nothing personal to you. You're my boss, I work for you, that's the way it is. It's not equal you can't base a relationship on that." That left an opening. "And what about just fucking?" She shrugged. "I don't do 'just fucking'." She had last night, and very nicely. "Maybe you should try it." She took a second, more cautious, sip of the coffee. "No, thanks. And even if I did, it wouldn't be with you. It wouldn't stay that simple. I've seen it happen before. It screws up both people's jobs, because neither of them knows what they're supposed to be any more." "No danger of that." "No?"

"No. I know perfectly well who's in charge." She grinned. "I won't ask." He concentrated on the food, wondering if she really didn't remember, or if she was pretending. She must know he'd come inside her and she'd been dripping wet anyway. Admittedly, most of it had ended up on him, but even so. Maybe she'd gone to the toilet in the night, still completely hammered, dealt with the remaining evidence and forgotten that, too. He had no idea if that was possible (how would he know?), but it didn't sound absolutely impossible. Whatever, he wasn't going to tell her if she didn't want to know. She'd been pretty firm about the transfer; there was no point losing the best admin in the section over something so trivial. He'd still have liked to do it again, but at the same time there was an odd relief that they wouldn't. For a few seconds he wondered why. Then he took another sandwich and decided not to dwell on it. ~~~ The door of the flat closed behind Sara and, when she was sure he wasn't going to come out after her, she stopped and leaned against the wall. Of all the stupid things she'd done in the nineteen years of her life so far, this was probably among the top three. She'd screwed him. She'd told him she loved him, which she obviously didn't mean. Or as a friend, that was all. It had been the high from the end of the investigation, the knowledge that he was safe and the bastards in management weren't going to leave him to twist. Although some of the exact wording was mercifully hazy from the alcohol and whatever pills he'd been handing out, she'd told him a lot more than that. Fantasies. She hated telling fantasies anyway, and here it was a disaster. How the hell would she manage to face him in the office on Monday? She'd never play bloody squash again, that was for sure. They'd been getting on so well until now, professionally. She knew that she did a good job, and that he appreciated that she did. She'd let herself start to like him; he was a great boss, and she'd thought he was turning into a good friend. Now she'd fucked it all up. Literally. She tried asking herself why, once, then decided she was too hung over for lying to herself. Why was easy. She been pissed enough, and high enough, to forget all the reasons it would be a disaster, and remember all the reasons it would be great. Which were, in reverse order, that he was blond, tall, handsome, incredibly fit, and that she'd fancied him something wicked since the first day she'd been assigned to him. However, when it came down to it, he was still a para, and they were all, in essence, fucked. Dangerous people. She'd meant every word she'd said to him about not sleeping with her boss. It was only sensible, wherever you worked. Working at I&I, with para-investigators and interrogators, it had another dimension. When she'd started the training, among all the computer courses, interrogation habituation and other practical things, one of the senior admins teaching the course had taken her aside and explained it. He'd started off with questions. Do you know what personality disordered means? Do you know what a sociopath is, clinically speaking? When Sara has said no, he'd explained. And when she'd asked, "All of them?" he'd smiled, obviously used to the reaction. "To some extent. And every para you meet will seem like the golden exception to the rule, if

they're any good at what they do. You're free to ignore this, but don't come crying to anyone if you play with fire and find out it's hotter than you wanted." She'd made the first big mistake she'd thought Toreth was different. Even now, sober and chagrined, she could almost see why. Last night she'd felt something with him, surely? A connection. Something between them that wasn't just sex. She shook her head to clear the idea, then clutched her temples and moaned. This God-awful hangover was the consequence of the 'connection'. Drugs and booze, that was all it had been. Toreth was as broken as any of them. Partly that was what had led to this mistake. Now and then she felt weirdly sorry for him. Maybe that was why she'd said she loved him, because he seemed to need it so much. There was something lonely about him, even though as far as she could ever tell he was perfectly content with his life of work, the gym, drinking, and screwing an endless procession of strangers. It would make her feel lonely. Well, now she'd joined the procession, and he'd lied to her. He'd lied about screwing her, which somehow felt horrible, even though she'd wanted him to do it. She'd started the lie rolling, when she told him she didn't remember anything. Maybe he was just being polite, or more likely he didn't want to cope with her getting hysterical if he told her that she'd come like a train, twice, and fucked him with every sign of keen enjoyment. Or maybe it was because he was hoping to do it again next time she was too far gone to resist? Or because he'd been pissed too and hadn't particularly wanted her, she'd just been available? Or because she'd been such an awful fuck? She grinned. At least that hadn't seemed to be a problem. Her lips still felt imprinted with the kiss he'd given her; she'd thought he was going to break her back, he'd held on to her so tightly as he came. She doubted there were any complaints on the physical score. She felt a warm flush, just from thinking about it, so she terminated the reminiscence sharply. She wasn't getting into this. Whatever the reason, he was willing to pretend he'd forgotten what she'd done, and what she'd said. He hadn't said anything about 'love', only that she'd offered to fuck him. Well, that was a good start. She'd meant it when she said she didn't do casual screwing. She knew her limits; she couldn't keep it casual. Toreth, dangerous, incapable of love and chronically unfaithful, was so far from being a potential partner for anyone that she caught herself feeling sorry for him again. It was pointless. He wasn't unhappy with what he was. She'd have to learn to accept it too. So she would realign her expectations and feelings towards him. She didn't want to stop thinking of him as a friend, or at least as more than simply her boss, but she'd be more careful to remember what he was, what his limits were. If his attitude changed towards her at work because of last night, then she could always apply for a transfer. Most importantly, she would never, ever, fuck him again. It hadn't happened all she had to do now was make sure it didn't happen again.

Fuck of the Day

When Sara announced his visitor, Toreth wondered briefly if she was winding him up. Warrick hadn't visited I&I since Marian Tanit's death. "What can I do for you?" Toreth asked, as Sara reluctantly closed the door behind her. Warrick seemed to weigh up a couple of different openings, then simply said, "Where were you last night?" Fortunately, he'd set the story up this morning. "I went out with Sara and a few other people from work." "No, you didn't." Toreth shrugged and gestured to the door. "Ask Sara if you don't believe me." "And listen to her lying on your behalf? I don't think so." "What?" "I saw you. Not with Sara." Warrick crossed to the desk, movements stiff with anger. "If you're going to go to the trouble of lying to me and frankly I don't understand why you bother you could at least go to the additional trouble of taking your fuck of the day somewhere a little further away from the AERC." At that point he should have given up, but he felt unexpectedly defensive. "If you see me with someone, that doesn't mean I'm fucking them. I do talk to people sometimes." "Oh, please." Warrick looked as disgusted as he sounded. "Don't insult my intelligence. I saw you walking out of the bar with her. I can recognise conversation when I see it and that was not it." "She's " "I know perfectly well who she is. Ellin. She works for the university at the AERC. And her husband works for SimTech. And, incidentally, thank you so very much for putting me in such an uncomfortable position at work. I assume you met her at the dinner last week?" "Yes." He decided to skip through this as fast as possible. Relentless honesty until Warrick got bored and went away. "I should've know better than to take you," Warrick said. "I do know better. Have you ever actually turned down an opportunity for sex in your life? Or even thought for a moment that you ought to?" Toreth could recognise a rhetorical question when he heard one. Even if he'd heard wrong, that wasn't a topic he was touching with a two-foot shock stick. "Yesterday wasn't the first time you had sex with her, was it?" Warrick continued. "No." "No. I could tell." His voice changed, became more measured. "An interesting choice for you, I thought. Because, since she works in the building and since her husband works for me, I happen to know that they're separated." That was news to Toreth. "What?" "Didn't she mention? I thought she might not have. She's a good judge of character. She was

using you," Warrick continued with grim satisfaction, still tinged with acid anger. "I'd arranged to take visitors from P-Leisure for a drink to the bar you were walking out of. If we hadn't changed the plans, her almost-ex-husband would have been there with me. I doubt his reaction would have impressed my guests, which was no doubt her intention." The devious bitch. Toreth stared at him open-mouthed, then laughed. "All right, no, I admit it I had no idea. No wonder she kept looking at her watch. Well . . . don't worry, I won't see her again." Not that he'd been planning to, but the concession sounded good. "And I'm sorry about nearly fucking things up with the sponsors. But no harm done, anyway." "No harm done?" Now his inflection could've etched glass. "Asher was also with us, who of course you know. And she knows you. So I was treated to her valiant attempts to pretend she hadn't seen the two of you. Strangely enough, my definition of fun, broad as it is, doesn't extend to having my friends witness someone very publicly touching up my, my " Warrick stopped dead, took a deep breath, and walked away, over to the window. Toreth saw his face reflected faintly in the glass, eyes closed as he struggled for calm. He looked so fuckably good pale and furious and on the edge of losing control that Toreth could barely resist pinning him against the wall there and then. With an effort, he limited himself to going over to stand behind him and resting his hands on Warrick's shoulders. "Touching up your what?" he asked. When Warrick didn't answer, Toreth ran his hands down his arms, down to his hips, and murmured, "Want to fuck?" Warrick stood absolutely still for a long moment, then shook his head. "Yes. God help me, yes I do," he said, despairingly. Toreth leaned forward, his mouth right against Warrick's ear. "Now?" "Yes." "Here?" Long, hot breath, and a brush of lips that made Warrick twitch against him. "Yes." He let his hands roam, pulling Warrick close as his body relaxed and surrendered to his touch. Really, it was too easy, but somehow that didn't make it any less exciting, or Warrick any less desirable. He wondered briefly when he was going to get bored with this, with Warrick. There was no sign of it happening yet. "Like to fuck me?" he whispered, suddenly wanting it, and knowing that Warrick would. "Mmh . . . oh, yes." Yes. Here in his office, over his desk something to remember when the paperwork got too boring. Toreth disentangled himself and activated the comm. "Sara, no calls and no visitors. Absolutely no visitors." He heard her snigger as he broke off the connection, so he voice-locked the door, just in case her sense of humour was in overdrive. And that was the end of the argument.

Wine, Women, and Cushions

"Refill," Dillian said, waving her glass. "Sorry, gorgeous, that was the last of the bottle." "Oh." Dillian thought about tomorrow, then decided there was nothing she had to do that she couldn't cope with hung over. "Open another one." "Another?" Cele's voice rose in mock surprise. "A second bottle? On a weeknight? Where will this decadence end?" She finished her own glass, then patted the arm of the deep sofa. "You'll have to get it. I have comfort-induced paralysis of the legs." Dillian fought her way off the sofa and picked a rather circuitous route over to the kitchen area. Opening the wine cupboard, she looked over the selection; Cele's collection of wine was as eclectic as the rest of the contents of her flat-cum-studio. "I never asked," Dillian called over, "but why is the floor covered in cushions?" "Present from an admirer. I met a man in a bar, and we finished up talking about soft furnishings. I had to flee the scene before the domesticity killed me. Pity, because he had stupendous legs, and hands to die for." "And instead of roses he sent you three dozen cushions?" Dillian asked as she returned with a bottle of Zinfandel. "Yep. Except that it was six dozen cushions. The rest are upstairs. When they were all heaped together they frightened me." Cele held out her glass as Dillian opened the wine. "A million single men in that place, and I homed right in on the fabric fetishist. I have an unerring instinct for the honest-to-Christ weirdos." Looking up at the bedroom balcony, Dillian could see edges and corners, plain, lacy and tasselled, poking out between the posts of the balustrade. She poured the wine, then sat down beside Cele. "What are you going to do with them?" Dillian asked. "Well, they were a gift, so I'll pass 'em on. From now on, no one leaves here without one. Mind you, Lord only knows who'll take the pink cowhide prints." She gestured with her glass to the corner of the room, where the offending cushions lurked. "And there are four of those. You're lucky, though you get an early pick. In fact, you can take one for Keir as well." Dillian surveyed the plentiful choice. "I'll give him that huge fluffy zebra pattern one with the orange fringe. It'll clash with everything he's got. And everything he's ever likely to buy, come to that." Cele chuckled. "You're evil. I like you." She drank a couple of mouthfuls of wine and sighed happily. "Well done you, for thinking of a new bottle. So, now we've finished examining the house of horrors that is my love life, what's new on the Dillian front? Or back." She'd been dreading this. "Nothing." "You said that last time. And the time before. And " Dillian hit her with a green-spotted yellow cushion. "I know, I know." "So who was the last one?" Cele asked, unabashed. "The blond love god? What was his name

again?" "Thorulf." Dillian sighed. "Yes, he's the current last. He wanted a relationship with someone who spends more time on Earth than off it. Not that unreasonable." "No stamina, that was his problem. Wasn't there anyone on Mars?" "No. Or maybe. There were a couple of vaguely-interesteds but they never came to anything in the end." "'Vaguely'? What's wrong with these men? Are they blind?" "I just " She shrugged. "I haven't been in the mood." "For almost two years? Come on, sweetheart, this is getting desperate. Sex is one of the great joys of life. Even Mr Joined-at-the-hip-to-his-corporation has finally noticed that." "I know." Dillian sank lower into the sofa. "Don't remind me." Cele raised her eyes. "Lord, don't start that again. You should be pleased. The last time I saw Keir he looked like a dog with two tails." "The last time you saw him, maybe." "Oh? But I saw him only . . . " Cele paused. "Well, not more than a few weeks ago, I'm sure. I thought he looked grand." "On the surface, maybe. But well, I usually ask about them when I see him. I want to be sure that Keir's okay, that's all. And lately he just says everything's fine, then changes the subject. It's like he doesn't want to talk about it. That isn't right, surely?" "Mmm . . . I hate to say it, but perhaps it's the reception he gets?" Cele held her hand up. "No, don't. It's just that, to be honest, you do glower a little when one of the forbidden names comes up." "Why are you always so fair to them?" Petulance crept unbidden into her voice. "First it was the Bitch Queen, and now it's him." Reaching over, Cele tapped her arm. "There's nothing wrong with Seven Inches," she said seriously. Dillian felt her mouth twist into a grimace, but couldn't stop it. "Of course not. I mean, he's probably clinically disturbed, he beats Keir up and he kills people for a living. Oh, and he screws around like a tomcat on testosterone. Just what I look for in my boyfriends." Cele frowned. "If you know that he beats him up, then you know more than I do. Are you serious?" "Well " Dillian struggled with the truth and then sighed. "Okay, hits him, then." She caught up with the conversation through the slight fog of alcohol, and realised Cele might well have no idea why that was different. Not that Dillian was sure it was. "Sorry. Do you know about that?" Cele nodded. "I talked to Keir about it last year, before you came back from Mars." "Oh, okay." The slight delay again, before her brain worked through the information. "You " This time the shock of betrayal left her momentarily speechless. "You knew? You knew all about it and you didn't tell me?" "Keir asked me not to. I promise that I did my in loco Dillientis thing for you. I made sure he was okay and there wasn't anything out of control going on. But I've got no business discussing his sexual kinks with anyone. Not even you." "Oh, God. Cele. I can't believe it." True. Really true. And, in some illogical way she couldn't

articulate, yet another thing to blame him for. "I was so worried about Keir. I didn't know it was . . . well, that it was like that." "Hey, I'm sorry. I had no idea you were in a flap over it." "I didn't know what to say to him. It's so stupid, but if it had been a woman instead if Keir had been, I mean it would've been so much easier. I wanted to talk to you and I didn't dare because I had no idea what you'd do." Cele set her wine down and moved across the sofa, then eased her arm round Dillian's shoulders, pulling gently until Dillian surrendered and leaned into her. "I'm really, really sorry, sweetheart," Cele said. "If I'd known, I'd have said something, I promise, whatever I told Keir. Oh, no. Don't look at me like that." "Like what?" "Like some hapless little forest creature that's about to be shot and eaten. All big dewy eyes and twitching nose." Cele's eyes widened mournfully, in imitation of a miserable baby deer. Despite herself, Dillian laughed. "I look like nothing of the kind." "Yes, you do. Well, maybe not the nose, but your bottom lip was quivering." Cele grinned and put her finger on Dillian's mouth. Dillian hadn't thought anything at all about the embrace, or at least nothing more than familiar, tactile Cele, wanting to take away any pain no matter how accidentally inflicted. The touch was something else. It brought an acute awareness of her own mouth, lips and tongue, and that all she had to do was part those lips a little and everything would shift. She spent too long thinking about the could bes, and Cele took her hand away. "Sorry," she said. "My mistake." They moved apart, taking mirror image sips of wine as the tension eased. "Everything's okay now, isn't it?" Cele said after a moment. "With Keir, I mean. Now you know it's all good clean consensual fun?" Good clean consensual what? "Not really. I know Keir says he wants it, but I don't . . . I find it hard to believe. Blindfolds or furry handcuffs or whatever is one thing, but this is it's not healthy. It's certainly not normal." "I never thought you were so narrow-minded." "Narrow-minded!" Dillian sat up. "I'm nothing of the kind! Keir's got bruises, Cele. It's not healthy. God only knows what he sees in the man." Cele winked. "Well, I can't speak for God, but I know." "That's right, so you do." Sober, she wouldn't ask, but wine and curiosity combined irresistibly. "Go on, then. What was he like?" "I never kiss and tell," Cele said with absolute seriousness. All she needed, of course, was encouragement. "First of all, that's an outrageous lie. And secondly, I'm only asking out of concern for Keir." Cele pretended to choke on her wine. Dillian waited until the performance finished, then said, "Well?" "Well " she held up her hand, " purely out of concern for your beloved brother, obviously, I shall reveal all. To start with, aesthetically, he was mmm-mmh." She kissed her fingertips. "Heaven.

Sculpture in motion. And although he's been wearing a lot more clothes when I've seen him recently, everything looks to be as I left it. He must spend a truly insane amount of time working out." She cocked her head. "That's a sign of insecurity, mind you." "And he really is . . . ? Dimensionally speaking." Cele snorted with laughter. "I might be a millimetre or two out, but he's thereabouts." She leaned back and stared up at the balcony above. "Why do you suppose that everything else has been metricated since forever but we still measure penis length in inches? Mind you, it wouldn't sound half as snappy as what would it be in centimetres?" "Easy. Multiply by two point five four." The wine meant Dillian had to close her eyes briefly, concentrating. "Twenty-eight seven carry three. Seventeen point seven eight." When Dillian opened her eyes, Cele was staring. "How do you remember that stuff? It's so archaic. I have to look it up every time I'm reading old designs." "Easy. Easier than a photographic memory for body parts. You know, I don't believe you can really remember," Dillian added, only half teasing. "I could draw you every cock I've ever touched. And I had a damn close look at that one. Several times, over a very satisfactory evening." She smiled, catlike. "It was ten years ago, and we were both several sheets to the wind, but I distinctly remember that he was a great lay." Despite herself, Dillian laughed. Then the memory of the conversation in Keir's room at New Year surfaced. She stared into the depths of her wine, hearing their voices. 'Then why are you still with him?' 'He's an incredibly good fuck?' He'd been trying to shut her up when he said it, but he'd meant it, too. Sex. Obviously one of the great joys of Keir's life right now, as Cele had said. Was that all it was? God, she hoped so. Just an infatuation although thirty-four-year-old men weren't supposed to have infatuations which would pass. Soon. The sooner the better. Perhaps his recent reticence was a good sign after all. When she looked up, Cele was watching her. "That's a very serious face," she said. "I was just wondering when Keir's going to come to his senses. That man " Cele rolled her eyes, but Dillian decided she'd be damned if she'd give him the dignity of a name. "That man doesn't care about him, not at all. Keir's going to get hurt, a lot more than bruises." "I really don't think you're being . . . okay." Cele sat up straighter. "You think Toreth doesn't care. Forget fair think evidence. You could tell that the poor bastard was floundering way out of his depth with the whole family thing at New Year, right? Right?" Reluctantly, she nodded. She couldn't deny it, since she'd said exactly the same thing. "In fact, half the time I was there he looked like someone had his nuts in a vise. But he turned up anyway. Why? He did it for Keir. Putting yourself through something like that, just because your squeeze invites you doesn't that count for anything?" "He made a pass at me." She hadn't meant to say that, but annoyance goaded the words out. Cele's eyebrows rose, then she laughed. "Really? What did you do?" Dillian felt her cheeks heat. "I slapped him." "Good Lord. Must've been some pass. I guess I've been lucky." For a moment her gaze was openly appraising. "I've done the same and I didn't get slapped." "That's because you're you." Why was Cele always so damn fair? "How come I'm the only one

who can see that the man is a menace? What about what's best for Keir?" Cele let out a short breath, sounding almost annoyed. "Any minute now you're going to say, why can't he find a nice girl and settle down?" "I am not." Dillian frowned. "Although I'd prefer it if he did. I'd prefer it if he found a nice man and settled down. I don't know why he doesn't." "Well, why don't you?" The question stumped her. "We're not talking about me," she said finally. "Actually, we are." Cele topped up both their glasses. "Or had you forgotten why this started?" "Um." Damn. Dillian sipped her wine, thinking it over. "I suppose, when it comes down to it, right now I'm too busy doing other things. Things I'd rather do, and which make it hard to start a relationship, never mind keep one going. I don't want a man, nice or otherwise." "How about a woman?" Dillian smiled; she couldn't help it. "They're no easier to find." Cele shook her head, returning the smile. "For you, there's always at least one available." No reply, serious or joking, seemed right; after a few seconds' silence Cele added, "Which reminds me, I've got something to show you. Wait here." Apparently unparalysed, Cele handed over her glass and rose. She disappeared behind a tall cabinet, and drawers opened and closed out of sight. "I found something while I was making room for the unwanted guests. I shut the ugliest ones in the closet I hope they're not breeding in there and while I was tidying, I came across . . . this." She came back to the living area with a large, flat folder. Before she said anything, Dillian knew what it must hold. "Studies for the great masterpiece I never painted," Cele said. Settling down on a giant purple cushion on the floor at Dillian's feet, she opened the portfolio. Dillian found herself looking into a pencil mirror reflection of herself, a dozen years younger and . . . "I look so happy," Dillian said. Like a dog with two tails. "You were, sweetheart. Or I thought you were, so that's what I saw." "I was. Why didn't you paint it? I wouldn't have minded." Cele turned over another drawing, and shook her head. "I started, but I couldn't see it any more. I needed to paint a lover, and after we were back to being friends, I couldn't do that. It wouldn't have been healthy, sitting in the studio thinking about you like that when . . . " She waved the drawing vaguely. That was something Dillian had never known before. Of course, she'd never asked before. "I'm sorry." "Hey, no need. I wasn't complaining." Cele glanced at her sideways. "Much. Seriously, though, those are six months I don't regret at all." "Nor do I." Thinking back, looking down at the sketch of her glowing smile, nostalgia twinged for something she'd thought of for years as an aberration, although she didn't like that word. A brief phase, rather, long over. "And the reason I don't regret it," Cele said, "is that we stayed friends. Mind-meltingly great as you were, it wouldn't have been worth losing you over it."

"Never." Dillian set down one glass and took Cele's hand strong fingers, square nails darkened round the edges with charcoal wanting to touch her, to add the reassurance of contact. "We're first bestest friends, remember?" "Forever." Cele smiled at the reminder of the promise, first given so long ago at school. She ran her thumb over Dillian's palm, then said, "Model for me?" "What? Now?" "Yes, now." She withdrew her hand and wagged her forefinger. "I should warn you up front that it's mostly a feeble excuse to get you naked, but I do actually have something I want to try. And it does even have to be tonight." Dillian counted down the diminishing protests. You don't want to do this. You shouldn't want to do this. This isn't a good idea. This isn't fair to Cele when you don't have any intention of Placing her wine on the floor beside Cele's, she stood up. "All right. Here?" When Cele nodded, she stripped, trying to make it as casual as she could. She was folding her clothes when Cele raised the blinds. Dillian snatched up her shirt again. "Cele! People can see in!" "Not for long." Cele switched out the lights and came back along the length of the window. "There." Dillian stood still, letting her eyes become accustomed to the darkness, finding that it wasn't so dark after all. With the lights on, the moon had seemed like a white disk in the sky. Now it shone brilliantly enough to cast shadows from the thin uprights between the huge floor-to-ceiling panes. Beyond the window, it overlaid the nighttime glow of the city with a net of sharply delimited silver and black. She turned to find Cele a little way away. She wasn't looking at the moon. After a moment, Cele sighed and shook her head slowly. "God in heaven, woman. You are beautiful." Dillian laughed, abruptly self-conscious. "I'm afraid I can't match up to those old pictures." "You're aging like good wine. More body, and all the better for it. Didn't I say back then that you were too skinny? If you can count a woman's ribs at a glance, there's something wrong with her." An old argument, and Dillian shied away from the memory of what Cele had been doing when she'd first made that observation. "Where do you want me?" "Oh, Lord, don't tempt me." She began piling cushions close to the window. "Let's make these monstrous things work for their keep. Right, sit there. Look out of the window. No . . . a little more towards me. Knees up and together. Now, straighten your left arm. Lean back and no, too far. Just " Cele sighed. "Can I touch?" It's not fair to do this when you don't "Go ahead." "Maybe I should sculpt you," Cele said as she posed her, fingers carefully neutral. "Abstract bronze. Something designed to be handled. I could call it 'Irresistibly Tactile'. There." She stood up and disappeared into the deeper shadows at the back of the room. "It's too dark to sketch. I'll take some pictures and work out how to recreate the light in the morning. Where the heck did I put . . . ah! Got you, you little bastard." Dillian heard the first quiet click as Cele moved back into the main area, but didn't look round. She held still, enjoying the well-remembered novelty of posing, as Cele circled. From time to time

Cele suggested a change in position, or simply rearranged her model. If some of the touches lingered longer as time passed, neither of them commented. "The moon's lovely," Dillian said eventually. There was a silence, then Cele lowered the camera and said, "Oops! Missed my cue, didn't I?" "Sorry?" "I should have said, 'But it's shining on something lovelier still'. And then, oh, done something like kiss you." It's not fair "You aren't too late," Dillian said. A heartbeat of silence, then Cele said, "Don't tease, sweetheart." "I'm not. Not at all." By the time she'd finished speaking, the camera had landed on a cushion with a soft thump, and Cele was kneeling before her in the moonlight, her hands extended, palms up. Supplication, and uncharacteristic uncertainly. A shadow hid her face, but Dillian didn't need to see it. "Someone should take our picture," Dillian said softly, then moved from her pose, opening her arms, but Cele still hesitated. "No expectations, I promise," Cele said. "No strings attached. Just like before." "I remember." Then, trying to lighten the tension, she asked, "What were you saying about one of the great joys of life?" "I don't want it to fuck things up, that's all." "It won't. It can't." Dillian took her hands, drawing her gently forwards. The moon lit Cele's face now, allowing Dillian to see her smile. "First bestest friends?" Cele asked. "Forever." ~~~ The great thing about sex with another woman, Dillian mused the best thing, in fact, the thing she'd forgotten was that there was no natural endpoint. Sex, conversation, more sex, a pause for wine and ice cream cake, back to bed for more lazy, giggly, fun sex . . . And there was no need to feel selfish for deciding that three orgasms weren't enough after all, and that four made a much better number. Keeping the score even was unnecessary, but fun. They'd reached another pause, this one feeling as if it might be the final one for the night. The one that would slide gently into sleep. Leading, if one looked far enough ahead, to the morning after. Not something she was worried about, not really, because it was Cele, not an awkward first morning after with a stranger. A bit of a hangover, that would undoubtedly be the worst part, and there wouldn't even be much of that because most of the second bottle still sat by the sofa downstairs where it had all "I love you," Cele whispered against her neck. It didn't sound at all strange. Nor at all worrying, or uncomfortable, that Cele should say this while they were lying together, with Cele's hand cupping her breast, sensual and comforting at the same time. Dillian felt Cele tense up; clearly, she'd misinterpreted the silence.

"Sorry, sweetheart. I meant " "No." Dillian squirmed round, and silenced her with a kiss. "I love you, too. I always will." Cele nodded. "I know. But I also know we're not going to be shopping for a rose-covered cottage and a pair of hers-and-hers Labradors tomorrow, so chill out." She couldn't help laughing. "I am chilled. Never chillier. Absolutely Arctic. I was just thinking how nice it felt, lying here." "Oh." Cele, rendered speechless. Dillian knew it couldn't last long, and it didn't. "Well, there you go. All my insecurities laid out in the open. Enjoy 'em while they're hot." "I'd rather enjoy you." Dillian stroked her hand along Cele's thigh and up over her hip, pressing her hip bone with her thumb, then touching her stomach lightly enough that Cele drew in a breath and squirmed. The muscles tightened under Dillian's fingers, and she laughed. "What was it you said about the significance of spending too much time at the gym?" "What can I say? It keeps me out of bars, and away from the fabric fetishists and the guys who just want to tell me about their mothers. Or their fish. God, did I ever tell you about the guy with the koi carp?" "Yes, you did. I thought we didn't talk about him?" Cele's stomach rippled as she laughed. "Did I say that? Well, it's probably for the best. Mmm." She squirmed, trying to persuade Dillian's hand lower. "Especially when we could be doing something much more fun. And much less traumatic." "We should go to sleep. I have work in the morning." "Call in sick?" Cele suggested, then sighed. "You and your damn work ethic. If I look sufficiently pitiful and exploited, is there any chance you'll feel so guilty you'll " "Shut up," Dillian said, and kissed her. So maybe it wasn't the last pause after all. ~~~ When Dillian came back upstairs from the bathroom, Cele was sitting on the rumpled bed in a dressing gown that shimmered with every colour Dillian could imagine, and some she rather wished she couldn't. Thank goodness her hangover was hardly noticeable, even with the bright morning sunshine pouring into the flat through the huge windows. Fortunately, Dillian had remembered to hang her clothes up neatly, so they were respectable enough for a morning at work. She could go home to change at lunchtime. Except . . . "Damn," Dillian said. "No clean knickers. I'm out of practise at this unexpected sleep-over thing. I should've remembered to wash them in the sink last night." "We were busy. Borrow a pair of mine." When Dillian hesitated, Cele climbed off the bed and opened the dresser drawer. "Go on. Pick whatever you like. It'll give me an obscenely enjoyable thrill all day, thinking of you in them." Dillian laughed. "Okay." She sorted through the selection, finally holding up a pair of staunchly sensible cotton briefs, obviously designed for exercising. "How about these?" Pouting, Cele plunged her hands into the drawer and rummaged. "How about . . . these?" "From an admirer?" Dillian asked. Cele held the scant confection of vivid red satin and lace up to the light. "Actually, no. I bought

them for myself, as a treat." "Well . . . okay." Knickers donned, she put her hands on her hips and pirouetted slowly, posing. "What do you think?" Cele wiped imaginary drool from her chin. "I think you should get dressed before something bad happens. Or after something bad happens, which would be better for me." "I don't think I have time." Cele's flat didn't have any clocks, so Dillian had to hunt for her watch amongst the lurking cushions. When she found it, the time surprised her. "Good grief!" "No time for breakfast?" "No, lots of time. Why did we wake up so early?" "Why did you wake up so early, you mean. I was fast asleep until someone stuck her nose in my ear and pretended to be a cat." Cele waved towards the windows. "I never closed the blinds last night. Most people wake up early here. Everyone's so used to pitch-dark bedrooms. But I always think it's a waste when the bed faces the sunrise." Before Dillian could reply, the flat comm chimed. "Aha!" Cele headed for the stairs down. "It's a good job you said you could stay, because while you were in the shower I ordered breakfast, and I'd hate to have to eat all this on my own." While Cele negotiated the arrival of breakfast, Dillian looked at her clothes and wondered how much to put on and whether to go down. She was still standing there when Cele called, "Up or down?" "Up, please." Dillian shook out the duvet and pillows and climbed into bed. "Apple and raspberry juice," Cele announced as she made her way back across the room below. "Coffee, fresh toasted bagels, the fullest-fat cream cheese on the menu and smoked fuck!" The cry was followed by a crash and more swearing as colourful as Cele's dressing gown. Dillian leaped out of bed and slithered down the stairs. "They tried to kill me!" Cele was sitting in the centre of a heap of cushions and a spreading pool of fruit juice and coffee. "I swear to God, they ambushed me." She kicked a cushion, which squelched. "I'll get a cloth." Cele attempted to reconstruct the breakfast tray while Dillian mopped up juice and squeezed cushions into a bucket. "At least you'll be able to throw those ones away," Dillian said. "No. I'll get them cleaned. My mother would kill me if she caught me throwing out something perfectly good, if repulsive." "Send some to her, then. Is she retired yet?" "Supposed to be, soon. But then she was supposed to be last year, too. She's hanging on grimly to the Intelligence training post. God only knows what classes full of eighteen-year-old Service cadets think of her. Dad thinks she's mad." "If it's what makes her happy . . . " "Oh, I know, I know. Now, I have juice in a box in the fridge, but as for the rest . . . " Cele poked a bagel. "What should I do with the damp ones?"

"Put them on the plate. We can put extra cheese on them. Rinse the coffee off the salmon, though." ~~~ "These are delicious," Dillian said after she'd swallowed the first mouthful of bagel. "And only slightly fruity." "Well, as Aunt Jen always used to say, it all goes down the same hole." Cele licked cream cheese from her lips. "Oh, Lord, yes, I remember. And how often she said it when do you remember Keir going through his phase of not letting any different foods touch on his plate?" "Of course. And then afterwards, he went completely the other way, with the savoury baking." After more than two decades, the memory could still make Dillian shudder. "I don't think I'll ever forget the bacon muffins." "It was the brown-sauce icing," Cele said. "That's where it really went tragically wrong. But then, he's always had funny tastes. And he's never put off just by people telling him something can't possibly work." Dillian had a reply ready, when she recognised the expression on Cele's face. She was teasing, but half seriously. Pushing to gauge a reaction because she thought Dillian was worrying unnecessarily about Toreth. Instead, Dillian said, "Clearly, funny tastes run in the family." "Oh, ouch!" Dillian smiled to herself, and concentrated on breakfast. Eating in Cele's flat, the city spread out in front of them in the bright sunlight like some amazing art installation, was definitely an experience. "Are you going to want to do this again?" Cele asked suddenly. "Or, I mean, are you going to have time to swing by in the next few weeks so we can . . . " She trailed off. "We are cool with this, aren't we?" she asked, suddenly serious. Dillian put down her glass of orange juice. "I don't know. I'm cool with it. But are you?" Slowly, Cele set her plate down on the floor, then lay down on the bed, resting her chin on her hands. "I don't know. I thought I was." "Oh, Cele." Dillian debated for a moment, then moved up to lean against the head board. She tugged Cele's ankle gently and said, "Come here." Without a word, Cele turned and came to lie beside her, head pillowed on Dillian's stomach and arms around her waist. Then she sighed. "God, I'm sorry to start going back and forth on this. I thought I was Ms Modern Relationship, now I feel like I'm turning into the limpet from hell." "What, for wanting to know if I'm going to bolt or if I'm planning on borrowing more pairs of knickers in the future?" Cele gently twanged the elastic on the red thong. "I'm overreacting?" "More like under-reacting. I think you're allowed to ask if I'm planning to take advantage of you again without me assuming there's an engagement ring in your pocket." Cele patted her dressing gown pocket. "Forget-me-not notes, elastic bands and a box of charcoals. No rings." Dillian wriggled down to lie beside Cele, and then pulled back a little far enough to focus on Cele's face, not so far that she lost the heat of her body.

"This isn't second best, Cele. I'm not here because I don't have time to find a boyfriend or because I felt sorry for you, or I got washed away on a wave of drunken nostalgia or " Cele wrinkled her nose, half smile, half grimace. "I get the point." "Good. I wanted you. Want you. I can't make any promises about the long term and I don't want to lie to you about that, not even for one night. Because I love you." "I know, gorgeous. And I love you. Like I said before, this has no strings attached. Just like it was when you were at university. Free to start dating other people whenever, taking turns with the restaurant bills, calling before we show up at each other's flats. All the bells and whistles." Dillian raised a sceptical eyebrow. "You don't always call before you come round now." "Well, no. There's no point, is there? Not with you trying for the world record for longest celibate period for an insanely attractive woman." Dillian snorted. "I've blown that one." "And then some. So " Cele grinned. "Until Mr Right tips up, I'll take you for all I can get while I have the chance." Dillian smiled back. "Thanks." "My pleasure. For what?" "For not telling me that I'm living a life of denial, or anything like that." "Dilly, one thing about you is that you've always known what you wanted. When you were eleven, you told me you were going to be an engineer and go to Mars." "When I was eleven?" "Yes. Ask Jen, she'll tell you. It was New Year, the first one I spent at your house. And I said I was going to be . . . well, actually I think that was my mime phase." Dillian smiled. "And Jen asked us every year. And every year you said something different." "And Kate always said I'd be an artist. But the point is that I know you always know what you want, and if it turns out not to be me " "It's not that. Never." "Okay. If it turns out not to be women-in-the-generic, then whatever else those lips have been doing recently, I know they'll be telling the truth." Dillian snuggled closer, enjoying the familiar-unfamiliar feel of Cele's body. "I don't deserve you." Cele wrapped her arms around her and kissed her hair. "I know, sweetheart. I know. But I'm afraid you've still got me. Now, how about finishing that breakfast?"

Playing With Fire

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three

Chapter One
"Congratulations," Toreth said again, as the junior left the office. Doyle paused in the doorway. "Thanks, Para. I owe you a lot. I won't forget it." Toreth watched him go, thinking the news made a perfect bloody end to a long, hard week. A minute later Sara appeared, uninvited but expected. "Well," she said, "he got it, then." Toreth nodded. Belqola's replacement had managed a longer stint than his predecessor, but still a short stay by the standards of Toreth's team. "I'm getting sick of this," Toreth said. "Either they're useless, like Belqola, or they fuck off ten minutes after they arrive and leave you a pile of unfinished work. No loyalty." "Eighteen months, not ten minutes. And he's here for another six weeks, so he'll have time to wrap up his cases." She'd always liked the bastard. "Less than a month after Stephen Lambrick left. Why don't Political just take my whole team?" "Morehen's a good replacement. Better than Lambrick." She sat on the edge of the desk. "Or I think so." The reminder of his reciprocal poaching of a very good investigator from Political Crimes managed to cheer him slightly. "What, he's more your type?" "Andy?" She smiled. "Not rich enough for me." He raised his eyebrows. "Andy?" "Andrew. Investigator Morehen." She was blushing, and trying very hard not to, which only made it worse. "We went out for a drink and we spent a while talking. Not just the two of us it was with a few more investigators and admins, at lunchtime. Just a drink. Nothing more than that." Not entirely convinced, Toreth considered the idea. Morehen was good-looking enough, although he'd be more attractive if he grew his mid-brown hair out of the close crop, and he was a little shorter and lighter built, and a lot poorer, than Sara usually liked them. He also had the uncompromising, hard-eyed directness that Political Crimes staff wore like a special uniform. Maybe he loosened up after a few drinks. "Well, whatever the two of you are doing, keep it out of the office." "Toreth! You know I don't " "Yeah, yeah, I know." He fended off her indignation with an irritated wave. The brief lifting of his good mood seemed to have vanished. "Lambrick and Doyle. I don't know why they're going. Either of them. Lambrick's going up a grade, but it's just another junior job for Doyle." "Political Crimes is a good career move, though," Sara said. "And they keep expanding the section so there's lots of opportunities. Promotions." "What the hell's wrong with General Criminal?" he demanded. She wisely kept silent. "I like it here. And I was the one who took Doyle out of the pool. Discipline problems after qualification you saw his file. I was the one who gave him the chance to show me he'd grown out of it." Which the man had. At the time Doyle had seemed suitably grateful for the permanent position

and he had proved ambitious, hardworking and as disciplined as a para ever was. Too ambitious, unfortunately. "You were dead right about him," Sara said. "He was good. And you're good at picking juniors. You'll find someone else even better." She grinned suddenly. "Like Morehen." He knew it was flattery, but he couldn't help being cheered. "Yeah, I expect so. September's only a couple of months away, and then it's the cattle market." She nodded. "Get a fresh one. They always last longer. D'you want a coffee?" "Thanks." Sara had barely closed the door when the comm chimed. Toreth was delighted to hear Warrick's voice. They hadn't seen much of each other over the last few weeks. Warrick had been away to a conference; it had only been for a few days, but after he came back their free evenings had never seemed to coincide. "I've been trying to get hold of you," Warrick said, with an edge to his voice that Toreth identified straight away as suspicion. "Yeah? Work's been a bastard all week, so I've been switching my comm off most evenings." Sara could always get hold of him, of course, but Toreth didn't generally advertise the fact. "I called you at home last night and you weren't there," Warrick continued. No question was added to the statement of fact, but Toreth answered it anyway. "I was with someone." "Oh?" Politely enquiring. "Yes." Sometimes he could be bothered to lie to Warrick, sometimes he couldn't. Today, after Doyle's irritating news, was a 'couldn't' day. "I met someone at the gym, we went out for a drink. We ended up making a night of it." Over the comm he heard the sound of the office door being firmly closed. "Did you fuck him or her?" This was now Warrick's chilly 'quest for knowledge' voice, which suggested he was going to get wound up about this one. It happened more often these days than it used to. "Yes, I fucked him." Toreth waited with mild anticipation. 'What was his name.' That would be the next question, if Warrick was really irritated, although Toreth never understood why he asked. "What was . . . never mind. That's not why I called." Toreth felt a twinge of disappointment. He liked these arguments because the make-up sex was usually incredibly good. It made a difference when Warrick felt he possibly had something to prove. "What can I do for you, then?" Toreth asked. "I'm going away to a meeting next week, as you know, and I wondered God knows why if you'd like to accompany me. Assuming you can get away." "You mean on Monday?" "Yes. Sorry for the short notice. Call it a sudden impulse." "A tech conference?" Toreth asked dubiously. "Yes. But it shouldn't be too dull. The conference centre looks excellent, even by corporate standards, and it's in the Alps. Skiing, if you're interested." "I've never tried it."

"Dangerous, potentially painful, pointless physical activity. Just your sort of thing." "It sounds more like yours." Warrick laughed. "Yes or no? I need to make arrangements." Toreth thought about it. He had an investigation running, with prisoners due to be brought in today, and they had to be broken quickly before their associates could catch wind of the arrests and run. Still, some of it he could leave to his team. He could supervise at a distance if he needed to, once he'd conducted the first round of interrogations. Doyle could earn his keep for his last days on the team. Some weekend overtime would do him good. He always lied about work details, and the translation was smooth and almost unconscious. "I have a case finishing. It's just paperwork, but it all needs to be tied up before I can get away. I could meet you there a day later." "Very well. I'll send you the information." ~~~ The next four days at work were a nightmare. It took longer to get away than he'd hoped and he didn't arrive at the conference centre until late Tuesday evening. Warrick hadn't exaggerated when he said it was corporate standard. Toreth preferred cities, in his limited experience of the alternatives, but the journey up to the Alpine centre impressed him. Outdoor summer snow sports were a purely corporate luxury, and the complex was visible from miles away, the brilliant lights glittering on the artificial snow. It would take more than ten minutes' chatting up an admin to get a place like this past accounts at I&I, but in this case the expenses were Warrick's problem. Easier to sort out, Toreth supposed, when you owned the corporation. By the time he'd got the room details from reception and made his way through the miles of thickly carpeted corridor, Toreth had almost shed the lingering tension of his long day at work. He deserved a holiday. He swiped the card and the door opened smoothly with a gentle nudge. The room beyond was dark, although the lights came up automatically as he stepped through. "It's me!" he called, wondering if Warrick was already asleep. Water splashed somewhere off to his left. "I'm in the bath. I'll be out in a minute." "Nice room," Toreth said, looking around. "I suggested something more modest," Warrick said, his voice echoing in what must be a large bathroom. "But Asher decided she wanted us to impress potential customers and rivals. I have to say, though, it's worth every euro SimTech's paying for it." It was. The door opened into a spacious living area with armchairs, thick rugs and a large hearth with a real wood fire laid in the grate. Toreth wondered whether it worked. It was completely unnecessary, of course, as the room was comfortably warm already. It might be fun to try, though. Solid fuel heating was a rarity outside the sim. Warrick appeared, wrapped in a dressing gown and drying his hair. Toreth went over, but Warrick stepped away from him slightly not far, but far enough to make his message clear. Toreth let him go and gave a mental shrug. Whatever it was would sort itself out. He went off to put his bags in the bedroom. When he came back into the main room he found Warrick knelt in front of the fireplace, fiddling with the control for the hearth.

"Playing with fire?" Toreth enquired. Warrick smiled, still oddly distant. "No more than usual. Ah, here we go." With a crackle, flames started to lick up between the logs carefully arranged in the large grate. "Join me?" Warrick offered, lying down on the rug. Toreth sat cross-legged beside him, watching the flames starting to catch on the wood. The smoke disappeared smoothly up the chimney, leaving only a pleasant, resinous scent to escape into the room. Warrick stared into the fire. "This man you were with," he said without preamble. "What?" "When I called you at I&I on Friday. You'd been with someone." "Yes?" Toreth prompted after a couple of seconds' silence, not particularly wanting to have this argument, but not particularly caring either. Although it seemed a long way to come for something they could've done over the comm. "What was he like?" Warrick asked. "About my height, brown hair " "Not what he looked like. What you did." That was a departure from the normal line of questioning. "What you did when you fucked," Warrick elaborated. "Yes, I worked that bit out by myself. I was just wondering why the fuck you would want to hear about it." "Because I want to know." "Very clever." Toreth scrutinised him carefully, but Warrick was letting nothing escape from behind his corporate mask. "Why do you want to know?" "Curiosity?" "Killed the fucking cat. Try again." "Well . . . " Warrick lay very still, staring intently at the flames. "You'll sleep around whatever I say, and I'm not asking you to stop. Because I know you won't, or possibly can't, and normally, it doesn't bother me. Recently, though . . . I've tried ignoring it and that doesn't seem to be as effective as it used to be. So I thought I'd try something else." "You really want to hear about it?" "To be perfectly honest, I'm not sure. But it can't hurt to hear it through once. Perhaps that'll stop me thinking about it." Toreth considered it for a few more seconds, ignoring a premonition that this was a bad idea. "Okay." He lay down next to Warrick, not quite touching. "We went to his house " Warrick shook his head slightly. "No. Start earlier." "When?" "When you first saw him." "At the gym, like I said. I saw him watching me, and then again later. So I smiled at him and then, after a while he came over to talk to me. I noticed he had a ring on."

"And?" "We had a bit of a chat, and he was interested-but-wanting-not-to-be. Then he said he had to go, so I went back into the changing rooms with him." Toreth twined bits of the rug between his fingers, vaguely wondering if he was going to wake up still in the car on the way to the conference centre and find this whole conversation had been a bizarre dream. "We had a shower I could see he was looking at me again and he was attractive enough, so I asked if he'd like to go for a drink. I knew " He had been going to say, 'I knew you were busy, so I thought I'd settle for the next best thing'. The confessional atmosphere was obviously getting to him. "I didn't have anything else planned," he finished, instead. "Where did you go?" "Bar in the gym, first of all. Then somewhere he suggested. Not bad." "What did you talk about?" "I don't remember. Does it matter?" "I'd like to know." Toreth shrugged. "Just general conversation. He was interesting enough, but I wasn't really listening, not to the extent of remembering any of it now." "About your job?" "Yes. Some people are curious, you know. He wasn't all that curious, but it didn't put him off." "And then you asked him . . . what?" "He asked me. Actually, I thought he wasn't going to do it. But then he asked if I'd like to go back to his house." Toreth smiled. "Only took him two hours to get round to it." He shifted against the rug, getting hard at the memory of the moment of victory and trying to get more comfortable with some degree of discretion. Beside him Warrick frowned, thoughtful rather than annoyed. "Didn't you say he was married?" "Yes, I did. She was visiting her sister or something that's where they usually seem to be. I didn't bother to ask." "Did you kiss him?" Warrick asked, throwing him slightly. Toreth had to think about it. "No." "Do you ever?" "Yes, sometimes." "Ah. Women more often than men?" "Yes." "Makes sense. Did you touch his mouth?" "Warrick . . . " "You don't have to tell me, if you don't want to," Warrick said mildly. "Or we can stop altogether if you like. Just say so." "I don't . . . never mind." He did want to stop, but he didn't want to admit it. "Yes, I did. Or rather, he sucked me, so if that counts as touching his mouth then I did." "Actually, I don't think it does. But since we're there, did you come in his mouth?"

"No. He didn't want me to." Forestalling the next question he said, "With his hand." Warrick nodded. "On the bed?" "What?" "Were you on the bed? Lying down? Kneeling? Where?" This was too fucking weird. "Uh, I was sitting on the edge of the bed, he was kneeling." Warrick nodded again. "His wife's bed. Their bed." "I suppose so. I didn't think about it." "No?" He sounded slightly surprised. "So why do you like the married ones so much?" "More of a challenge? I don't know." "Liar." Warrick's expression didn't change, nor his even, calm tone of voice, but something in the atmosphere altered subtly. Toreth hesitated, smoothing the rug in front of him. "All right. How about, I get a kick out of seeing people do things they don't like to think they want to do?" "Better. Does that include me?" The question had a dangerous edge, and Toreth kept quiet, wondering where this was leading. "For example," Warrick continued precisely, "I've never seen the attraction in casual sex. Maybe I should take it up." Toreth bit back his instinctive reply, but it didn't matter, because Warrick had turned his head slightly and was looking at him sidelong. "You wouldn't like that, though, would you?" Warrick asked, his voice soft. No, you bastard, Toreth thought, I fucking wouldn't. But he could hardly say that now. "I'm in no position to object," Toreth said carefully. Warrick snorted. "No, you most definitely aren't. But you'd hate it. Knowing I was with someone else." His eyes closed as he turned his face back towards the heat of the fire, and his voice continued in a low litany, strangely dispassionate. "Fucking someone else. Being fucked. Telling them I want more, harder, deeper. Someone else coming inside me. Someone else saying my name." The words flowed over him, sickening and arousing at the same time. Toreth found his hands clenching on empty air. "Don't," he said quietly. Warrick tilted his head back, firelight flickering over his throat. "Or letting them fuck my mouth. Kneeling in front of them. Doing all the things I do for you. Ah . . . " He opened his eyes again. "Do you know why I invited you here?" he said, in a more normal voice. A cold chill poured down Toreth's spine. "No." "Because the last time I was away, the last time I was at a conference, I did." "What?" "You know what. But if you insist: I fucked one of the other delegates." Now Warrick turned to watch him again, measuring the effect of his cool, deliberate words. "Not just once. Four or five times, over the conference. On the last morning we had breakfast and then went back to the room and I nearly missed my car to the airport. He asked me to call him when I got home." The chill had collected itself into a ball and settled in his stomach. Toreth listened to his own

voice, unable to believe he was asking the questions. "He lives in New London? Who is he?" "I don't think I'm going to tell you that." "Did you call him?" All those missing evenings over the past weeks. He looked away again. "No, I didn't." Long pause. "He called me, though." Then Warrick waited, until Toreth had to ask. "And?" "I told him I was flattered, but that I wasn't interested. Which was a lie, incidentally." Which part? Was this all leading up to 'it's over, goodbye'? Toreth couldn't force himself to ask directly. "Why did you want me to come here?" There was a long silence. "Because . . . he's here," Warrick said at length. "And I didn't think it would be a good thing to end up doing it again." "Did you want to?" he asked, finally appreciating the strange compulsion Warrick had about the details of his own one-night stands. Better to know than to imagine. "Yes." Anger flared up, and it took him a few seconds to corral it, to keep it away from his voice and hands. "It was weeks since you were away before. Why tell me now? Why the fuck are you telling me any of this?" "Because I wanted to hurt you." A slight, sour smile in profile. "I wanted you to know how it feels." A revenge fuck, God only knew why after all this time. But it was a better or more bearable reason than the ones he'd been afraid of hearing. Because he was a better fuck than you. Because I'm bored with you. Because I want him more than I want you. "Well?" Warrick asked. "Did it work?" Toreth took a breath, as deep as he could with the tight ache in his chest. "Yes." He couldn't imagine and didn't want to find out what a 'no' might provoke. "Good." Warrick knelt up, still watching the fire. "Not that I think for a moment it will stop you doing it next time you feel the need to scratch an itch. But I wanted you to know that's what it feels like." He rose to his feet in one jerky movement, controlled anger evident in every line, and went off into the bedroom. For a minute that felt like ten, Toreth lay still, feeling the heat of the fire on his face. Then he stood up and poured himself a large drink. 'Knowing I was with someone else.' Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the bedroom door, ajar. Warrick wanted him to follow him, or at least he was leaving the possibility open. Or maybe he'd just forgotten to close it. But Toreth didn't follow, because now the ice of the shock was melting into anger he didn't think it would be a good idea. In fact it would be a very bad idea indeed, because he knew that, amongst all the things Warrick would tolerate from him, physical violence wasn't on the list. Not for real. Not outside the game. That would make him walk, and Toreth wasn't quite upset enough to forget that and he wasn't

quite angry enough not to care. A part of him didn't care, though. The part that hated how much he wanted Warrick. Hated knowing that, if Warrick walked out of the bedroom right now and knelt in front of the fire, and breathed, "Fuck me," that he'd do it, and that it would be wonderful, even better for the anger. Taste of Warrick's name in his mouth, past the whisky, and he drank again, trying to blot it out. He hated most of all this loss of control, this feeling of someone anyone having power over him again. Even if Warrick didn't choose to exercise it, even if he claimed that he didn't want it, it was still there. Warrick was different to every other fuck in his life, and when he was forced to acknowledge it, the rage brimmed up. Feeling it, he wanted to hit Warrick, hurt him, make him oh-so-fucking sorry for what he'd done. To wring out an apology and a promise never, ever to do it again. Never even to think about it. Yet all that was nothing compared to what he wanted to do to this other, nameless man. He tried to banish the images created by Warrick's vivid word-picture. 'Someone else saying my name.' With a sharp crack the glass shattered in his grip. For a moment he thought he'd got away with it, then he saw the blood and gasped at the sharp sting of spirits in the cuts. Trying not to drip blood onto the carpet, he went into the bathroom and ran icy water over his hand until the bleeding slowed and it started to go numb. Then he was able to pull out the shards, swearing through gritted teeth at the slide of glass through flesh. Once they were all out, he flexed his hand, watching the tendons stretch, checking his fingertips for feeling. No serious damage done, he decided. Luckily there was a first-aid kit in the cupboard under the basin, so he could patch his hand up with no worse of a mess than blood on himself and one of the towels. When he'd finished he looked at himself in bathroom mirror and thought: hypocrite. You've got no rights over him. You don't own him. Isn't that what you wanted? Isn't that what you asked him for? You can't even remember how many people you've had since you met him. He does it once, and you're breaking fucking glasses over it. Half of the General Criminal coffee room would probably choke to death laughing if they could see you now. Pathetic fucking hypocrite. All true, but it didn't change the way he felt hurt and angry. A bad combination. He took deep breaths, trying and failing to find even a pretence of calm. His clothes were stained with blood and alcohol and he felt dirty, so he stripped and stepped into the shower. Holding his bandaged hand out of the spray, he ran the water hot and cold until his skin burned, but it couldn't clear his mind, or stop Warrick's voice running through it. 'Doing all the things I do for you.' Eventually, when it had become a simple choice between walking out or going into the bedroom after Warrick, he got out of the shower, half dried himself, pulled on the filthy clothes and left. On the way across the room he dropped his keycard on the floor, so there was no chance he could change his mind and go back. Then there was a taxi to the airport, and a late flight, and another taxi and he was back home. And still he felt the same. ~~~ Warrick lay in the dark, listening to the sounds punctuating the background of his own unsteady breathing. Breaking glass, a door opening, the shower running for a long time, then finally the outer

door of the room slamming. After that he rolled onto his side and watched the minutes passing on the clock by the bed. It took an hour before he allowed himself be sure Toreth wasn't coming back, and the sick fear started to let go of him. He'd meant to tell Toreth. Or he'd meant to tell him something. Not the way he had, though he'd been carried away by the moment. When he'd told Toreth that he wanted to hurt him, he'd been as surprised by the truth of it as Toreth possibly could have been. Then even more surprised by how guilty he'd felt as soon as he'd walked away from the fire. He had nothing to feel guilty about . . . by Toreth's standards. By his own, plenty. He had no right to punish Toreth for doing no more than he'd done for as long as they'd known each other. Warrick had been the one who had set the terms for their relationship, and Toreth hadn't broken them. Technically, perhaps, neither had he, because there was no commitment to fidelity on his part either. That, however, was semantic quibbling. He'd known perfectly well that Toreth would see it as a gross violation of his trust. Kissing and telling. Fucking and telling. Why the hell had he thought that doing what Toreth did would be any kind of solution? In fact, now everything was over and the adrenaline had cleared his mind, he wondered if he'd thought anything intelligent over the last couple of months. Not as far as he could tell, with the clarity of hindsight. He'd let himself become obsessed by the idea of what Toreth was doing with people that neither of them cared about. Then he'd done something unforgivably selfish and stupid (and he wouldn't even think about how much he'd enjoyed the illicit liaison, because that only made it worse). Then he'd compounded the idiocy by trying to pass the guilt along to someone who didn't have a perceptible conscience, but who had previously demonstrated a nice line in possessive jealousy. What a wonderfully mature response to the situation. He wasn't even sure what he'd wanted in return. An acknowledgement that he meant more than the others, maybe. An apology and a vow of fidelity would have been nice. Or not, because any promise would have been a lie and he had enough self-respect left not to want that. The final realisation, unfortunately coming about two hours too late to be of any use, was that he did care about Toreth's infidelity, but not as much as he'd thought. Not enough to want to lose him. Not even enough to enjoy hurting him, once the flush of anger had faded. Definitely not enough to have done it in such a stupidly dangerous fashion. In fact, stupid was an utterly inadequate description. Suicidal might be better, and that thought brought the fear back in a stomach-turning rush. He'd forgotten his promise to Dilly to be careful. Somehow he'd forgotten what Toreth was and why he'd needed to make the promise in the first place. Dilly would kill him. If she got the chance. The best he could realistically hope for was that he'd never see Toreth again. And, God, even after everything, he still didn't want that.

Chapter Two
The next morning, Toreth arrived at the office early. God only knew what he looked like, because Sara didn't even ask why he was back so soon. She just brought him a coffee without being asked, and kept resolutely out of his way. For almost an hour he resisted the temptation. Then he called up the attendee lists for the current conference and the previous one and cross-referenced the male delegates. That produced a substantial overlap, so he went with his first guess and selected those resident in New London. That left him with only a dozen names. He looked at the list and toyed with other selection criteria. Marital status would be a potential one. Whoever he was, he wouldn't be married Toreth couldn't see Warrick taking his revenge fuck similarities that far. And age. Probably around Warrick's age or a little older. There would be no graduate student desperate to secure a good corporate job Warrick wouldn't want to feel that he was taking advantage of someone. Even though he had been. A picture of the man formed gradually in his mind as he played with the ideas, refining the criteria. No face yet, but he was confident now he could fill in that detail. If he wanted to know. If the image wasn't clear enough already. 'Kneeling in front of them.' Better to know than to imagine. Maybe. He didn't actually run the searches, although it was a safe enough game to play. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't do anything to any of them. They weren't within reach. They were all . . . at the conference. With Warrick. Abandoning the list of names, Toreth went to lean against the window, glass cool against his forehead. Nice, smooth move, he thought. Storm out in a sulk, don't even leave a message, and leave Warrick a few hundred miles away and in the same hotel as the man he'd fucked before. Very fucking clever. If he does it again, he thought, I'll kill him. No. I'll kill both of them. The calm certainly of the idea disturbed him. Suddenly, he badly wanted a drink, which at the same time he recognised was not a good sign at ten in the morning. Get a fucking grip, he told himself. He deleted the names although he could always do the search again later and decided that, since he'd booked the holiday, he wasn't going to spend the day hurting prisoners. For one thing, it would have been enjoyably therapeutic, and that was too unprofessional to tolerate. "I don't know if I'm going to be in tomorrow," he told Sara on the way past. "I'll call first thing." She nodded, and watched him leave without comment. He was heading for the stairs down, tunnel vision in full operation, when someone called his name from close by. When he swung round, he found Morehen, who offered a hand screen. "What is it?" Toreth asked. "Since you were in the office, Para, I wondered if you could spare a minute to look at this report. I followed the General Criminal protocols, of course, but it's not quite the way I do did things over in Political. I " "Do you know what your last assessment grading said?" Toreth asked.

The investigator stared for a moment, mouth still open, and then his hand fell. "No, Para. They're all confidential." "It said you have outstanding initiative and independence. And a lot of seniors don't like that. I do it's why I wanted you. So if you want to keep your high grading and your nice little housing allowance bonus " The lift doors opened and Toreth managed to stop, aware of the other people suddenly near them. Professionalism, that was why he was on his way out of the building. And gratuitously bollocking staff in public was the way that Mike Belkin and wankers like him managed to hit record team turnovers. Wherever Warrick was sticking his cock, that was no reason for Toreth to fuck up the rest of his life. Thinking about Warrick didn't help his concentration, though. Toreth sorted though possible conversation closers, trying to find one that would retrieve things without an apology, while Morehen slowly paled and began to fidget. "If you have any questions about report formats, that's Sara's area. You don't need to prove to me that you're trying to do your job the way I want it done. Do the work well, which I know you can, and it'll prove itself." He dropped his hand onto Morehen's shoulder. "And right now, I'm on holiday." Morehen nodded. "Sorry, Para. I'll go talk to Sara right away." Toreth left him there and he went down to the I&I medical centre to have his hand checked out and the cuts bonded closed by someone not using his off hand. Then he spent the afternoon at the gym, winding down from murderous to merely angry. Afterwards he went home, showered and changed and thought about going out. In the end, he decided he didn't want to. 'Someone else coming inside me.' He just didn't want to. Maybe all the travel had worn him out, but he'd rather spend the evening drinking alone. ~~~ Sara stood on the doorstep of Toreth's block of flats, her finger hovering over the comm screen, and had second thoughts. Actually, they amounted to about two-hundredth thoughts. Maybe turning up unannounced hadn't been a good idea. When Toreth had left that morning, she'd decided to let him go, then changed her mind after a minute and gone after him. She hadn't found Toreth, but she had run into Andy standing by the fifth-floor lifts, staring towards the stairs and looking as though someone had punched him between the eyes. A quick recap of their conversation had convinced her that Toreth needed space. But she couldn't leave him alone forever, and if she'd called he would have told her not to come round. He might be out anyway. She could always deliver her offering and leave. Anyway, she wasn't the one he was furious with. Suitably reassured, she called his flat. Just when she'd decided that he wasn't going to answer, the screen lit up. He looked briefly disappointed, then questioning. "What do you want?" Sara lifted the bag she'd brought, and shook it so that it clinked. Toreth smiled slightly. "Come up." When he opened the door to the flat, she thought he looked less dangerous than he had at I&I, but more unhappy. Sometimes Warrick irritated her intensely, because life had been so much easier before he came

along. That said, she had to admit that there was more variety these days, between Toreth's regular coffee-break recountings of exotic sim fucks and his occasional panics over the whole concept of repeatedly screwing someone he also spoke to. Anyway, Toreth had sat through enough of her broken hearts that she ought not to begrudge returning the favour. To Sara's practised eye, this latest episode looked something like a broken heart, even if she'd never seen the look on him before. Or even imagined it happening. She wondered if he'd noticed yet. It took her a couple of hours and some carefully paced drinking to talk him round to the subject of Warrick. Luckily, he'd had a head start, so by the time he started talking she was still sober enough to listen and make the right encouraging noises. After that it took another hour to coax out the full story of the previous night. Or rather, a partial story that was good enough to be getting on with. At least it included an explanation of what had happened to his hand. Her first thought was, good for Warrick. She wouldn't have put up with Toreth's screwing around for this long. Not that she let a hint of that show. Instead, she said, "Do you think he really did it? It doesn't sound like him." "Yes, he " Toreth stopped and stared at her for a moment. "Christ. I never thought . . . no, he did it. He definitely did it." "Weird." "Weird? Is that the best you can fucking do?" She heard the anger and resolved to ignore it. "What do you want me to say? It is weird, for him. I wonder why he did it?" Then she shut up and watched him. He filled his glass again. "How the hell should I know?" Because you're the one screwing him, and because it's obvious to anyone with a functioning brain. It still surprised her sometimes that he could be so perceptive about everything but this. She bit her tongue and waited. "He said " Toreth stopped, looking down at his bandaged hand. "He said he wanted to hurt me. A revenge fuck, I suppose. Not that I care." Sara hastily swallowed a mouthful of her drink, coughing a bit, and even he had the grace to look slightly embarrassed by how bad the lie was. "I thought he didn't care about all that either," she said, unable to resist prodding just a little. "He doesn't. Didn't." Toreth blinked, as though thinking too hard was pushing the world out of focus. "He wants it to stop. That's why he asked me about the . . . and told me about . . . yeah. He wants me to stop." Halle-fucking-lujah, Sara very nearly said, but didn't. "Yeah, maybe." He put his glass down on the arm of the sofa and ran his hand through his hair. "I could tell him I wouldn't do it any more. Fuck other people. I could tell him that." To her amazement, she realised he was actually considering it, despite its obvious drawbacks. Specifically, that it would be a monstrously unconvincing lie. Maybe she'd overdone it with the liquid consolation, for both of them. The small living room suddenly felt hot and stuffy. She hauled herself off the sofa and opened a window. "So, you want him back, then?" she asked as she sat down again.

"Back?" He looked baffled. "Yeah, when you walked out you meant that as a goodbye, right? It sounded like a 'goodbye' to me. He said, 'stop screwing around', or words to that effect. And you walked. I suppose he must have known it was a risk when he did it." Toreth closed his eyes for a moment. "Fuck," he said expressively. "Didn't you want it to be goodbye?" "No, I . . . " He frowned, the anger surfacing again. "Fuck knows." "What did you want?" There was a pause as he picked up his glass and downed the contents. "I wanted to kill him," he said with intense, drunken conviction. "I wanted to kill both of them. Bastards. And I wanted to make him them fucking suffer first. I wanted him to be sorry. That's what I wanted." She wished he sounded rather less literal about it. "You aren't going to, are you?" she asked, almost involuntarily. Toreth peered meditatively into his empty glass for a long moment, then shook his head. "'Course not," he said. "What do you think I am? He's a fucking corporate director." Sara shook her head as well. "Have another drink," she suggested. ~~~ The room smelt like the interrogation rooms at I&I would if they weren't kept so religiously scrubbed and disinfected. Of blood and fear and pain. And death. In a corner behind him, out of sight but marginally in his awareness, lay the body of Warrick's faceless revenge fuck. Very faceless, now. If Justice ever got hold of the corpse, they'd need to run a DNA check to find his name. Not that they would find the body. And not that Toreth cared if they did. All he cared about was Warrick. He inspected Warrick as he hung from the chains that disappeared into the gloom above, his feet just touching the ground. He faced the rough wall, only a few inches away but too far to provide any support or rest. Cuts, weals and bruises made a patchwork of his pale skin. Rivulets of blood, dried and fresh, ran down from where the manacles had cut his wrists. His hair was matted with sweat, his head resting at an angle against his arm. Toreth stepped up behind him and placed his hands lightly on his shoulders. "I'm back," he said softly. However bad the pain is, it's possible to sleep. Toreth knew this. Even chained and beaten and gagged, it's possible to sleep, if you're exhausted enough. Warrick's head jerked upright, and he moaned deep in his throat. Toreth dragged his nails down Warrick's back, bringing fresh blood welling from old welts, and a choked scream from the body under his hands, muffled by the gag. He jerked against the chains. That should have woken him up nicely. Carefully, Toreth loosened the gag and removed it. He wanted to hear him talk now wanted it very much. He twined his fingers tightly in Warrick's hair, turning his head so he could see his bruised face in profile, and ran his other hand down his back again, gently, almost caressingly. This time Warrick didn't move.

Toreth put his mouth against Warrick's ear, in a cruel imitation of their game. "Say it," he whispered. With a sharp tug, pulling hair through Toreth's fingers, Warrick turned his head away. With measured deliberation, Toreth smashed his face into the wall. That got a reaction, a gasp of pain, so he did it again. Fresh red splashes decorated the bricks. "Say it." Warrick spat blood, closed his eyes, and set his jaw defiantly. Toreth didn't know from where he found the strength. Warrick had to know he wasn't going to let him go. He couldn't afford to, and he didn't want to. Warrick was going to die here. Maybe that was why he was still fighting. Because in the end it wouldn't matter what he did, except to himself. He pressed up closer, so that Warrick could feel that he was hard, that he was going to rape him again whatever he said or didn't say. He didn't need to hear it, but, oh, he wanted to. "Say it." Silence. No more than he'd expected. Letting go of his hair, he crouched down, set his hand in the small of Warrick's back and, after a moment's pause, slammed him hard against the wall. Chained as he was, Warrick had no leverage to resist him. But he didn't fight. He hung against the wall, passive, accepting. Defying him by refusing to acknowledge the pain and denying him the reaction he wanted. No one can resist forever. Toreth's other hand stroked up the backs of Warrick's thighs, wandered up over his buttocks, and into the crack. Did he feel the muscles tensing, resisting him? Starting to fight back finally? He forced his fingers inside Warrick, then his whole hand, then clenched his fist and twisted, pushing hard. Warrick hissed and struggled, only for few seconds, then stopped. "I can kill you like this, you know," Toreth said conversationally. "Not quickly, but quite easily. Blood poisoning. Internal bleeding. I've seen people die like that it's not pleasant." He rested his head against Warrick's hip, the skin cool against his cheek. "Is that really how you want to die? All you have to do is say it, and it won't be like that. Say it, and then it'll all be over quickly, I promise." Closing his eyes, Toreth turned his head. "Say it," he whispered against Warrick's soft skin. He could hear Warrick breathing, shallow and rasping. That was the only answer he gave. Bastard. Toreth pulled his fist out, still clenched, and the whimper of pain was a victory even if it wasn't what he really needed to hear. Standing up, he pulled Warrick away from the wall, into a parody of an embrace. "I'm going to fuck you," he said, feeling blood slick against his chest. "I'm going to fuck you and you . . . you are going to fucking well say it. Say it now." Warrick moved against him, before forcing himself back to stillness. He drew a breath in to speak. "Plastic duck," he whispered. Thwarted again, Toreth laughed. "I'm not going to stop because you ask nicely. There's no safe word here. I want to hear you say it."

He wrapped both arms around Warrick's waist, holding him immobile as he thrust in as hard as he could. And even though all he wanted to do was hurt him, he had to stop to get his breath back because it felt so fucking good and he could smell Warrick's hair through the stink of blood. Dizzy with wanting him, still, and this was all Warrick's fault. He'd started it. "Say it." No response. No fucking response. He pulled out and slammed in again, harder. Again and again, and he started to lose control, losing himself in the memory of doing this before. Warrick's shoulders tensing under his hands, sharp gasps of pain and nothing more than that. No words. Mine, you bastard. Mine. So say it. Say it. A shiver wracked him, running down his back. Then another. He couldn't stop himself shaking. He clung to Warrick's shoulders, crushing him against the wall, his face against his neck. Despite the shivers, he felt hot, fever hot, and hottest of all where his cock was still buried deep inside Warrick. "I'm sorry," Toreth whispered nonsensically. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Meaningless sounds, repeated on each heaving breath. "I'm " "Shh. Just . . . shh." Warrick's voice, at last. Warrick's hands cupping his face, lifting it to look into his eyes. Then, before Toreth could focus clearly, Warrick kissed him, torn lips gentle against his own. Desperately grateful, Toreth opened his mouth, coppery blood flowing onto his tongue. It tasted sweetly familiar, but he couldn't remember why because at that moment a sound began behind him, distracting him. Warrick must have heard it too, because he broke off the kiss. As he pulled away, Toreth tried to reach out to stop him, but the chains on his wrists held him back. Under the mask of blood Warrick's expression was cold. "You can fuck me as often as you want," he said with icy precision. "That won't make me love you." All Toreth could do was stare at him, as the noises in the room behind him grew louder. Someone was banging on the door. Someone had found them. ~~~ The curtains slapped against the back of the sofa, flapping in the draft from the open window. His neck ached from the cold air. Sara lay on the sofa beside him, fast asleep, with her head in his lap. At some point she had rolled over so that her mouth was pressed into his crotch. Well, that explained a few things. Sara muttered in her sleep, her mouth moving against his erection, accentuating the already arousing caress of warm breath through fabric. Very nice, but she wouldn't be happy to wake up and find he'd let her stay like that. Still, he couldn't resist leaving her there until he worked out what she was saying. After listening to the disjointed fragments for a while, he realised that she was talking about m-f booking forms. He smiled faintly; he'd have to remember to tell her about that later. Sara always maintained that dreaming about work was as sad as it was possible to get. He carefully eased her head off his lap and onto the sofa. The room felt cold, so he closed the window and found a coat with which to cover her. He didn't want her to wake up and start asking more questions. She murmured something about timetabling

clashes, before she sighed and curled up. Sad it may be, but on balance he'd rather have had her dream. In the bathroom, he rinsed his mouth out, spat into the sink and then splashed water onto his face. Catching sight of his reflection in the mirror he was surprised by how blurred the lines of his face looked. Still drunk, he decided, but sobering rapidly towards the beginning of the hangover. He watched himself drying his hands while he considered the dream. The details were fading, but even so, loaded didn't do it justice. He'd never put any faith in the concept of symbolism in dreams. On the other hand . . . 'What did you want?' Sara had asked him. Whatever he wanted, he sure as hell didn't want to be here, drunk, on his own, with nothing but a day at work to look forward to. He checked his watch. Half past two in the morning. There wouldn't be a flight for a few hours, so he might as well try to get some sleep. ~~~ When he left the flat, before dawn, Sara still slept peacefully on the sofa. He left her a note explaining where he was going, but not why. Why was more difficult. It felt strange, and slightly silly, to be retracing the journey to the hotel so soon. Before he got on the flight he had a cowardly urge to call Warrick instead. He had no clear idea what he was going to say, though, or even what he wanted to say, other than it would have to be the truth or he might as well not bother going at all. Nothing else would work on Warrick. So he took the easier route of the flight. It put things off for another couple of hours. He found Warrick in the conference centre, eating a late breakfast. Alone. This was as far as the planning had gone, so he simply went over to the table and sat down without saying anything. It seemed impossible that he'd last seen Warrick only the day before yesterday. "Would you like some coffee?" Warrick said, after a moment. "Yeah. Thanks." Warrick called the waitress over and ordered a fresh pot. After she left, Warrick said, "I'm sorry." Toreth blinked, thrown off balance by the echo of his dream. "I didn't think I'd get a chance to say it," he continued. "I'm sorry I did what I did and I'm sorry I said what I said. It was . . . tacky. Unnecessary. Unkind. Unbelievably stupid. And several other things." He paused. "I don't suppose you could forget it?" "No. No, I don't think so." The resolution of honesty had a novelty to it that Toreth suspected would wear off quite quickly. But for now it seemed to be doing very well. Warrick nodded slowly, then began one of his breakfast rituals, spreading butter over a slice of toast with such exactitude that it would probably require electronic measuring equipment to detect a variation in the thickness. "How's your hand?" he asked. "What? Oh, fine." Toreth rubbed his bandaged palm. "Nothing serious a couple of cuts." Warrick nodded again. "Good. That's what I hoped. I saw the broken glass in the bathroom, and the blood. I asked at reception and they said you hadn't called a medic so " He shrugged. "That's

what I assumed that it wasn't serious." Toreth felt unexpectedly pleased that he'd checked. "I'm fine," he repeated, with more emphasis than it really merited. Warrick looked at the toast for a moment, as if noticing it for the first time, then put it down on the plate. Toreth realised his hand was shaking. "What's wrong?" "What's . . . Christ." Almost a laugh. "Sometimes . . . " He suddenly seemed to be having trouble finishing sentences. Toreth waited as patiently as he could until finally, Warrick said, "Guilt for fucking someone else and enjoying it and then for telling you about it and enjoying that, too. And fear, in case you didn't come back or you'd be angry when you did, which is relief now that you have and you aren't. I think that just about covers it." He looked up. "Why aren't you angry, by the way?" "Honestly?" Honestly, he didn't know he wasn't even sure it was true. But resolution or not, he could hardly say that. Toreth shrugged. "It just seems too hypocritical, I suppose." "If it means anything at all, I won't be doing it again." Warrick smiled wryly. "Not my field." Toreth thought about his conversation with Sara. Tell the lie, or not? All that stopped him in that end was the simple fact that it would never work. "I won't promise anything in return," he said. "I could, but " He shrugged. "You know me." "Well," Warrick said carefully, "I'd rather have you on those terms than not at all." Toreth suddenly realised that he was starving. He reached over and took the slice of toast. "That's settled, then." ~~~ Sara was awakened by the fine-tuned sense which, even through the worst hangovers, always got her up in time for work. Almost in time, anyway. Looking at the debris of the night before, she made a rough calculation of the amount they'd got through, and winced. She hoped Toreth felt better than she did. That thought made her register the silence in the flat. Curiosity got her off the sofa and to his bedroom. The door was open and there was no one there. Had he gone to work without her? She looked at her watch. If he was in the same bloody awful mood he'd been in yesterday he might decide to make a fuss about her being late. She'd make it, but she was cutting it fine. Anyway, he wouldn't mind if she borrowed some headache tablets before she set off. Or rather, he could mind as much as he liked, but she was doing it. The very thought of going outside into the sunshine like this was enough to start her eyes watering. Trying not to make any loud noises, she opened the bathroom cabinet and started hunting for something anything to get rid of the pounding in her head. Searching through the precariously balanced contents without precipitating a landslide would have been difficult enough without the hangover. For God's sake, didn't the man have anything in there which didn't cleanse, moisturize or exfoliate? She knocked a stack of jars off a shelf, made a wild grab, missed them, and swore vividly as the largest landed on her bare foot. Finally, it occurred to her that she was looking in the wrong place. She opened a drawer by the basin and there, thank God, were assorted bottles and strips of pills. Been at the pharmacy again,

clearly. In the kitchen she found a mostly clean glass, filled it with water, and took the tablets. Then she downed the rest of the water, even though she felt horribly queasy. She considered looking for something to eat to settle her stomach, but then remembered whose flat she was in. She refilled the glass and went back into the living room. There, at last, she noticed the paper rolled up and stuck into the neck of an empty bottle. She flopped down onto the sofa, moaning quietly as the water she'd drunk sloshed around her stomach, and read the short note over a few times. Great. Now she felt worried, on top of everything else. Was it a good thing that he'd gone back to the hotel? He'd seemed fairly pissed off last night. Much as he might've deserved what Warrick had done, it had hurt him in a way which, sober, she found hard to believe. Warrick had really got to him. She didn't actually think Toreth would . . . do anything. On the other hand, she'd never seen him like that before. It made for a compelling spectator sport, but it also had the potential to get messy. She lay back on the sofa and put her arm over her eyes. If he was going to kill Warrick, the least he could have done was to kill her first on his way out. When it came down to it, she didn't want to think he'd do anything, but he might. Especially if Warrick's mystery fuck turned up again. She imagined Toreth finding Warrick with someone else and her stomach knotted in a way which had nothing to do with her hangover. She'd seen him angry and, if she were being honest with herself, it had scared her. But she'd never seen him genuinely lose his temper. She didn't know anyone who had. Maybe there were no survivors. Ha, ha. Very not funny. Right, she told herself. Calm down. Don't flap think. All she could do was get hold of Warrick and warn him that Toreth was on his way. And, maybe, that he was in a less than sparkling mood. Then, at the very least, Warrick could get rid of any evidence he might need to, including any live bodies. While they still were. Was there a time on the note? No. Toreth might be there already, but it all depended on the flights. She had the contact details Toreth had given her in her head, so it took only a few seconds to reach the conference centre. Then she won a brief duel of comm manners in order to convince the receptionist that the call was sufficiently urgent and confidential that he ought to track Warrick down for her. Not bad going, the way she felt. Time ticked past and Sara fingered the note nervously. On the positive side, the fact that the receptionist was looking at all meant that he hadn't heard about any corpses. Maybe they just hadn't been found yet. Then the call went through, and she realised she still hadn't decided what to say. "Warrick? It's Sara." "What can I do for you?" Still alive at any rate. "I, um, just wanted to let you know " that my boss might be on his way to break your legs, " that I've seen Toreth. I thought you, er, might be a bit worried about him." "I never worry about him." Standard issue unreadable Warrick.

"And he's on his way back to the hotel." So you'll want to throw out anyone you happen to be screwing before he gets there. "He's " There was a brief silence then, faintly, "For God's sake, stop that. It's Sara." Familiar laughter sounded in the background. "Tell her she's late for work." Suddenly she felt like an absolute idiot. But a terribly relieved absolute idiot. Warrick's voice came back, polite but strained. "Sorry about that. Yes. He's, mmh . . . he's here already." "Oh. Good." "Was there anything . . . else?" "No." She grinned. "Have fun." She cut the comm before he could reply. Then she sat back on the sofa, methodically tearing the note into small pieces. No need to rush in to work now. She could go home and shower and change first. Have something to eat. And her hangover had gone completely.

Chapter Three
Warrick handed him a drink and looked round the reception room. Toreth looked too, tracking his gaze, trying to see if it lingered anywhere. To his annoyance, he found himself fighting an urge to touch Warrick, to stand too close. Toreth had spent the afternoon learning how to ski, or at least how to fall over slightly less frequently. Not that he was particularly bad at it, and the instructor had complimented him on his balance, although he expected that she complimented everyone on something. It was something he'd never done before, though, and the early stages of anything new frustrated him. He liked to excel. Besides, it was infuriating and embarrassing to watch kids who barely came up to his waist skimming carelessly past him as if they'd been doing it all their lives. Which, presumably, the spoilt little fuckers had. All afternoon, as he untangled his skis yet again, he'd wondered where Warrick was. That wasn't strictly true he'd known where he was. What he wondered was who else was there with him. The faceless fuck, somewhere in the conference centre. At the same talk as Warrick? In the same workshop? Sharing a coffee, maybe. Somewhere here, right now, anonymous in the crowd at the formal evening reception, supposedly the highlight of the conference. A sea of dinner jackets and colourful dresses moved around him, but Toreth looked only at the men. He had what he acknowledged to be a quite irrational conviction that he ought to recognise someone whom Warrick would want to fuck. Earlier, it had been okay. When he'd found Warrick at breakfast, it had been okay. Talking had been bad, but not unbearable, and he'd got what he'd wanted an apology and a promise never to do it again. When they'd gone back to the room, it had been more than okay, even though they'd had time to do nothing more than mess around for fifteen minutes before Warrick had to be somewhere. When Sara called, it had been funny, although the reason she'd done it wasn't. It was a guess, but he knew her well enough to be confident about it. She'd been worried in case he'd carried out his threat from last night. In case when he did get back, Warrick hadn't been alone. Toreth didn't want to think about that. To imagine opening the door to the room and seeing them . . . 'He's here, and I didn't think it would be a good thing to end up doing it again.' He's here, now. That was what made the difference, why it wasn't okay any more. Despite the good food and the skiing and the break from work, Toreth felt happy that the conference lasted only one more day. Turning back from his scrutiny of the room, he found Warrick watching him. "What is it?" Toreth asked. Warrick sipped his drink, then said, "Do you realise that, for the entire evening, you've looked as if you want to punch every man I've spoken to between the ages of twenty-five and fifty?" Of course I fucking realise. Toreth shrugged. "Have I?" "Yes. I'd be grateful if you could stop it." Toreth stared at him. Some fucking cheek after he was the one who'd . . . well, the one who'd done it this time. Make too much of it and he'd end up looking like an idiot. "Look," he said, striving to sound reasonable. "Tell me who he is and then there won't be a

problem." Or it'd be a different kind of problem, anyway, when they stretchered the bastard out of there. "No." The same idea looked to have occurred to Warrick. Toreth shrugged again. After a moment, Warrick said, "I'd like to ask you to promise me something." He tried to remember if Warrick had ever said that before, and drew a blank. "What?" "That if I tell you who he is, you won't do anything." It wasn't necessary to say what Warrick didn't want him to do. "All right. I promise." As if Warrick's preferences made any difference. He wouldn't do anything because it would be pathetic immature and stupid. He told himself to keep thinking about that. After a long pause, Warrick said, "The man at the right-hand end of the bar. Sitting on the bar stool, talking to the woman in blue and green." Toreth looked for a long time, assessing him carefully. Warrick's height, or a little taller. He'd been right that the man would be older, his dark hair greying at the temples. Not a bad figure, although suits could hide a lot. Toreth couldn't see his face clearly from here, only a suggestion of a reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Not competition, though, he told himself. Not really. Hell, Warrick had told him that. He'd also said he wanted to fuck the man again. Was he good? Toreth wanted to ask. No, he knew the answer to that. How good? was what he wanted to know. Or, ultimately, was he better than me? Then the man stood up and said something to his companion, who laughed and touched his arm in farewell. Turning, he looked straight across the room and saw them. The briefest pause, then he lifted his hand to Warrick, and began to make his way across the room. Fucking hell. Glancing round, he saw that Warrick had gone slightly pale. Yes, that was right Warrick was the one who had things to worry about here. Toreth smiled. "Relax. I promised, remember?" Before Warrick could reply, the man reached them. Quite good-looking, Toreth had to admit. He had a short, neatly trimmed beard, peppered with silver, which suited him. Well-defined bones, looking to Toreth like an open invitation for a well-placed punch. He smiled warmly at Warrick, and Toreth's fist clenched before he could stop it, the cuts protesting painfully. "Doctor Warrick. Nice to see you again. I noticed your name in the programme, so I knew you were here." He looked enquiringly at Toreth. "But I don't think we've met . . . ?" Warrick collected himself with a visible effort. "Val Toreth. Toreth, this is Doctor Frederick Girardin." Middle name Felix his name had been on the list, back in the office at I&I. Toreth even remembered the corporation he'd worked for: L-Sander Technologies. Now he knew. He nodded, and murmured something he hoped sounded friendly. "Do you work at SimTech?" Girardin enquired. "No. I'm a para-investigator." No reaction to that, which was unusual. "I'm here for the skiing. Enjoying the corporate expenses."

Then, trying to ignore the bruising to his self-esteem, he placed his hand in the small of Warrick's back. A brief contact with a clear message. Mine. He had no idea how Warrick reacted, because he was watching Girardin. The man looked between them, and a flicker of understanding and maybe disappointment crossed his face. Then Girardin smiled again. "I don't ski myself. But one of my party has missed a few sessions and I understand from her that the snow is very good." That was it. There were a few comments about the programme so far and which events the next day looked most interesting. A promise by Girardin that he would certainly attend Warrick's seminar and an invitation to both of them to join him for lunch, although he seemed to expect Warrick's polite refusal. Just a slight tension lingered in the air, probably unnoticeable to someone who wasn't looking for it. "What did you tell him about me?" Toreth asked, when Girardin had excused himself. Warrick looked bemused. "Nothing." "You must have said something. Or he'd have been surprised to see me." "Very well. I mentioned your existence. Not your name, or anything about you. Generalities." "What generalities?" "I told him I had a non-exclusive relationship." Warrick looked at him steadily. "And unless you have some news for me, that is precisely what I do have." Toreth stared at him, speechless. "I told you I'm sorry, and I am. I told you I won't do it again, and I won't. I said neither of those things for form's sake, nor to make you feel better. I meant them." Warrick's voice was low but emphatic. "However, I will not apologise for the rest of my life for doing once something that you do with monotonous regularity." The shock made him spill out the question. "Was he good?" After a moment, Warrick said, "I have no intention of discussing this." With the first words out, he had to go on. "Was he better than me?" "And I am certainly not doing so here, surrounded by people whose professional opinions I value." Overarticulating, cold and angry, and Toreth didn't care. "You said you wanted him again. Was he a better fuck than me?" "Is there any point in my saying no?" Probably not. Girardin had touched Warrick. He'd fucked Warrick. 'Someone else coming inside me.' "Did he kiss you?" "Toreth, I will not " "Did he fucking kiss you? Tell me." Warrick looked away for a moment, then back. "Yes, he did." White-hot, blinding anger burned through him. When it cleared, he found, almost to his surprise, that he had taken a step away from Warrick. He wanted to shout. He wanted to go after Girardin and "Come on," he said, keeping his voice under tight control. "Where?"

Anywhere that wasn't here. Taking hold of Warrick's elbow, he dug his fingers in. "Come on." Slightly to his surprise, Warrick nodded. Probably glad to get away from his precious fucking peers before Toreth made a scene. The knowledge that that was exactly what he was doing making a scene, like some pathetic fucking jealous boyfriend only made Toreth more furious. Opening the first door they reached, he found a small room, half-filled with stacked dining chairs. "This'll do," Toreth said. Once through the door, Toreth closed it behind them, not letting go of Warrick. "What else did you do with him?" Images flicked through his mind, so clear. Warrick on his hands and knees in front of the fire, flushed and panting, with Girardin behind him, fucking him hard. Or his hands in Warrick's hair as . . . 'Letting them fuck my mouth. Kneeling in front of them.' Toreth focused on Warrick's lips, seeing them moulded round someone else's cock. No, not 'someone'. Girardin. Name and face. Easy to imagine the smooth voice, urging Warrick to take him deeper. "Did he come in your mouth? Tell me what you did." "I will tell you nothing of the kind. Toreth, you cannot " Toreth pulled Warrick forwards and kissed his unresponsive lips, bearing down hard until Warrick jerked his head away and stepped back. Hatred surged again, the same rage he'd felt in front of the fire the impulse to lash out, to hurt. To punish Warrick for cheating, for betraying him, for everything he could make Toreth feel. This time, with Warrick there, he couldn't contain it. He tightened his grip on Warrick's arm, his other hand lifting, curling into a fist again without conscious direction, before he saw the flash of real fear in Warrick's eyes, quickly overtaken by anger. He released Warrick immediately, letting his hand drop. All the times he'd hit Warrick, relishing the anticipation on his face before the blow landed, not once had Warrick been afraid of him, because it was always and only in the game. One thing Warrick wouldn't tolerate; one thing that would make him walk. Gone for good. The shock of a line so nearly crossed felt like hitting a snowbank, winding him and smothering the anger. "Fuck, I'm sorry," Toreth said automatically, and for a moment he tasted blood. "Are you really." The expressionless voice matched Warrick's face. "Yes. I " I didn't mean to hurt you. He kept the lie back by sheer force of will. "Are you okay?" He knew the answer, his hand remembering exactly how much pressure it had applied, but he also knew it was the necessary thing to ask. Warrick rubbed his arm, then flexed it. "I think so. No harm done." His voice was still unyielding. "Do I have to spell out the consequences if you ever do that again?" So fucking close to disaster. "No. And I won't. Warrick, please I'm sorry." Pause, then Warrick inclined his head, once. "Apology accepted." Relief dizzied him briefly, and he found his hand on Warrick's shoulder, very nearly for support. Warrick tensed, then moved a step closer. This time, when Toreth repeated the kiss, it was something shared, not something imposed. Warrick responded, lips parting, hands drawing him closer. Despite, or maybe because of, the fear of what had almost happened, Toreth felt the usual

aftermath of an argument start to heat him, and he saw an answering lick of fire in Warrick's eyes. "Shall we go?" Warrick asked. He thought about it. Going back to the bedroom where Warrick had told him about . . . and the cuts in his hand twinged. Not there not yet. "Against the wall," Toreth told him. The fire flared brighter. "We have a room, which " "Against the wall," he repeated and, unfair advantage, he took hold of Warrick and turned him, feeling his automatic, helpless response to the restraint. A game this time, their game, but with a more dangerous edge. He pressed Warrick against the wall, using his whole body, whispering threats and promises. He caught Warrick's wrist, twisting his arm up behind his back remembering in time to check it wasn't the arm he'd hurt. Warrick struggled, helpless in the professional grip. "Don't. Not here." "You want to." "No. Toreth, that hurts. Please." "Tell me what you want." Tell me you want me, not him. "I I want to go back to the room before ah, Christ." "You're a liar. Tell me you want it." He raised his voice, wondering how soundproof the door was, and whether anyone was standing close enough to hear. "Tell me." Tell me you're mine. "No. I don't " "Fucking liar." He reached round, rubbing his palm against Warrick's erection. "God, look at you. Look how hard you are, and I've barely fucking touched you yet. Now tell me what you want. Say it." A few more seconds of struggling, then Warrick went still, breathing heavily. "Yes," he whispered. "Yes, what?" "Yes. Here." "Tell me what." "I want you to fuck me." "Again." "I want . . . I want you to fuck me. Please." Please, again. Begging for it wanting him. "Yes." Yes. He brought his hand up to Warrick's mouth, brushing the lips he must have bruised. "Lick them. Do it." Warrick whimpered, breathless, and obeyed. Yes. His, and no one fucking else's. Unfastening Warrick's trousers, he slipped his hand down, squeezing his buttocks, reaching further. Fingering him, opening him, then more spit for himself before he replaced his hand with his cock. Warrick cried out as Toreth thrust into him and Toreth put his hand over his mouth, pressing

him against the wall. He waited for a few seconds, dreading footsteps outside and a knock on the door. Wondering if Girardin had seen them go in here, and almost wishing he had wishing the bastard could see this. A muffled protest. Automatically, he looked for Warrick's free hand, finding it clenched against the wall, thumb extended carry on. "Keep still and shut the fuck up." He twisted Warrick's wrist, hearing him moan at the pain. A flash of his dream returned, of Warrick in front of him against the rough wall. This felt so much better than even the best dream. For once, he stopped thinking about the game, and what ought to happen next, and concentrated purely on himself, doing what he wanted long, fast thrusts, Warrick deliciously tight around him. Not that Warrick seemed to feel neglected. Over his own breathing, Toreth heard him, moaning in his throat. He had his arm braced against the wall above his head, pushing back onto Toreth, his body asking for more, harder, deeper wanting it. Wanting him. Toreth closed his eyes, the pleasure spiking and then building, building, until he came, choking back a cry. He clung to Warrick, breathing deeply, face buried in his jacket. A shame he couldn't stay here forever, and he almost wished they had gone back to the room because he felt like collapsing onto a bed and passing out for a while. It wasn't finished yet, though. Keeping his hand over Warrick's mouth, he released his wrist and turned him, pressing him back against the wall. "Open your eyes." Warrick's breath felt hot on his hand as he shook his head. "Open your fucking eyes. Look at me." Another shake of his head asking for it, and Toreth hesitated only a second. Taking his hand away from Warrick's mouth, he hit him across the face. Just hard enough to be what he wanted, not hard enough to mark. He saw Warrick's hands clench, saw the eager response in his body and cock. Another blow across the other cheek and, finally, Warrick's eyes opened. And that was all right. He'd done it, and it was all right. Nothing had changed. Toreth leaned forwards, touching his lips to his ear. "Do you want me to touch you? Let you come?" He ran his hand down Warrick's chest, moving it across at the last moment to sweep down his hip and thigh. "Mmh . . . yes." "Say it." He brought his hand back up to cup Warrick's balls, squeezing gently. Warrick moaned harshly through gritted teeth. "Please. Please . . . let me come." "Then keep your eyes open." After a moment's consideration, he put his hand back over Warrick's mouth. No one had disturbed them yet, but that didn't mean no one would notice an undamped Warrick. The precaution was justified almost as soon as Toreth took hold of him, stroking too gently teasing. Muffled whimpers and pleas from Warrick, and he started twisting again, trying to thrust

forwards into Toreth's hand. Toreth shook his head, and tightened the hand over Warrick's mouth. "Don't move. You come when I let you. When I tell you to. Do you understand that?" Warrick nodded at once, stilled himself against the wall except for shivers running through him as Toreth's thumb circled slowly. "When I allow it." Another nod. Satisfied, Toreth settled in, keeping a slow rhythm. Watching Warrick's eyes, fascinated by the dark, glazed surrender. Wondering if Warrick could still see him and, if not, what he saw instead. It didn't really matter, as long as Warrick was here and this was better than whatever he'd done with Girardin. His. Wanting him and needing him. Warrick was growing loud now, making a noise Toreth always loved harsh, sobbing breaths, begging without words. So very ready for it. "Now," Toreth whispered. Speeding up, giving Warrick, finally, what he needed. A moan that was almost a scream, and again, much louder, as Warrick's wide-open eyes went wider and his fingers dug hard into Toreth's arms as he shuddered and came. ~~~ After the reception after too long spent trailing round listening to technical conversations he didn't understand after having to swallow laughter as Warrick sat down a little too hard after all that, when everything was over, they went back to the room. Toreth lit the fire while Warrick disappeared into the bathroom. Then he switched off the light, kicked off his shoes and socks, loosened his bow tie, and sat in front of hearth, watching the flames licking at the dry wood. By the time Warrick re-emerged, in a dressing gown once more, it blazed brightly. Warrick stopped, surveying the scene. Silence, then he spoke as if he hadn't paused. "Would you like a drink?" "Please." Toreth had made an effort to stay sober at the reception because, fuck or not, he didn't fancy meeting Girardin except when in full control. Warrick poured drinks and handed one to him without comment. He stayed standing, behind Toreth, staring into the fire. Toreth patted the rug and said, "Join me?" Warrick looked down at him, eyes dark and unreadable, then nodded and sat. Toreth moved round so that his bare feet were next to Warrick's, sunk deep into the thick fur. They sat in silence, watching the fire eat its way through the wood. After a while Warrick said, "That was very good, wasn't it?" "Yes." Real fear and real danger were so much sharper than the play versions. But Warrick's question hadn't been just a compliment. "Yes. But " Warrick looked at him. " it's never going to be good in quite that way again, is it?" That wasn't regret. "Never."

Warrick nodded, and returned his attention to the fire. It was, Toreth thought, unnecessary and somewhat annoying, because he'd already said that. He'd already promised never again, outside the game. Maybe, in view of how good it had been, it wasn't entirely surprising that Warrick wanted to emphasise the point when they were both . . . calmer. Still, he wouldn't need to promise anything at all if Warrick hadn't fucked Toreth took a deep breath. Forget it. He lay down on the rug and after a moment Warrick followed suit, lying in front of him, also facing the fire. He blocked most of the heat from it, but Toreth didn't mind. He was quite warm enough in the DJ. Sipping his drink, Toreth watched the embers beginning to fall through the grate. With the reds and pinks rippling over their surface, they made a pretty novelty, but he found he couldn't concentrate on them. The earlier part of the evening had returned, nagging at him. He resisted for as long as he could, then reached over Warrick to deposit his glass on the hearth. He rested his hand on Warrick's waist, feeling the heat of the fire on the back of his hand and in the warm cloth. "Girardin," Toreth said. He felt Warrick tense. "What about him?" "You said you kissed him." He nodded, guardedly. Toreth slid his fingers through the belt of the dressing gown and pulled, turning Warrick over onto his back. Then, moving very slowly, he leaned down and kissed him. Warm, sweet mouth, tasting of toothpaste and alcohol and Warrick, and as beautifully responsive as the rest of the body pressed against him. Toreth did a careful, thorough job, and when he pulled back he said, "Was it like that?" "No." Warrick smiled, then smoothed the expression away as if he wasn't sure it would be welcome. "No, it was nothing at all like that." "Was he " Warrick put his hand up, touching the lapel of his jacket. "Toreth, leave it. Please." "No. Tell me was he a better fuck than me?" Warrick sighed. "No, he was not." He looked up at Toreth, his eyes clear and only a hint of exasperation in his voice. "If there is anyone out there who is a better fuck than you, then I can only pray that I never meet them, because I sincerely doubt that my nervous system would stand the strain." Do you mean it? Do you really mean it? Tell me again. He suppressed the words, the hunger for reassurance, and said, "Good." After a short silence, Warrick said, "Finished?" When he nodded, Warrick turned his head away a little, towards the fire, eyes closing again. "Tired?" Toreth asked. "Somewhat. It's been a long day." "Want to go to bed?" "Not especially, no but as you prefer." After a moment, Warrick added. "I wondered whether, since the conference finishes tomorrow, you might like to stay on for a couple of days after that. Over the weekend."

No distractions taking up Warrick's time. No Girardin. "Yeah, that'd be good." "I'll speak to the hotel in the morning." Since Warrick didn't seem to be in any hurry, Toreth stayed where he was, watching the fire burning slowly down. After a while, he leaned over Warrick again to throw on a few more pieces of wood. Warrick didn't react, either to the crackle of new flames or the brightening of the firelight. Toreth shifted on the rug, suddenly noticing the aches in his legs. A satisfying, post-exercise feeling, from skiing and the fuck. The nice thing about this place was that he'd be able to eat as much as he wanted of the very classy food, without worrying or resorting to anything pharmaceutical to balance the calories. More skiing tomorrow. More fucking in the evening, if he was in luck. And so on, for the next three days. An attractive idea, bringing a subdued, lazy arousal with it. "Do you want to fuck?" Toreth asked, more to find out if Warrick was still awake than as a serious offer. "Mm?" "I said, would you like to fuck?" "Mm, yes." Warrick smiled, without opening his eyes. "In theory, at least. But I'm afraid that, practically speaking, I have to say 'not a chance'." Toreth nodded, then added, "Okay." It wasn't a bad summary of his own feelings, but it unfortunately curtailed the evening. The closeness was pleasant, but it had begun to stir unease. It wasn't that he needed an excuse to hold Warrick, as such, it was just that he always had one. Fuck-in-progress, post-coital coma, moving together while they slept they were acceptable. Other situations were not. Why, he had no idea; he never questioned it, he simply knew it was true. On the other hand, they weren't precisely lying together with no purpose. They were watching the fire. He looked down at Warrick, whose long lashes and straight nose cast shadows in the firelight, and amended it to enjoying the fire. Making the most of the luxury on corporate expenses. Now they'd lit it, it would be a shame to waste it. He stretched out, resting his head on his arm, and closed his eyes. Wood smoke. Warm spirits from the glasses on the hearth. Smell of Warrick's hair, newly washed. The embers crackling musically as they slowly consumed themselves. Soft fabric under his hand, shifting in time to Warrick's breathing. Tomorrow. Skiing and fucking. The bed had sturdy enough posts, so he could come back early and set things up for the game. Have everything ready and perfect for when the seminars finished. Warrick would appreciate that. There were soft straps in Toreth's luggage he had packed the ones that could be left tied for hours without leaving marks, because Warrick wouldn't want visible bruises at a conference. Not that it mattered now. Anticipation stirred, mixing agreeably with the warmth and relaxation; he loved planning. It was attention to detail that made it work. He would order room service for dinner, and feed it to Warrick piece by piece while he was blindfolded. Finger food lots of different flavours and textures. Some good wine, or maybe even champagne. That would do very nicely to start the evening. And then . . . He pictured Warrick's body, naked in the firelight, dark hair and pale skin lit red. Bound and on his knees. Blindfolded. Breathing quick and shallow, waiting for instructions. Ready to be taken completely his.

Toreth smiled, imagining voices. "Say it." "I'm yours."

All Work And No Play

Cattle Market Doubles

Cattle Market
Of all the evenings Sara could choose to be late, Toreth thought as he waited in her hall, it would be this one. The irony of his complaining about someone else being late didn't escape him, but the idea of what might be happening in his absence still made him grit his teeth. "I'm really, really sorry," Sara called as she flew across the hall from bathroom to bedroom in a blur of golden-toned skin and blue towel. He'd have preferred it if she'd sounded at all repentant. He crossed the hall to stand closer to her bedroom door, from where he could see her reflection in the window. "So you should be. You know we need to be there in plenty of time." "Bastard got hurt and I had to take him to the vet. Poor little baby. I couldn't leave him there all on his own until I knew he was going to be okay." The absence of a skulking, psychotic shadow hadn't yet registered with Toreth. Not surprising, because the place still smelt the same. "I had loads of trouble getting a taxi," Sara continued, her voice briefly muffled, "and then I had to stay there while she looked at him and decided what to do. She wanted to put him under first so she wouldn't hurt him when she examined him." Thereby suggesting Sara's hapless vet wasn't a complete idiot. Actually, anaesthetising the cat before approaching would be a good idea when it was perfectly healthy. "What happened to it?" he asked. "He lost a fight." "Jesus, what with? A freight transporter?" She was facing away from the window, giving him a nice rear view, but he heard the exasperated sigh and imagined the rolled eyes that would go with it. "A fox, the vet thought. Or maybe even a small dog." Or possibly an escaped lion. "Much damage?" he asked hopefully. "Not as much as I thought when he crawled home. His tail's broken in a couple of places and he's got bites all over his back, but he's going to be fine. The vet thinks his tail might end up with another kink in it." Sara turned for the door and he took a tactical step back. She came out of the room, brushing her still-damp hair while shrugging into a dress. "Another 'nother kink, I mean. Can you get my zip?" He zipped her up and asked, "Ready?" "One minute. Not even thirty seconds." She dived back into the bathroom, and glass and plastic began to rattle. He was about to start a protest when she reappeared clutching a black bag. "I'll do my make-up in the car." All very well, he thought as they left the flat, but that wouldn't get him back the time he'd already lost.

~~~ The place was packed when they arrived and Toreth handed his jacket to Sara as soon as they got inside. It was her fault they were so bloody late, so she could brave the chaos at the temporary cloakroom. Toreth always liked to arrive early, to scope out both the prey and the competition. Most of the other seniors did the same, so every year the group estimate of 'early' crept back slightly. Now an event which nominally started at eight o'clock was always busy by seven. The end of year training parties at I&I took place in the largest canteen there, spilling over into surrounding rooms. Organised by the Human Capital and Training department, they were slightly more civilised than the drunken bash Toreth remembered from his own interrogator training at Justice, although the food and drink were just as bad. Attending were this year's final classes of interrogators, investigators and para-investigators, plus the training staff and any of the senior staff looking to fill vacancies in their teams. Official applications and appointments to posts would take place over the next few weeks, but tonight was the important night the September graduate cattle market. The evenings always reminded Toreth pleasantly of picking teams for sports at school. Then he'd been one of the popular ones, always chosen early. Rarely, though, as he was now at I&I, had he been one of the choosers. He'd been too much of a troublemaker at school to be placed in charge of anything. He enjoyed the air of competition, of winning his own choices which he usually did, if there was anyone he wanted and watching others lose theirs. This year Toreth had only one vacant spot on his team, which was how he liked it. A settled, reliable team made his life infinitely easier than running a changing stable. Doyle and Lambrick's departures earlier in the year had been aberrations. Lately, generous raises and accommodation provisions had helped his team's permanence. Since the SimTech case, he'd had a brittler relationship with Tillotson, but the section head had definitely been warier about refusing Toreth's budget requests. Toreth had never felt like pushing the advantage, but Warrick's intervention and blackmail threat had obviously left a deep impression. Toreth spotted the other General Criminal seniors in a loose group at the far end of the room near the bar, and began to work his way over to them. Most would be accompanied by their personal admins, although few of those were in the group. They'd be in the crowd, picking out the graduates their bosses wanted to talk to. From that he concluded that he wasn't as late as he'd feared. Senior para-investigators weren't the only ones looking for fresh blood. As Toreth crossed the room, he noticed Elizabeth Carey. Phil Verstraeten was still a professional and personal fixture in her team, and it wasn't long before Toreth spotted the anaemic side-kick, talking to a man Toreth guessed to be a newly qualified investigator. For the fresh investigators and interrogators, the evening wasn't so vital. It was expected that they would start their careers in the pool of staff available to be assigned to cases as required. Being chosen by a senior specialist or para for their personal team was prestigious, but not essential. Not so for the new junior para-investigators. The best could afford to be choosy. For those lower down the pecking order, the market meant an agonising evening of watching their numbers whittled slowly down to the rejects. Marked by their failure to find a senior who wanted them, they became pool juniors, a position from which promotion to senior was unlikely. Their growing air of desperation always left Toreth hungry for a fuck by the end of the evening.

To Toreth's delight, when he reached the bar, Chevril was just ordering himself a drink. No doubt he'd waited until everyone else had got one before joining the group. Chevril owed so many drinks to so many people that his reluctance to stand a round had gone beyond a section joke and attained the status of legend. "I'll have a whiskey and soda, thanks, Chev," Toreth said. "Got your ticket?" Chevril asked. "Sara's got it." Chevril took his glass from the admin tending the bar, pulling it protectively towards him. "This is my included-in-the-entry drink." "Doesn't stop you buying one for me, does it?" Chevril struggled with the logic for as long as possible, then finally gave up and turned to the admin. "Whatever it was he wanted," Chevril said sourly. "And a white wine for Sara," Toreth added to Chevril's evident disgust. Two drinks out of Chevril in one go was something of a record. Cheered by the minor victory, Toreth joined the other seniors. In the short time he'd been at the bar, most had dispersed, which confirmed his guess that he wasn't too much of a latecomer. Looking round, he picked them out in the crowd, now surrounded by varyingly sized groups of newly-qualified personnel. Chevril would have a list of places to fill. Every year at least one of his team would've managed to piss him off irreversibly, and another two or three might decide to move on. Toreth caught a glimpse of Kel, shepherding a group towards them. Chevril muttered excuses and went to meet his admin, no doubt wanting to keep his choices away from the competition. Toreth didn't care. None of the men or women with Kel were on his own list. That left him alone with Mike Belkin, one of the older General Criminal seniors, who usually had an even longer list than Chev. Notoriously difficult to work for, his high-profile cases and success rates still attracted willing newcomers. He didn't bring his admin to the cattle markets, nor any of the rest of his team to avoid having their haggard faces scare away potential recruits, according to Sara. This year Belkin looked relaxed, surveying the room with a casual, detached interest. "Not shopping?" Toreth asked him. Belkin drained half his glass, then shook his head. "Maylor's retiring," he said, then sat back, watching Toreth with a faint smile. Waiting for a reaction. Which Toreth couldn't help giving him. "Richie Maylor? Political Crimes?" "Mm-hm. He's still having problems with his back after the bombing and they've decided to ditch him on a medical early retirement instead of putting up with all that fucking around on and off sick-leave. He's not happy about it." Sara had picked up a vague rumour to that end, but nothing concrete. "And you've got first pick of his team? You lucky bastard." Belkin grinned smugly. "Favours owed; you know how it is. I only marked half of them, so there's some left if you don't get lucky tonight." "I think I've got some good candidates lined up." And Toreth would rather choke than swallow Belkin's rejected leftovers, good as they probably were if they'd belonged to Maylor. "And I've got

better things to do with my time than break juniors out of other people's bad habits." "So that's what you're looking for?" Belkin asked. "Yeah, one junior." "That all?" "I'm happy with what I've got." "Right. And of course they would all be happy with you." Generally Toreth didn't mind his reputation as an easy senior to work for, but Belkin managed to make it sound like an unpleasant and probably communicable disease. "I take the right ones to start with, and I got decent raises for them in the last couple of assessments so they've got no reason to go anywhere." Except Doyle and Lambrick, the ungrateful bastards. "Hey, if I went as far as you do with Tillotson to get good cases assigned, I'd expect a nice budget, too. And flowers." Jesus, some rumours never died. "Chev started that story, did you know that? He was fucked off 'cause he tried to chat me up and I turned him down." Belkin's eyes crinkled in a near-smile. "You do talk shite." "Yeah?" Toreth held up his glass. "Why would he buy me drinks if he didn't want my arse?" Belkin snorted with laughter, but before he could reply Toreth spotted Sara in the crowd, with a group of four juniors. Toreth picked up his glass and Sara's. "Got to go. Duty calls." He watched Sara's hand as she introduced the group to him. He knew the names already, of course, but the hand signals gave her most up-to-date count of how many other seniors were serious about the new juniors. "Jasric Ouellette." Three fingers three seniors interested in him, as far as Sara had been able to determine. "Andrew Rust." Four. "Niall Custer." Another three. "And Joielin Nagra." Five, and then a twitch of her fingers that meant 'more than'. Must be good, although he'd have to ask who was interested because her pure Afro-Caribbean good looks might have something to do with it: beautiful bone structure, smooth skin like polished chocolate, full lips glossed dark red, and close-cut hair. Lovely visuals for fucking in any position, and there were certainly fiveplus seniors in I&I who'd pick her out just for that. "She was with Hepburn when I found her," Sara said in an undertone as they made their way to the bar. "But I prised her away while he was busy with someone else." Drinks arranged, Toreth cleared a table of a group of new investigators, who seemed to be testing the limits of human ethanol tolerance. He arranged his haul to his satisfaction, two talking to him, two being tested out by Sara. While he listened to Ouellette describe his experience in his Information and Communications Crimes investigation placement, Toreth kept half an ear on Sara's conversation with Rust and Custer. "Are you a junior?" Rust asked her. Sara laughed. "God, no. I'm the Para's admin." "Oh." A pause, as Rust clearly tried to think of something suitable to say to such an inferior creature.

"If you look, there are plenty of admins here," Custer commented, quiet and neutral. "Well, yes. Someone has to carry the screens and get the drinks." Rust laughed, stopping when the other two failed to join in. Toreth smiled to himself, then noticed that Ouellette's account had come to an end. Nothing in it had caught his attention, so he turned to Nagra. "You took the intermediate paediatric interrogation option." A specialism his team currently lacked. "What did you think of it?" "I enjoyed the challenge of working with a restricted set of tools. I took the impaired reasoning and medically vulnerable courses for the same reason." "Light touch?" Ouellette said, with a subtly insulting inflection that reminded Toreth of Belkin. "I took all the basic courses." Her tone had a touch of both anger and defensiveness; Toreth suspected she'd heard this accusation before. "There are only so many specialist options." "I don't remember seeing you in any of the high-waiver ones, though," Ouellette said. Her eyes narrowed. "Anyone can get a confession with a neural induction probe." "But can anyone get the right confession?" Toreth asked. The confrontation broke off as they both belatedly remembered his presence, and the rivalry shifted into more subtle areas. Competitive anecdotes, accounts of extra work experience assignments taken, jockeying to mention who had bested whom in various exams Toreth listened more than he talked, letting the two of them fight it out. In the end, he'd take the best of these two, and the best of Sara's pair, and set them against each other again. "What do you think of Rust?" he asked Sara after the first half-hour, when they returned to the bar. "Reminds me of Tillotson," she said without hesitating. "And he's an arrogant wanker. If you're seriously thinking about him, I'm resigning right now." "He had good scores, but you know how much that means. Okay. Tell him and Ouellette to fuck off while I get drinks for the other two." She'd enjoy the chance to do that. Who to take? Custer had the better training grades, but Toreth had had his fingers burned before by Belqola and his ninety-fifth-percentile scores. One evening's conversation wasn't much of a basis for selection either, but both juniors seemed willing to sit out the interview, rather than chase off after another offer a good sign from both of them, given that they should have no problem finding some kind of place. Especially promising since General Criminal was far from the highest status section in the Division. After an hour or so he found himself leaning towards choosing Custer. Rather quiet, but disciplined, which made for a good junior if rarely a spectacular one. Nagra had a sharper edge which might mean she'd be effective and independent, or might mean she'd spend her time undercutting him in an attempt to curry favour higher up the I&I food chain. His mind almost made up, he found himself looking at Nagra again from a distinctly nonprofessional perspective. With no need to apply his rule of not fucking inside the team, he decided to see how far Nagra would go to impress a potential boss. She was tempting enough, even without the added spice of coercion. Dispatching Custer for more drinks, he shifted a little closer to her. Sara looked studiously away. "What do you think of the evening?" he asked. "As a way of recruiting juniors?"

"I suppose it's better than picking names out of a hat. But it's rather loud, Para." Nice of her to leave him an opening. "You're right it's no way to really get to know people. We could go somewhere quieter, if you'd prefer. A bar. Or somewhere closer. Do the trainee juniors still rate single rooms in their last year?" Nagra smiled easily. "Is that a pick-up?" The directness caught him by surprise. "Would you like it to be?" "Well . . . " The smile again, and still no sign of nervousness. "No. I'm not usually a lesbian, Para, but for you I'll make an exception." Which got her the job there and then. Toreth was mildly flattered that when he told her, she didn't hesitate to accept. "I'd be honoured," she said. "You've been top of my list since I did the General Criminal placement. And even before how could I do better than working for the man who cracked the Selman kidnapping?" He wondered whether she'd ever get to hear the real story. "I'll make it official tomorrow." He waved into the crowd. "Go enjoy yourself you don't have to hang around with me." He'd expected at least a polite half-hour out of her, but instead she stood. "Thanks, Para. I look forward to starting work." He watched her go, then turned to Sara, who'd been snickering quietly into her drink. "Did you warn her?" "About what?" Sara asked, so innocently that she might as well have said yes. Nevertheless, he clarified the question. "Did you warn Nagra what it meant if I tried to pick her up?" "Maybe." Sara examined his face searchingly, then grinned, obviously reassured by his smile. "Yeah, I did." "Good. I couldn't tell she's very smooth. I think she'll work out well." "Me too. And she's friendly. For a para, I mean." Toreth nodded, not taking offense. Custer reappeared, holding the drinks. Nagra's absence clearly registered at once, and his expression was a perfect blend of optimism and expectation of disappointment. "You can leave the drink," Toreth said. "Thanks for giving me the chance to talk to you." "No, thank you for your time, sir," the junior said with immaculate politeness, before he headed away. Settling back with the fresh drink, Toreth surveyed the crowd. Successes and failures were beginning to settle out, with some faces circulating between groups, moving down the hierarchy of rejection. Some had given up, and clusters of new juniors collected on the fringes, trying unsuccessfully to convince themselves that the pool wasn't such a bad place to start. The evening's pervasive undercurrent of desperation and the fear of failure had given him a buzz of arousal, sharpening now that the serious business of the night was over. Maybe he should have tried Custer, since he'd changed his mind about Nagra. Too late to go try now, because the man was already talking to another senior, looking as cool and collected as he had done with Toreth. He'd certainly bear

watching in future, Toreth thought. Still, it wasn't so late that Warrick would be tiresome about being woken up in fact, he'd probably be awake. ~~~ "I thought you were busy for the weekend?" Warrick said as he closed the door. "I was. I am. I was practically passing the door, though, so I thought I'd drop in." A lie, but an easy one. "I made some coffee not long ago, if you'd like a cup," Warrick said. "I was planning to work late and " "Afterwards." Toreth caught him by the arm and steered him into the bedroom, already unfastening his own shirt. "Afterwards, coffee would be great. Now, I want you in here. Strip." "What the hell brought this on?" Warrick didn't resist, though. "I'll tell you later." Toreth kicked his way free of his trousers, underwear and socks in one go. "You're still dressed." He took Warrick's shirt off, to give him a kick in the right direction. Then he banged the bedside drawer open and shut without finding what he was looking for. "In the bathroom," Warrick said as he finished undressing. "We emptied the last tube and I didn't " Toreth was already leaving. "Don't go anywhere except in bed." The urgency had damped down now he was here and naked. With the prospect of a fuck soon very soon his body seemed content to treat this small delay as a pleasant sharpening of anticipation rather than an infuriating stumbling block. He rifled through the bathroom cabinet, whistling happily and making a mess that would annoy the hell out of Warrick when he found it in the morning. There got it. Back in the bedroom, he found Warrick sitting on the bed, with a somewhat wary half smile. In an excess of happy enthusiasm, Toreth bounced onto the bed beside him, making it creak alarmingly. Warrick laughed. "For God's sake, be careful!" Toreth contemplated the tube of lubricant, then threw it to him. "Fuck me." "Don't I get any say in the format of the proceedings?" Warrick asked, although his eyes and his smile and his stirring cock rather took the edge off the question. "No." Toreth lay down, spine tingling. "Just do what you're told, for once in your life." "Don't I always?" Warrick asked with an unconvincing sigh, then immediately spoiled the effect by adding, "Turn over." Toreth had to admit the prospect of easy access to Warrick's mouth appealed, so he obeyed with the absolute minimum of grumbling. Only enough, in fact, to persuade Warrick to shut him up with a kiss which proved what a good idea it had been. A sigh turned into a hiss of pleasure as slick fingers pressed into him. Arousal peaked again, and it was all he could do to stop himself pulling Warrick down on top of him, just to get the hard contact against his cock. Despite the urgency, he could wait for a while. Only fair to give Warrick a chance to catch up since mmm, yeah, just like that since he was starting from cold. Completely unselfish reason,

nothing to do with the fact that Warrick was melting his spine from the inside with every flex of his fingers. Then, somehow, it was all wrong. The changes were so subtle he would never have been able to put them into words, but when Toreth opened his eyes, Warrick was staring across the room over his head, frowning slightly. Still fingerfucking Toreth, but only his body was on the job. His mind was . . . "What the hell are you thinking about?" Toreth snapped, meaning: who the hell are you thinking about? "What?" Warrick damn near jumped, then smiled sheepishly. "Still got work on my mind, I'm afraid." His thumb stroked apologetically over the skin behind Toreth's balls. "It's not easy to switch focus mid-stride." Great. Second place to the bloody sim. If it was the sim, and not Girardin or some other . . . Toreth pulled away. He propped himself up on his elbows and looked down at his wilting cock. "Thanks a fucking bunch." "I'm sorry." Warrick knelt up, then sat back on his heels. "What can I do to remedy the situation?" "Forget it. I might as well go home and leave you to it." "Mm." Warrick climbed off the bed and started collecting his scattered clothes. For a moment, Toreth thought Warrick was simply going to take him at his word and leave him there in bed. Then Warrick added, "Come on." "Where?" "Just get dressed and come on." Toreth lay in bed and watched Warrick dress. Warrick didn't say anything else. Apparently 'come on' was supposed to be enough after ruining a previously great evening. Talk about taking someone for granted. Which, okay, was technically no more than Toreth had done when he'd dragged Warrick into the bedroom in the first place, but if Warrick hadn't wanted to fuck he should have said something. Bastard. When Warrick had gone, Toreth smacked the bed with both palms, swore aloud, then threw himself out of bed and started hunting for clothes. ~~~ He tracked Warrick down in the kitchen, leaning against the work-top and finishing a sandwich. "Hope you washed your hands," Toreth said. Warrick snorted. "Of course. Do you want one?" He offered a plate, which held another sandwich. It took Toreth a moment to identify the smell banana. "God, no. Those things are disgusting." Putting fruit in sandwiches wasn't natural to start with, and the fact that Warrick then put pepper on them only added another level of unsavoury weirdness. "I made them before you showed up, so it seemed a shame to waste them," Warrick said through the last mouthful of bread. He put the uneaten sandwich down and brushed his hands together. "I want to show you something." "What? And where?" "Not far. It won't take long, if you have plans to be somewhere else."

Toreth had meant to leave and head on to a bar and find someone willing to fuck with more than ten percent of their attention. That wasn't really a plan as such, though, and a few minutes wouldn't make any difference. "What about that coffee?" Warrick held up a thermos flask. "Reheated, but I put something in to hide that." "Okay. Lead the way." ~~~ They took the lift up to the top floor, and strolled in silence along a deserted corridor until they reached a door. It opened to Warrick's iris scan, revealing a narrow flight of stairs. The sign at the foot of them said, Roof Garden. "I didn't know this place had one," Toreth said as they started to climb. "Of a kind. It was in the plans rather elaborate in fact but it caused too many problems. The weight of wet soil, problems with leaking water and so on. So they closed the thing down. And then . . . well, you'll see." Another secure access door at the top of the stairs allowed them out onto the roof space. "There are some lights," Warrick said, "but it's better without." Once Toreth's eyes adjusted, the moon provided enough light to navigate across the open space a waxing harvest moon, yellow and heavy in the sky. The footing proved to be smooth and firm. They picked their way between chairs and tables set out in groups around the entrance. Pots and low troughs held plants, and Toreth could smell flowers. Across the other side of the roof stood a collection of objects he couldn't make out. Most of them were still, showing different shades and textures in the cool moonlight. A few moved in the wind, which was stronger up here than it had felt at street level. "What's over there?" Toreth asked. "The sculpture garden. Residents donate a new one from time to time, and they're rearranged as people see fit. I bought something from Cele for it; I'll have to show it to you when it's light. In fact, we should come up to enjoy the sun one afternoon. I don't know why I've never thought of if before. Come over to the side." Heights didn't bother Toreth and never had, so he followed Warrick without hesitation. A wall ran round the roof at waist height and they walked slowly along beside it. The moonlight couldn't compete with the brilliant artificial lights, which spread out below them from a higher vantage than he'd expected. The cool September breeze cut through Toreth's shirt, and he wished he'd picked up his jacket. "Fuck, you can see for miles." "Yes. This area is on a slight hill. You don't notice it on the ground, but it's obvious if you look at a topographical map. That's the University, over there. The grounds aren't well lit, but you can just see the edge of the AERC atrium. I think it's all rather beautiful." "Yeah. It's not a bad place, is it, New London? From a distance. The lights go on for fucking miles. Far as you can see." Toreth stopped, looking out over the city, judging distances before he pointed to a brighter glow away and to the left. "That must be I&I. Or the closest part of Int-Sec, anyway. Those white buildings. I was over there earlier tonight the lights don't seem that strong on the ground." Warrick joined him, slipping between Toreth and the wall. He set the thermos on the wide, flat

top of the wall, and poured coffee into the single cup. He passed it back and Toreth drank, the coffee deliciously hot, and with a hefty dose of brandy to make up for the reheated flavour. "You were at I&I? This late?" Warrick asked. "Yeah." "New case? You didn't mention anything important in progress." "No." Toreth wrapped his hands round the cup. "I was at the cattle market recruiting bash for this year's trainees." "I see." Warrick's tone didn't change. "And does that always make you chronically horny?" Toreth choked on a mouthful of coffee, then said, "Actually, yeah. The juniors are all so fucking desperate. I&I recruits them competitive to start with and there are always too many of them and not enough seniors looking. Half of them would do anything to get a place. They all want it so much, even the good ones who're bound to find someone." Just talking about it was turning him on again. Maybe the fresh air would clear SimTech from Warrick's mind. "You can taste it. If you're a senior with an empty slot, it's a fantastic place to get laid." Warrick leaned on the wall, peering downwards, which gave Toreth some interesting ideas which would have to wait for a warmer night. "I'm deeply grateful I never had to go through anything of that kind," Warrick said in a cool, distant voice. A reaction to the mention of I&I, was Toreth's first guess, until he reviewed what he'd said. 'Fantastic place to get laid.' Since the skiing trip since Girardin Toreth had made an effort to keep his casual fucks beneath Warrick's radar. Previously he'd enjoyed winding Warrick up with them, but the fantastic make-up sex wasn't fantastic enough to risk another evening like the one at the conference. Discretion made for an easier life all round. But, for God's sake, it wasn't as if he had fucked anyone at I&I tonight. Maybe he hadn't said so, but the state he'd arrived in should've been a clue. He might have a highish sex drive, but he wasn't superhuman. He was wondering whether to say something when Warrick surprised him with a question. "I assume you found a senior without any difficulty when you qualified?" "No. Or rather, it wasn't like that in my year. They were still setting the Division up, so it hadn't been running long enough to develop traditions like the market. Pity, really. It's a fun evening if you get picked early by a good senior. Plus, I was already an interrogator when I did the conversion course. That's not the same as being a fresh trainee." Warrick didn't comment again. No doubt the mention of interrogation had been too much. Toreth looked out over the city towards I&I. The hard-core drinkers and those drowning their sorrows would still be there. He lifted the cup to his lips again, letting the steam warm his face, and the lights of IntSec starred and swam as the brandy vapour stung his eyes. "They really light the place up, don't they?" he said. "Yes. And it's on a hill." Warrick straightened. "Quite deliberate, I'm sure." "Huh?" Warrick took the cup, refilled it and drank. "A deliberate part of its placement when they built it, no doubt. As a constant reminder of the presence of our guardians. Or oppressors, as some people

would say." "That's sedition." Warrick leaned back against him, the scent of coffee and brandy drifting back with him. "No one's listening." Toreth rested his hands on Warrick's shoulders, feeling a hint of warmth through Warrick's jumper. "I am." "And are you going to hand me in?" Warrick sounded amused. "For fuck's sake . . . " He didn't give a shit about the sentiment. What bothered him was the faintly sickening thought of Warrick saying something like that when there was some bored idiot nearby who'd report him. Corporate or not, some things weren't sensible. But he couldn't think of how to say it in a way Warrick would take seriously. The tension must have communicated itself through his hands, because Warrick said, "Rest assured I wouldn't dream of saying any such thing anywhere I might be overheard." "You never know who's listening. It's bad enough that your bloody brother doesn't know how to keep his mouth shut, without you starting the same fucking thing." "Tarin's opinionated, yes. But he " "He's a moron. If he's got any friends who think like him and I don't want to know if he does then I hope they don't tell him anything important, because he's a fucking liability. No. Anyone who can't manage not to criticise the Administration when there's a para-investigator sitting six places down the table isn't bright enough to qualify for liability." "But you had no intention of reporting him." Brief pause. "Did you?" No disagreement with Toreth's characterisation of Tarin, then. "Of course not. But he didn't know that. The point is that it doesn't take much to raise suspicion, whether it's you or Tarin. SimTech might not be big enough to keep you safe if someone heavy went for you." "If I were arrested, I wouldn't have to rely on one of your despised Justice representatives." Warrick still didn't sound to be taking it seriously enough for Toreth's liking. "SimTech's lawyers would begin proceedings and then I&I would have to " "Political criminals have no automatic right to independent representation. And then I&I starts pulling in contacts and I end up on level C and someone asks me if I've ever heard you say such-andsuch, and I have to say yes." Warrick turned his head. "Would you?" Enquiry, not condemnation or surprise. "Yes. Or " It was a shock to discover that what he wanted to say was, no, I'd deny it for as long as I possibly could. He'd have to try, even though he knew the resistance would be pointless and stupid. The realisation disoriented him, putting a touch of vertigo into the panorama spread before them. Unconsciously, he tightened his grip on Warrick's shoulders. He thought of Warrick at I&I, in a holding cell, waiting for an interrogator to send for him. The image morphed seamlessly into the memory of his own hour spent pacing the detention cell, after Marian Tanit's death, waiting for Psychoprogramming to take him away. The sharpness of the memory surprised him the only time Toreth had seen I&I from the other side, and it had been an hour too long. "It's not a question of what I'd want to say. If things got serious it wouldn't be one of those

bloody juniors from tonight asking me. It'd be a specialist interrogator, or even Internal fucking Investigations." A stronger gust of wind curled over the parapet, and he shivered. "I'd be pumped full of drugs, I'd be . . . I know how it works. Don't even fucking joke about it." Warrick set the cup down on the wall and turned, kissing him then brushing Toreth's mouth lightly with his finger. "I'm sorry. No levity intended. Topic closed?" "Yes. Yeah, sure." Warrick touched him again with his fingertip, the soft pad ran over his lower lip, smooth edge of his nail tickling slightly along the upper. Toreth flicked the tip of his tongue out quickly, and Warrick gasped at the contact, surprised. Then Warrick laughed. "Will you stay?" Toreth thought it over. Warrick looked interested now, and focused, as far as Toreth could tell in the dim light. He certainly sounded it. For a brief moment, Toreth considered leaving anyway, just to show that he could. He didn't bother coming up with a reason to drop the idea. "Okay. Let's go back down, though I'm freezing my bollocks off." From Warrick's flat they wouldn't be able to see I&I. Toreth had had quite enough of work for one evening.

Doubles
"What's wrong?" Sara asked as they took their seats in the coffee room. Then, when Toreth didn't reply, she added, "Not still?" Toreth nodded, staring into his mug, wishing he'd never told her about it. Maybe if he didn't say anything she'd drop it. The problem was that Warrick was too tired to fuck. Persistently so. It was SimTech's fault, and it had been going on for nearly two weeks. Toreth hadn't minded, much. At first. He'd turned up to Warrick's flat on a Friday, unannounced, having spent most of the day thinking, on and off, that he wouldn't mind a fuck. In fact, by the time he'd been out for a drink with the team to celebrate Nagra's official arrival, it had turned into more than 'wouldn't mind'. He hadn't seen Warrick for a few days and Toreth had been feeling . . . edgy. Wondering, being honest with himself, what Warrick might be up to. He'd made his excuses and left the bar early, to the accompaniment of some very unsubtle sniggering from Sara. He wondered what she'd told the others. As soon as Warrick opened the door, looking exhausted and preoccupied, Toreth had known it was a bust. When Toreth asked what was wrong, Warrick had shrugged and said, "Work," in a tone of voice that had discouraged curiosity. After that, Warrick had made coffee and they'd talked for a while, and then gone to bed. Toreth had tried not to make his demands too demanding, but he hadn't been able to pretend he'd come round for coffee. In return, to be fair not that he felt like being anything of the kind right now Warrick had made an effort and sucked him off before he fell asleep. At least he'd fallen asleep afterwards and not during. Toreth didn't like sex to be 'making an effort'. He liked to think he was worth more than that. He needed to know he was. By the time he'd woken up in the morning, Warrick had already gone off to SimTech, leaving an apologetic note and a very nice breakfast keeping warm. That only, somehow, made things worse. Toreth had spent the rest of the day wondering what he'd done with his Saturdays before he'd known Warrick. Nothing very fun, apparently. Then, on Monday, he'd made his biggest mistake and spent ten minutes bitching to Sara about what a lousy weekend he'd had. That had been the start of her predictable but irritating interest in the situation. Since then Toreth had spent an inordinate amount of time in the gym, and done so much paperwork that he'd eventually run out, for the first time in years. And now . . . now it was Friday again, and he was at work again, fancying a fuck again. Not that he'd been living in celibate misery for the last fourteen days, but it was the difference between having what he could have (strangers in bars and a new trainee down in the Paediatric Interrogation Section) and what he couldn't. Was Warrick finally growing bored of the regular fucking? Toreth searched his memory, going back over their recent encounters or not so recent, now. The last time had been after the cattle market. They'd had a bad start, and Warrick had put that down to work, too. After the trip up to the roof Warrick had shaken off whatever it was and it had been great. Or it had seemed great at the time.

Had Warrick wanted it as much as before? Toreth realised he had his teeth clenched hard enough to make his jaw ache. He forced himself to relax. Why the hell was he so wound up? Warrick had been busy with SimTech before. This was no different. Except that it was. Girardin made it different. Could he be cause or effect? Toreth tapped the edge of his mug, watching the ripples run into the centre. Was that it? A couple of years of kink, and now a retreat back to the corporate world. Greener grass, he thought sourly. No more I&I, and a safe, social peer. If not Girardin, then someone like him. Carnac, maybe he'd make a prestigious partner for an up-and-coming corporate. Dillian would be so fucking happy. No, Toreth told himself. It was work. SimTech temporarily demanding more of Warrick's time, nothing more sinister than that. It had to be. Forcing the thoughts away, he dragged his attention back to the present, only to find Sara regaling him with details of her latest boyfriend, which was frankly taking things too far. Especially since it was early stages and the new acquisition was still a paragon of incredibly annoying virtue. "I don't know why you're bothering," he said when she paused for breath. "He sounds just like the last one. And the one before that. Why the fuck is Tim " "Jim." "Fine. Whatever the hell he's called, he's still not going to be any different. If you're lucky, you'll get another ring out of it before you ditch him or he ditches you. Jesus, spot a fucking pattern, Sara. Why don't you just do what Belkin does with his admins and call them all 'hey, you'?" Her lips tightened, and then she asked, "Why don't you call him?" "There's no point. He's called me." Which meant Warrick couldn't be bored, didn't it? "So you have spoken to him?" "Not really. After the first couple of times I set the comm to take messages." "And?" "And he always says the same thing he's very sorry, but he's still too fucking busy to see me. Work." "If it was me, I'd call him. Let him know you're still alive. If you're not saying anything he probably thinks you don't mind." She stood up. "Not that you ought to take my advice, considering the state of my love life." Toreth watched as she rinsed her mug and flounced out of the coffee room, head high. Oh, Christ. Flowers on Monday, if he wanted any coffee in his office over the next few weeks. Back at his desk, he gave in and called Warrick's personal comm. The answering "Yes?" was sharp, so he limited himself to asking if Warrick would be available tonight. Trying not to sound desperate, or bitter, or anything else humiliating. Whether he succeeded or not, it had no effect on Warrick. "I'm sorry, but I can't say yes or no. I'm in a meeting right now I ought to be able to let you know once it finishes." Toreth cut off the comm without answering, and buried himself in work for the rest of the day. At first he hoped that Warrick would call. As the day wore on, though, the feeling of hanging round, of being ready (and eager) to accept whatever scraps of attention Warrick might be willing to throw to him, finally became too much. As he returned to his office from afternoon coffee without Sara, he made his mind up. If Warrick

couldn't be bothered to make the time, then he couldn't either. Warrick could play with his precious bloody corporation and welcome. Even if he did call back wanting to fuck tonight, he could fucking whistle for it. Infuriatingly, about half an hour after this satisfying resolution, the comm chimed. "I'm sorry I didn't call earlier," Warrick began. "But I've been in the same damn meeting since nine o'clock." "And?" Why the hell do you think I care? "Could you make it over to SimTech this evening?" Opening his mouth to refuse, Toreth heard himself say, "Sure, what time?" When the conversation finished, Toreth found that his black mood had lifted, which annoyed him all over again. It was a strange feeling happy and irritated at the same time. It had better be a bloody good fuck. ~~~ Arriving at SimTech, twenty minutes late, he found Warrick already in the sim. He lay absolutely still in the couch, his face hidden by the visor. If Toreth hadn't recognised his clothes, it could have been any man of Warrick's build. Ignoring the sim technician busy preparing the next couch, he crouched beside Warrick, close enough to catch his scent and so be quite sure. And his hands, of course he knew those. He touched Warrick's right wrist lightly, fingers automatically sliding round to find the pulse. It tapped slow and even against his fingertips, chipping away the last of the anger. First contact in two weeks. Toreth ran his hand slowly along Warrick's arm, over the restraining strap, knowing Warrick wouldn't be able to feel it. That, for once, he couldn't disapprove of Toreth touching in public in front of the employees, no less. The technician coughed. "What?" "Doctor Warrick wanted you to join him right away." Feeling oddly reluctant, Toreth settled into the couch beside Warrick, watching him until he had to turn his head away for the technician to fit the visor. When the small, white entry room appeared around him, he found Warrick sitting at the table, reading a book, his feet resting comfortably in mid-air on nothing visible. He didn't look tired now, but then he wouldn't he never did in the sim. Warrick closed the book, which vanished. "Glad you could make it." Being late had seemed like a good idea at work. Now, with Warrick so clearly unfazed, Toreth regretted it. "Stuff came up, sorry." "No problem at all. Actually, I appreciated a little time just to sit and relax. Shall we get started?" Without waiting for an answer, Warrick touched the controls and a very familiar room appeared around them. Heavy furniture, dark wood, a fire in the grate, and the warm, buttery light of the candles that filled the air with the sweet scent of beeswax. When he turned round, he saw the ridiculously oversized four-poster bed.

He'd already registered the squeak of wood and the quick, heavy breathing, so he wasn't surprised to see bodies on the bed. He was surprised to see who. Warrick, kneeling astride another man, leaning forwards over him, and being enthusiastically fucked from below. His partner's hands gripped Warrick's hips, pulling down and pushing up. Toreth looked round, but Warrick was still beside him. Also still beside him. "It's a recording," Warrick said. The sim had never made him feel sick before, and it wasn't the sim that sickened him now, or stirred anger to chase the feeling away. Warrick fucking someone else, and even if it was supposed to be work, nothing fucking personal, he certainly looked to be enjoying himself. Overly sensitive, perhaps, after Girardin, but he couldn't help it. "I don't want to " And then he stopped dead, his mouth open, as the Warrick on the bed leaned back, thrusting down hard, giving Toreth a clearer view of his partner. It's the sim, isn't it? said the part of his brain not numbed by the sight. You can do anything in the sim. That's the whole point of it. Dark hair disordered and damp with virtual sweat. Head thrown back to highlight the delicious sweep of his throat. Lips parted as he breathed encouragement. Warrick. Or another thought he didn't like someone else in Warrick's body? "Who's that?" "In a way, they're both me. One of them is me, the other one is a shell a copy of my sim body, programmed to have sex in the same way I do. To have the same responses and so on. Or approximately so. It's rather more complex than that." "So which one's you?" Warrick studied the entwined bodies for a moment. "The one on top." "Jesus." It was, Toreth thought, an unfairly juicy secret to have kept. He moved round the bed, to improve the view, absorbing the implications of the situation as he watched the recording. It wasn't conducive to calm thought. The Warrick on his back had his hands clenched in the sheets, his back arching in a way that was so familiar it sizzled down Toreth's spine and straight to his groin. "Stop." The voice came from the bed, the first words spoken by either of them, and it took Toreth a moment to work out it was the supine Warrick who had spoken. "What?" the other replied. "I'd like you to fuck me." Kneeling Warrick reached down and touched his mirrored lips. "Are you sure?" "Yes." "Good." He nodded, with a detached, assessing satisfaction at variance with his obvious arousal. "Then turn over." Sim-easy fucking no preparation, no lubricant, no tedious messing around. Only a few seconds before Warrick thrust deep, once, and then stopped, with an expression Toreth also knew well Warrick on the edge, perilously close to coming. He clicked his fingers, and the control panel

appeared beside him. A few adjustments and he recommenced fucking. Fucking himself. There was an insult that would never sound the same again. If it had occurred to Toreth to try to look away, he wouldn't have been able to. The compelling weirdness of the sight before him absorbed him utterly, arousing and yet at the same time rather unsettling. He knew Warrick, knew how he responded, what he wanted, and the picture before him didn't quite match up with what he knew. Eventually Toreth said, "You're very quiet." "Who?" Warrick asked from beside the fire. "The fucking you. Both of you." "Am I?" Warrick tilted his head, listening, considering. "I suppose I am. That's the difference between professional and personal sex. Also, it requires a certain amount of concentration." "Yeah? I would've thought doing yourself would be easy." Warrick smiled. "In a way, yes. Certainly by that stage, when the shell has a significant measure of autonomy. This is one of the later training sessions. At first I had to split my attention between both bodies simultaneously, until the program learned my responses." Toreth tried to imagine that, and gave up. "You're feeling with both bodies?" "To begin with, yes." "Fuck." That on its own opened a whole range of possibilities. On the bed, Warrick's hands slid down his partner's back as he thrust harder. Toreth knew how that felt, both to do it and to have it done to him. Feeling them at the same time, though . . . "Could we do that? Could I feel what you feel when I fuck you?" "No. Or rather, theoretically, yes, if I set the system up to do it. However, there are no protocols or safety assessments in place yet. We do have it pencilled in for later development." Something to persuade Warrick over later. For now, he returned his attention to the recording. Warrick fucking and being fucked, two familiar pictures joined impossibly together. Warrick on his hands and knees, and Warrick kneeling upright. Bodies moving together, so perfectly attuned. Was this what Warrick had been doing for the last three weeks? It made him feel . . . it was Warrick fucking someone else and even if the someone wasn't real, it stirred feelings he didn't like to acknowledge. How could he possibly be jealous of a computer program? "What did you say it was called?" Toreth asked. "The body is a shell. The program directing it is called an ee-ee-es. Evolved Expert System. Usually pronounced 'Yes'." "How come I've never seen it before?" "Commercial confidentiality, amongst other reasons. The tests aren't open to non-staff volunteers." "So why now?" "We're suspending the project. I thought you might like to see it working, before everything is switched off and uninstalled from the system." A noise from the bed distracted Toreth, as the Warrick being fucked the copy, wasn't it? gasped.

"Yes. Suck . . . mmh, yes." The words changed into a moan as he curled down onto the bed, hands clenching in the rumpled bedspread as he came. Of course in the sim, distance was no guarantee of safety from Warrick's mouth. Before long, the copy-Warrick lifted his head, and then knelt up, revealing an already-restored erection. Inhumanly fast, even for the sim, which had added benefits for male users. Toreth glanced at Warrick. "Bit of an improvement on the original." Warrick shook his head, but before he could reply, the copy-Warrick said, "Change places?" That earned him a proprietorial pat on the shoulder from his creator. "I'd be delighted." Watching them swap round, Toreth made up his mind. "Turn it on." It was the thing Warrick wanted him to ask, the reason he'd brought him here. "The live version. Go on." Warrick smiled. "All right." The pair of Warricks vanished, or at least reduced in number to a single figure seated on the edge of the vast bed. Naked, hands folded in his lap, expression blank. Counting the Warrick at the controls there were still two of them. Possibilities and permutations raced through Toreth's mind so quickly that he couldn't pin any one of them down. "Has anyone else had it?" Toreth asked. "Yes, I'm afraid so. Although not always in that shell in my body. A trained Yes can be used in different shells, although they work best in a limited set. The self-shells are used primarily for training and for " He stopped. "For what?" "Comparison trials." "For . . . you mean, for people to fuck that, then fuck you and see which was better?" Jealousy stirred again, rippling quickly through him. "Not quite. Rather to see if the experiences are comparable. It's a little more technical than that, but that's the gist. The object of the exercise isn't to create exact replicas, but to produce behaviourally autonomous objects to interact with sim users. Within their area of competence, they have to be convincing. You might have noticed that one thing we don't have in general use in the sim is true virtual people. There are human-like objects but their range of behaviour is predefined and so limited." Computer legislation was something Toreth had only a basic grounding in, but there was one fact he remembered. "Autonomous? Like an AI? Isn't that illegal?" "Yes. Or rather, sentient AIs are. We're trying to create something that will be suitably interactive, without it being legally sentient. We have all the appropriate permissions, of course. However, the legislation is sadly unclear, as is almost inevitable. Defining sentience, what constitutes a sentient AI, and how to delineate any one example and separate the AI from the systems around it, and so on." Despite a genuine effort to stay interested, Toreth could feel his eyes glazing over. It never stopped surprising him how Warrick could talk any situation to death once he found a technical angle that interested him. Warrick shrugged. "A very difficult area to even attempt to set in concrete terms. The Yes is one of our most promising approaches. They become convincing simulacra in a single area, but profoundly limited in others, or at least that is the idea. Stopping them learning isn't easy. We had hoped it would

find us a way round the law, in that they could be classified as merely unusually flexible expert systems. However, as soon as you add a human-like physical or virtual body, people make assumptions. And by definition, the things have to act human." A computer creation, not a person. Impossible to think of it as such, though, despite the eerie stillness. It was too exactly like Warrick to be a thing. "So they've forced you to cancel the project?" "Not as such, no. The permission for the projects requires periodic revision, with an Administration-appointed committee from the Communications Systems Assessment Division being responsible for that." "They're part of the Data Division," Toreth said with surprise. "They have a building in the IntSec complex." "Yes. The sim is classified as a means of information transfer, so they're responsible for monitoring our compliance with the relevant legislation. They delivered a report on the Yeses three weeks ago, and we were given a month to respond to their concerns. That's why I've been at SimTech all hours of the day since." Warrick sighed. "Unfortunately, our own assessment is that the burden of proving that what we're doing falls within the terms of the licenses has become too great for SimTech to bear. Answering all the points they raised will divert too many euros and people from the rest of the sim, and we have a tight schedule to deliver the first production run. So we've called a halt ourselves." "Christ. What a waste." "Not really. The work has been done, we've assessed a number of methods and had considerable success." The attempt to highlight the positive couldn't hide Warrick's disappointment. "It's a delay, not a cancellation. All the code will be archived until we have time to activate the project again." "Including him? It." 'It' sounded better. "Yes." Toreth contemplated the autonomous object on the bed. "Wake it up." Warrick touched the controls, and turned round, abruptly naked in the firelight. Toreth felt the unreal heat of the fire on his own suddenly bare skin. "KA-forty-one, initiate interactive mode," Warrick said. A number, not a name, Toreth noted. Probably Warrick wouldn't be interested in hearing about prisoner depersonalization theory. The Warrick on the bed looked up at them, then over to the clock and back. "Good evening." "Good evening," real-Warrick said. He extended his hand, and the Yes took it, rising smoothly to its feet and then standing beside . . . beside himself. They turned to Toreth. "Go on. If you want to, of course," said real-Warrick. Except neither of them were real. The real Warrick warm flesh and blood was elsewhere, still and unresponsive in the couch. The whole sim felt suddenly fragile around him. Feeling strangely self-conscious, Toreth moved over to the copy. He hesitated for a moment, wondering what to do, then settled for kissing it. Like kissing Warrick, and not like. Physically perfect, but something a little off in the response. Exactly what, he couldn't say. Disappointing in a way, but at the same time oddly reassuring to know that he could tell the difference. He deepened the kiss, beginning to explore with his hands, and the body leaned into him, responding to his touch and touching in return. Then, with no perceptible transition, he was kissing

Warrick, unmistakably so. He pulled back at once, looking between the man he still held, and the figure standing beside him, and for a moment, he wasn't sure. He didn't know. Then the explanation occurred, and he released his hold. "You swapped," he said accusingly to the Warrick he'd kissed. "Yes." Warrick had the same satisfied expression he'd worn when the Yes asked to change places. "You spotted it very quickly." "Of course I did." Reflexively, Toreth wiped his mouth. "No 'of course' about it some people can't tell, or don't notice for a while." "Don't do it again." "No?" "No. It's " He wasn't sure what it was, other than extremely unnerving. He hadn't known. For that one small moment, mouths together, virtual breath mingling, he hadn't been sure whether Warrick was real or not. Normally he enjoyed the weirdness of the sim, but the idea of fucking Warrick and not knowing who or what he was touching almost frightened him. He shivered. "Would you like to go out?" Warrick asked. "Now you've seen it." "No. It's just . . . fucking strange." Professional curiosity sparked in Warrick's eyes. "Because it's not a real person? Or because it's me?" "The second one. If it didn't look like you, I think it would be okay." The copy spread its hands. "I can change my shell, if that would make you more comfortable." Toreth looked sharply at Warrick, who shook his head. "That's the Yes talking." He smiled. "It's rather more agreeable than I am." The Yes or what he thought was the Yes smiled too, an eerie mirror. "Somewhat. All part of my function. What are your preferences? I'm a far more accomplished male, but I can try female if that's what you'd like." Had it been listening to everything, then? "Don't you know what I like?" "How should I? We've never met before and Doctor Warrick left me no instructions. But I always enjoy expanding my knowledge." "But if you're " Not sure he believed Warrick wasn't playing games, Toreth looked between them again. Warrick laughed. "I give you my word, it's not me. And it doesn't have my memories, except of shared time in the sim." Too unnerving to think about for long. "You have no idea who I am?" he asked the Yes. "None at all." Feeling rather ridiculous, he said, "My name's Val Toreth." "Ah!" Eyebrows rose, and the Yes glanced at Warrick. "I have heard the name before. Once or twice. It's a pleasure to meet you." It tilted its head, enquiring. "So, should I change?" "No." Toreth took a deep breath. "No, you're fine as you are." "Good. There's nothing to worry about, I promise. I don't bite except on request." It took a

step towards the bed, and offered its hand. "Come on." Reaching out, Toreth clasped the warm, imaginary flesh. Creepy it may be, but not so creepy that the idea of the fuck didn't appeal more. They made a gentle start, slow and sensuous. The pace made it easy to keep track of which body was where, to be sure who was what. He still caught himself pausing every so often to think, am I sure? But the intervals between the checks grew longer as he allowed the physical pleasure to overcome the unease. Fucking two men wasn't something he did very often. With threesomes he liked there to be at least one person involved who didn't quite want to do it, and that often meant a couple with a reluctant husband or wife. So two men had a certain novelty in itself, albeit entirely overwhelmed by who they were. Lying on his back, a Warrick on each side pressed against him full length, his arms around them, was something he had never dreamed about, never fantasised, never imagined. Freeing an arm, he offered his wrist to real-Warrick. "Check my pulse, would you? I have a feeling I've died and gone to heaven." Warrick grinned, and complied. "Present if a little fast, flatterer." Toreth accepted a kiss, and then turned to the other side. "Do you play the game?" he asked the copy. An enquiring frown creased its brows. "Game? Why don't you explain the rules to me, and I'll see?" Warrick ran a distracting hand down his side. "That's not part of the training." "No?" Toreth didn't look round he was watching the Yes, which was listening to the conversation with apparent interest. "Why not?" "Some things I prefer to keep private. Or at least not to make available for others' use." Toreth looked round at him and smiled, not bothering to hide his satisfaction. "Good." He rolled Warrick over, moving to lie on top of him, taking hold of his wrists and pinning him, thrusting against him. A moment of stillness, and Warrick conjured something oil-slippery between them, turning the sensation from pleasant to exquisite as their cocks rubbed together. Very, very nice. And, wonderfully, not all they could do. "Fuck me," he said, looking at Warrick beneath him, but addressing the Yes. If it didn't understand him, Warrick passed the message along, because he felt hands holding him, stilling him, and then a cock sliding into him, smooth and infinitely satisfying. "Ah, God, that feels good," copy-Warrick breathed in his ear, and Toreth couldn't disagree. He stopped moving, letting the copy's thrusts shift him against the solid body beneath him. He didn't need to ask Warrick if he was comfortable, because he would be everything sim perfect. Perfection indeed, or at least nothing obviously missing sprang to mind. Surrounded by warm skin, by Warrick's maddeningly arousing smell, he shivered at the copy's mouth on the back of his neck, a touch of teeth only adding to the stimulation. At the same time Warrick's mouth pressed against his, Warrick's hands pulling him down and sliding along his sides to grip his hips and urge him to move faster. Whether because of Toreth's response, or because of a direct instruction sent by the original, the Yes shifted above him, bracing its arms and thrusting into him deeper and harder, making him moan, and Warrick in turn buck beneath him, hands releasing him to reach further towards the Yes.

"More," Warrick gasped, as Toreth sucked his throat hard no need to worry about marks here. "Yes, that's . . . that's it. That's ah. I want you " He felt the peculiar, liquid twist of reality reordering itself in obedient response to Warrick's thoughts, and then Toreth found himself inside Warrick, cock already buried deep at the instant he became aware of it. He groaned, overwhelmed by the sudden sensations; fucked and fucking, bringing the earlier recording vividly to mind. They came together with sim-tuned perfection, Warrick's cry covered by his own, and a soft echo of them both from the lips pressed into his shoulder. When he opened his eyes, they were still in the bedroom. There was only one Warrick present, though, lying beneath him and holding him. As Toreth lifted his head, Warrick released him. "What do you think of it?" Warrick asked. Toreth rolled off him and settled into the feather mattress. "Pretty good," he said. "But . . . " Warrick frowned. "But?" "But it isn't you, is it?" Then he winced inwardly, because that sounded far more . . . meaningful than he'd intended. Luckily, Warrick didn't seem to notice. "No, it isn't. However, as I said, it's not supposed to be an exact replica of me. It shares some of my sexual responses and preferences, that's all. What I meant was: how did you rate it as a convincing sexual partner?" "I, um . . . " Toreth sat up and rested his elbows on his knees, trying to come up with something useful and, unusually, failing. With the physical distraction of the fuck over, the unease had returned, and that was rapidly overwhelming the memory of how much fun it had been. He stared at the flickering candles, hoping for inspiration. "It wasn't bad, I suppose. It knew what it was doing. It was good at it. It was a bit . . . passive. Or something. I don't know maybe I wouldn't think that if it didn't look like you. But . . . there was something missing. It felt like " Then, finally, he put his finger on it. It felt like strangers in bars and temps at work. It felt like all the fucks he'd had over the last fortnight and every single fuck in his life before he'd met Warrick. It threw the distinction into sharp and disturbing relief. Nothing sounded in the room except the low crackle of flames, until Warrick said, "Are you hungry? I haven't eaten anything since breakfast." Toreth took the diversion gratefully. "Yeah. Yeah, I am. Want to go out and get something?" He heard a snap of fingers behind him as Warrick called up the console, and for once Toreth was glad to see the sim fade about them and to find himself back in the couch and the real world. ~~~ As the lift opened into the reception area, Warrick said, "Needless to say, everything I've told you is still highly confidential." "Sure. Not a word to anyone." This time he meant it. Not even Sara, who had heard all his other virtual fuck-stories. This one would pass a coffee time nicely, but he didn't feel like telling it.

"Would you sell it?" he asked as they stepped out of the building into the cool evening. "If you can get round the legislation?" "Yes, of course. It's only a question of time and resources. Truly human-like objects are an important feature of the sim as it was originally envisaged and we desperately want to keep them." "No, I mean, will you sell that one. You." "Ah. No. A modified version of the Yes might be commercialized, but not in that shell. No real people will be used." "Good." "Well, I say none. One business proposal is to license shells from well-known porn actors. That would come into its own in the longer term, when the per-unit cost of the sim is down to a level that private ownership becomes widespread. Although before that, it would be viable in leisure centres . . . " Toreth lost track of the details, enjoying the walk, and the sound of Warrick's voice, whatever he was talking about. Enjoying the solidity of the real world, noticing all the things he wouldn't normally give a second thought to: the smell of the evening city, voices in the distance, lighted windows and the thin crescent sliver of the new moon. The thought intruded that the sim could be this real. They had models of the campus, or at least of this part of it. Of the SimTech building, too. He could so easily be walking through an illusion, with the Yes beside him. "Look at the moon," he said, cutting into Warrick's flow. Saying it only so that when Warrick stopped and looked up, he made an easier target to grab hold of and kiss. For once, public as it was, Warrick made no move to pull away and Toreth didn't release him until he was absolutely sure. "Well?" Warrick raised an eyebrow. "Am I real?" Toreth stared, his hands still on Warrick's shoulders. How the hell had he known? Warrick laughed. "Everyone suffers from that from time to time." "Even you?" "Mm. Actually, no. I can always tell. But then I've worked with it for a long time, and I know where the flaws are. A few of the small, simple rooms are close to indistinguishable from the originals, but nowhere this complex. I keep hoping, though." He gazed up at the moon again, his voice soft. "The world is so beautiful, when you look at it. So detailed. So sharp. Everything's just there so much more than we need. Light we can't see, sounds we can't hear. Sometimes I wonder if that's what it takes to make it real. But one day, I'll go into the sim, into a world like this, full of other users mixing with people who are no more real than the scenery, and I won't know. The illusion will be perfect. Then it'll be finished. Not commercially finished, but complete as I conceived it. I'm sure it can be done. Will be done, in the end." If Warrick expected any sort of response, Toreth had no idea what to say. This was Warrick's world, not his, and the passion in Warrick's voice was as disconcerting as the Yes. After a moment, Warrick shook his head and smiled, a little ruefully. "That's what it's about, after all, at least according to Asher." "What?" "SimTech. The Yeses. Asher says it's all about proving that I was right and the people who said it

would never work were wrong. Back before SimTech, when they closed the project." Which sounded like a convincing theory to Toreth. "I wonder where she'd get an idea like that." "I've always suspected Dilly." Warrick glanced at the moon again, and then laughed. "It doesn't hurt to dream, does it? Come on. Before I faint from very real hunger." They started walking again. It had been a once-in-a-lifetime evening, Toreth thought, at least if SimTech didn't start the Yes programme again. That would be fine with him. One Warrick had to be enough for anyone.

Gee
Taking an extra-long Friday lunch always felt slightly naughty to Sara, even when, as today, Toreth had suggested it. Two cases had finished and no replacements had yet arrived, so he'd said they deserved a celebration. Unfortunately, they were late setting off, and by the time they reached the commercial buildings on the periphery of the Int-Sec complex, most places were full. Even with the bright sunshine, the blustery October wind had obviously discouraged people from venturing too far. So for once they made it a little further off the Int-Sec grounds altogether, and to an Italian cafe-bar neither of them had visited before. They found a table in a quiet corner, and Toreth offered to buy. Sara glanced at the menu, then said, "Surprise me." "Okay, but don't blame me if you hate it. Juice?" "Pineapple, please." The surprise would be steak and chips, because it always was. She watched Toreth threading his way between the tables, idly appreciating the rear view, and the way his hips moved as he squeezed between two chairs. Not something she ought to be looking at, she reminded herself sternly (and unsuccessfully). When he reached the bar, Sara shook her head and fished out her hand screen. She was supposed to be making arrangements for tonight, for a double date with her sister, and Fee would kill her if she forgot. After a minute or two, a quiet male voice said, "Excuse me?" Sara looked round to find an elderly man standing a couple of metres away. Once he must have been handsome and powerfully built. Now age had begun to melt muscle away, leaving a stooped frame. But his thinning hair was neatly cut and combed and he was smartly dressed, although the style was almost old-fashioned enough to look like a costume: a blue blazer and striped tie, and shoes so highly polished it was hard to see the colour. "I'm sorry?" Sara said. The man smiled, a hesitant expression at odds with his appearance. "Ah the man you were talking to his name wouldn't by any chance be Valantin Toreth, would it?" "Valantin?" Not even his despised parents called him that. The man clearly mistook her surprise for a negative. "No, of course not; I apologise for troubling you." "No, sorry I mean, yes, that's him." "Ah." He hesitated again, obviously torn between staying and going. "I wondered if " "Jesus fucking Christ!" Toreth's voice was loud enough to attract attention from tables right across the bar. "Gee?" The man took a small step back. "Yes." Toreth slammed the glasses down on the table, slopping juice over the rims. It took Sara a moment to read it as surprise, not anger. "What the hell are you doing in here?" "I, ah I was passing by when I saw you come in, and I thought I recognised you. I wanted to

say hello, that's all. I won't disturb your lunch." "Yeah, well, hello." The pause slowly slid into a silence, and Sara took the opportunity to cough quietly. "Sorry," Toreth said. "Gee, this is Sara Lovelady, my admin. Sara, this is, uh, Gerald Evans." No job description given for Evans, she noted, as she stood up to shake his hand. The man nodded at Sara, only briefly, before his eyes went back to Toreth. His gaze was intense now, almost hungry, as though he could pull something out of Toreth just by looking at him. "You're doing well?" "Fine. I moved to I&I from Justice with the Interrogation Division. I made senior parainvestigator." "Youngest ever," Sara said impulsively. "Really?" Evans beamed. "A senior para-investigator. I should have recognised your uniform, of course. Well, that's wonderful. Didn't I always say you had it in you?" "Uh, yeah." A short, awkward pause followed, before Toreth said, "How about you?" "I'm retired. I have been for years. Ah, yes. Tempora mutantur . . . " "And we change with them," Toreth said. That drew another delighted smile. "Yes, indeed." He took Toreth's hand in both of his and shook it warmly. "A pleasure to see you again, my boy. Really it is. A pleasure. But I must be going. I, ah " "Yes?" "We parted on bad terms, I know. I wanted to let you know I quite forgave you for your little prank." He squeezed Toreth's hand. "Well . . . goodbye, and good luck not that you seem to need it." Evans released Toreth's hand, and nodded to Sara. "Goodbye, Ms Lovelady." Then he turned and strode smartly away. Toreth sat down and pulled a glass towards him. "Would you fucking believe it?" he said, apparently to the juice. "Gee Evans." Sara lasted for an agonised thirty seconds before she said, "Who was that?" "Someone I haven't seen for a fuck of a long time." "Oh, come on." He took a sip of juice and made a face. "This is yours. Or they fucked up the order." He tried the other glass. "No, my mistake; this is the grapefruit." "Toreth." A silence, then Toreth nodded. "Okay. But first " He swirled his glass, spreading the spilled juice in a circle on the table. "First you've got to promise not to laugh." Sara stared at him. "Laugh?" "Some of it's . . . soppy, Chev would call it. Although where the hell he got that from, I don't know." "Kel, I expect. And of course I won't laugh." More seemed to be required. "I promise." "Okay. Right. I don't know if I ever mentioned, but when I was thirteen, I was sent to a Retraining Centre." Toreth looked up. "Heard of them?"

Sara shook her head. "No more than the name." "Before your time. They were a bit like the Assessment Centres are now. Administration-run, one step down from a juvenile re-education facility. Except that back then they weren't just somewhere to send you to keep you out of trouble while they found out what the problem was and whether it could be fixed. Kids mostly stayed there until they got old enough to be passed on to one of the adult places." He paused again, so she asked, "Why were you there?" "I stabbed someone at school." He smiled the one that always made her shiver, which she duly did. "The little tosser was so fucking scared of me that when he got out of the ICU he wouldn't say I'd done it, not even on a witness interrogation. He was underage, of course, so they couldn't really interrogate him. But everyone knew it was me, so they whipped up some poxy psych report and bundled me off to this RC place." He shrugged. "It was okay, actually. I mean, it was a prison: all the doors locked on the outside, there was a fuck-off huge fence, and the guards were six foot six, and that's across the shoulders. Ready to kick the shit out of you at the first sign of trouble. But it was okay. You know relatively." Relative to being at home was what he meant. "And because it was supposed to be educational, they did have lessons. Gee was a teacher. Pretty good teacher, too he taught me how to read. Or, well . . . I could read, I just didn't want to." He shook his head. "Hard to explain, now. But Gee actually liked teaching. We spoiled it for him, of course. Jesus, he loathed most of the kids in there." "I bet." "What did he used to say when we got a new one sent in? Fuck, I can't remember. Oh, God, that was it another one down from the trees in search of the secret of fire. Real knuckledraggers. Most of them were doped all the time, or so fucking fried on smuggled-in stuff that they couldn't remember their own names." "And you weren't?" He grinned. "Even back then I drew the line at filling myself full of that kind of crap. So I ended up listening, for a change. I was bored, I suppose. There wasn't anything better to do, and I was Gee's star pupil, just 'cause I was one of the few kids in there who could think without moving my lips or drooling. He used to call me " He paused, looking down, circling the glass again. "What?" Sara asked. "Ah, shit. He used to say I looked like an angel." Toreth actually flushed. "My hair was a lot longer then, and lighter and " He raised his eyes, frowning. "I knew you'd laugh." Sara cleared her throat. "I wasn't!" Or not much. She decided to try flattery. "In fact, I can kind of see his point." The frown darkened. "Don't take the piss. I was telling you about Gee. Do you want to hear it or not?" "Please." She picked up her glass and settled back. "Okay. What he really wanted was to be a teacher in an olde-worlde boys' school. Kind of place that only ever existed in books anyway. Of course, nowhere respectable would've let him within a hundred kilometres. He was cracked completely fucked in the head. Still is, I should think. But the

RCs would take anyone mad enough to work there, so he got to make his own little fantasy world. He had a study, a bit like the club room in the sim: wood panels, carpet, two leather chairs, huge wooden desk, all the props. He'd decorated it himself; everywhere else was plastic-coated walls and steel furniture screwed to the floor." Toreth stared across the bar, eyes distant. "I remember how it smelled. Nice, actually, compared to the rest of the place. Him, and boot polish, and paper and burning dust. He had a fake coal fire, which must've been a hundred years old. Amazing it never set fire to the building. One whole wall was paper books. Old, a lot of them. All school stories or spanking stories, or books about " He frowned. "What's the word? Ah, yeah corporal punishment. Anyway, he used to make me stand there, in front of the fire, and read them to him." The abrupt turn in the conversation, coupled with Toreth's matter-of-fact tone, left Sara wondering if she was hearing it correctly. She couldn't help asking, "Make?" "In a way. He called it private tuition. He pulled me out of lessons to do it, and when the alternatives were standing there reading out regulations for the flogging of ratings in the eighteenthcentury British Navy or sitting through the brain-numbing crap the rest of them got, it wasn't much of a choice." He frowned thoughtfully. "You know, I bet some of that was restricted historical material. I've never thought of that before. He was lucky no one reported it." Toreth took a sip of his grapefruit juice. "Anyway, Gee liked boys blond boys and he had a spanking kink like you would not believe. No, not a kink. A real fetish. He genuinely couldn't get it up without it." "He used to spank you?" Sara was amazed by how calm she sounded. Not to mention how calm he was. "Oh yes. With a slipper, mostly." His eyes crinkled, halfway between a smile and a grimace. "He had a cane as well, though. Kept it hanging on the wall a metre, metre and a half long, about as thick as your finger. When he got it down he used to say, 'This is going to hurt me a lot more than it hurts you.' I used to tell him to fucking try it himself." Toreth wasn't always the most truthful storyteller, and she suddenly and very badly wanted this to be a lie, although she knew it wasn't. "He didn't use it very often, thank God. It was for when I actually did something wrong, which was less often than you'd think, because fuck that thing hurt. It was always multiples of six." He shifted, hunching down in the chair. "Thirty, that was the most. Just once, when I deliberately screwed up an external test he'd arranged 'specially for me. Christ, he was furious. Enough that I don't think he even got off on it at the time. Bet he enjoyed remembering it afterwards, though. It was supposed to be thirty-six, I think, but he stopped when the God, it was . . . " He stopped, wincing at the memory, then shook his head. "I was sick afterwards, in his waste-paper bin. He wasn't very pleased about that, either." Her outrage escaped in a squeak, and he straightened up and smiled. "I suppose it all worked out in the end, 'cause I never threw another fucking test, I can tell you that." "But that's barbaric!" She couldn't keep quiet any longer. "And illegal. We couldn't do that. You weren't old enough for a waiver, even if he was allowed to do it." "I suppose so." He sounded vaguely surprised by her outburst. "Legal wasn't a big thing in the RC. No one who lets their kids get sent somewhere like that gives a fuck about them, and who else is going to care? Anyway, it was usually a slipper, which was okay. Bend down, hands on your knees, keep still. Take it like a man." Toreth snorted with laughter. "Can you believe he really said that?"

Sara still couldn't believe the bastard had done it at all, but there didn't seem to be much point in saying so. "It was supposedly for getting the reading wrong," Toreth continued, "which is why the lessons worked. I used to concentrate so hard, getting it word perfect, making him wait. An hour or so and he'd be squirming in the chair, desperate for it. Then I'd start fucking it up, on purpose, and eventually he'd tell me to take my trousers down. It never did much for me, but I've had a lot worse." Grossly unfair as it was, she had the urge to ask Toreth how he could've let Evans do it to him. "Did he ever ?" Abuse you. Rape you. "Fuck me?" Toreth nodded. "Not often, though. Wasn't what he wanted. Mostly he'd come while he was smacking me, if he came at all. He was getting on a bit, even then. But if I'd been behaving, he'd make an exception. Considering that he didn't actually like touching, he wasn't a bad lay. He gave a decent handjob, anyway, although he used to wrap his hand in a white hankie first. Completely fucking cracked, like I said. He'd do other stuff as well, when I could sweet-talk him into it. First man adult I ever fucked, which was about as much his thing as the spanking was mine." The tone was as unmistakable as it was unbelievable. Affection. "You liked him?" Toreth blinked. "Never really thought about it like that, but I yeah, I suppose so. Okay, I was fifteen, so I thought Gee was about a hundred and fifty, but he was fit enough that it wasn't completely disgusting. He was the one who started me on my exercise kick. Something else to pass the time that I ended up enjoying." Sara struggled for a response, finding nothing. This wasn't supposed to be the kind of thing you simply told someone over lunch, never mind worry that they'd laugh about it. She knew she was staring, and couldn't help it. Toreth didn't seem to care, though. If anything, he looked faintly amused by her reaction. It just wasn't She thought back to a conversation with Warrick, when Carnac had been at I&I. Toreth wasn't normal. Most of the time he could pass well enough, and then something like this happened, almost as if to underline how profoundly not normal he was. "What happened in the end?" she asked. "Nothing very exciting. After a couple of years, when I'd stopped fucking around with the reading and learned some stuff from him apart from pervy school stories, Gee swung me a resit for my level threes, and another psych test. He sent the results to the Interrogation Division, and I got a promise of sponsorship for training there if my level fours were okay. And then the RC kicked me out and sent me home. I suppose I counted as a success for them. You should've seen that fucking bitch's face when I told her I was " He stopped dead. "Anyway, that's it," he said after a moment. That fucking bitch Toreth's mother. They'd need to be late into an alcohol-fuelled night before he would manage a whole sentence about her. "So he's the reason you ended up at Interrogation?" "Yeah, I suppose so. I was getting a bit old for him by then, so he wanted me out of the way." There was a tight edge in his voice, and Sara decided to drop the subject. "What did he mean about the little prank?" she asked. "Oh, yeah." Toreth ran his hand through his hair. "The little prank. Fuck. Last few weeks I was there, Gee started breaking in my replacement. Younger model. He looked like a pig. Really, he did pink and shiny, with a fat, scrunched-up little face and tiny eyes. A pig in a blond wig. Bastard." Clear anger showed now, for the first time, and Sara wasn't sure where it was directed.

His smile had turned shivery again. "A fortnight before I went home, I planted a camera in his study, and got some lovely stuff: spanking, a couple of canings, lots of Gee with his hand on his cock through his trousers and that expression on his face disgusted with himself and loving it. Pig-boy crying and begging him to stop." He shrugged. "Pig-boy was a lot better at that bit than I was. Gee never got much out of me beyond screaming at him to fuck off and screw himself when he was laying into me with that bloody cane. He didn't mind, though as long as you were still bending over and you were making some kind of a noise, he was well away. Anyway, last day there, I broke into one of the computer rooms, made about a hundred copies of the recordings and passed them out round the place. Kids, guards, whoever wanted one. Fucking hysterical. I bet there's still people out there with them." All she could come up with was, "Did they arrest him?" "Oh, fuck, no. Gee was fine. Didn't even sack him. It's hard enough to find people to work in those places without giving them the boot over a little thing like that." A little thing like that. Sara simply stared, all attempts at a sensible reaction abandoned. Toreth shook his head. "Funny how it's all so clear. I haven't seen him since that last day at the RC, and he was pretty fucking pissed off, I can tell you. Dragged me into his office, and " He shrugged. "I broke his cane. And maybe his jaw; I didn't hang around to find out for sure. If I did, he never told anyone because nothing happened about it. Although he wrote to me later." "What?" "Gee wrote to me, after I left the RC. Pen and ink. He's got the most amazing handwriting, all loops. He knew my address, of course, from my file." Could this, actually, get any stranger? "What did he say?" Toreth shrugged. "No idea. Didn't open them." Apparently, it could. "Toreth " "Couldn't really see the point, since I was never going to see him again." "Toreth " It must have been her tone of voice that made Toreth lean back, instantly wary. "What?" "I " Sara stopped, considering. There was nothing she could say that Toreth would want to hear. Pity or sympathy would only anger him, questions about how he'd felt back then would do the same. Anything that tied what had been done to him to the present, and especially to his kinky thing with Warrick would meet with . . . what? Blank incomprehension, at best. It wasn't a path she had any business following, either. They were his issues, and his relationship, and if she tried to say something, she'd be doing it for herself, not for him. "Have you ever told Warrick about him?" she asked. Now Toreth stared. "Jesus, no, of course not. You know what he's like about that kind of thing I&I sets him off badly enough and that's all legal. He'd blow a fuse, and then he'd go on and on about it. I don't need that kind of hassle." Well, there was one sign of a basic grounding in reality, even if some of the reasoning was rather skewed. "Of course not, no, you're quite right." "Anyway, I haven't thought about Gee in years. Weird, meeting him like that. He hasn't changed that much, except for being older. Still wearing the same fucking shoes, too. All that time I spent staring at them." There was an uncharacteristically uncomfortable silence, then Toreth drained his

glass and said, "Do you want some wine? There's nothing important on this afternoon, is there?" "No. I mean, no, there's nothing on. Red, please." "I'll give them a kick about the food, as well. It ought to be here by now." Toreth rose, but didn't leave right away. He stood, staring at the door, lips pursed. Then he shook his head, and set off for the bar. Watching him cross the room had temporarily lost its appeal, so Sara went to the ladies instead, in search of some soap and very hot water. She could still feel the print on her hand where Evans had shaken it.

Shopping & Fucking

Shopping Fucking Icing On The Cake

Shopping
While Toreth talked on the comm he kept an eye on Warrick, who lay beside him on the bed. He looked composed on the surface, if flushed and slightly bitten, but Toreth knew him well enough to see the irritation beneath. Warrick was pissed off because the call was from I&I. Toreth's job had intruded into Warrick's flat. Worse, it had done so right in the middle of a nice Saturday post-gym fuck. Saturday routine, interrupted. Especially annoying when Toreth had made a special point of wrapping things up yesterday to spend a whole day with Warrick. Trust some selfish bastard to want to confess today. He felt tempted to tell Parsons, or even a pool interrogator on duty, to handle the interrogation for him, but the case was too important not to be personally present. "I'll be three-quarters of an hour," he told the detention officer, regretting it even as he said it. There was no point delaying, though. If he and Warrick fucked now the summons would loom over the whole thing and spoil it. He finished the call. Warrick rolled over onto his back and pillowed his head on Toreth's stomach. "You have to go?" Warrick asked. "Yeah. Work." Toreth didn't move, though. He lay watching the clock, determined to wring every second out of it. Sometimes he really felt like resigning, and then . . . Unfortunately, there was never an 'and then' that he could come up with. I&I had always been his life. I&I and now Warrick, and he hated it when the two got in each other's way. "Sorry about this," he said. "I can't guarantee when I'll be finished, either. We can pick it up tomorrow, if you like." Warrick sighed. "Much as I'd love to, I'm afraid I can't tomorrow. I've arranged to see Dilly." Clearly, Toreth wasn't invited. A shame in a way, because he always liked to see her, even though she didn't like to see him. "Can't you cancel?" "No, it's too late. We have plans. And we're both so busy that if we don't make plans and stick to them, then we never get together." In a general sense he knew Warrick did lots of things without him. Work, family, friends. But he rarely considered them in any depth, or in a way that made them feel real. The idea made him mildly curious (and maybe a touch jealous). "Where are you going?" "Out for brunch. Then there's a lunchtime concert and afterwards we're probably going shopping. I'm making dinner for some of her university people in the evening." "Shopping for what?" "Supposedly furniture. She's finally decided she hates the things in the flat too much to live with them, now she's going to be on Earth for a while. But I expect we'll end up with the usual things."

As if he ought to know what they were. "The usual things?" "She buys clothes to wear twice and leave behind next time she goes off world. I buy things for the kitchen." After a moment he added, "You'd find it very boring." "Oh, I don't know." "What, shopping?" "I could give it a go." For one thing, watching Dillian trying on clothes wouldn't rate very high on his hardship scale. Warrick twisted round to look at him. "That wasn't a serious suggestion, was it?" "Yeah, why not?" He ran a finger along the line of Warrick's jaw, enjoying the slight roughness. "We'd have to go to the right kind of shops, that's all." An idea was forming. Even without Dillian, it could still be fun. There was a short silence. "Toreth, if this is leading where I think it's leading, I'm not sure " "I am." He hadn't been, but Warrick's voice held that particular touch of real reluctance that made it irresistible. "Not in public." So that was the problem. "It wouldn't be in public, it'd be in a shop." "Not with other people there, then. I wouldn't be able to . . . get into the mood." "Yes, you would. Think about it." He twined his fingers through Warrick's hair. "Think about racks and shelves and drawers of gear. All the fuck toys you can imagine. It'll be so much better than virtual shopping. You'll be able to touch things, see how they feel. Try them, maybe. Choose exactly what you want; pick exactly what you want me to do to you. I'll buy it for you whatever you want. And then we can get it wrapped and bring it straight home. No waiting. It can be a birthday present." "It's not my birthday, and I don't want to do it." Toreth couldn't recall a prisoner who'd ever made a less convincing denial. "Call it an early New Year present, then. Come on, you love the idea." "No, I don't," Warrick said, despite some fairly solid evidence to the contrary. He laughed. "I'll sort something out." After that, getting up and going to work didn't seem so bad. ~~~ The reason Warrick hadn't protested more when it was first mentioned, weeks ago, was that he was fairly sure 'I'll sort something out' had meant it would never happen. After a while, when Toreth had failed to raise the idea again, he'd decided that he'd been right. So when Toreth had left a message one Friday, saying he'd be round to collect him on Saturday afternoon, Warrick hadn't connected it with the previous conversation. It was a little odd that Toreth didn't say why, but not strange enough to merit serious thought. The first twinge of concern came when Toreth was not merely on time, but ten minutes early. The concern grew when he wasn't even upset that Warrick wasn't ready. He merely waited in the hallway, whistling in the particularly irritating way that meant he was in a tremendously good mood. "Where are we going?" Warrick asked as the taxi set off. "It's a surprise." That was worrying, and for some reason shopping was the first idea that came into his head.

"I said I didn't want to do that." He knew he'd guessed right when Toreth smiled and looked out of the window, without saying a word. He'd said he didn't want to, and he'd meant it. The fact that Toreth could turn him on by talking about the idea didn't mean a thing. When he used the right tone of voice, content wasn't very important. What he did with Toreth was private. A few people knew, mostly people who'd noticed bruises and been concerned to one degree or another. Beyond that, at work, there were rumours and stories that he occasionally caught the tail end of. Inevitable, he supposed. And Sara had to know, of course. She went to Toreth's flat, for one thing, and the chains on the wall were hardly subtle. In fact, he didn't mind her knowing. He had at first, but he'd grown used to the idea, because she so obviously didn't care. What they did, though, the process, the detail, the mechanics they were secrets. His feelings about it were another level of secret again. Nobody needed to know about it and he certainly wasn't voluntarily putting himself on display. Toreth loved it, of course. Making him react in public, setting up situations where he could turn him on, leaving him desperate and wanting. Watching him struggling through social events, sometimes having trouble remembering his own name. Warrick let him do it, because God, it was good in the end. From time to time Toreth went too far, and they'd argue and then, of course, the fuck afterwards was even better. Hopeless situation, really. As hopeless as this one. He was mildly surprised when the taxi stopped on the edge of one of the more upmarket shopping complexes. He'd been expecting somewhere seedy, somewhere dark and dangerous. "Here we are," Toreth said. Toreth opened the door of the taxi and waited for him, not saying anything else. This was, Warrick realised with surprise, a chance for him to back out, although it wasn't spelled out as such. He could tell the taxi to go home and Toreth wouldn't mention the thing again. Warrick didn't, though. He climbed out, watched as the taxi pulled away, and then followed Toreth into the building. He didn't want to disappoint Toreth, or reject the care and planning, which were gifts in themselves. And, yes, he could feel the first faint stirring of excitement at the idea of what might be ahead of him. What harm could it do to satisfy his curiosity about what Toreth had arranged? He could always change his mind later. The shop was tucked in a quiet corner of the ground floor of the complex, away from the bright shop fronts. There wasn't even a sign, only a numbered door with a security scan, which opened for Toreth's ID. Beyond was a small, square room with a desk, half a dozen low upholstered seats and two doors leading from it. The walls and ceiling were painted a rich dark blue, with silver flecks on the upper half, suggesting stars. The woman at the desk put down a hand screen as they entered, then stood up and came out from behind the desk. Her short hair was dyed black, with a green-blue sheen to it like a beetle's wing case. Short, plump and dressed in multilayered blue and silver that matched the walls, she seemed an unlikely person to be working in . . . whatever this place was. She looked between them, assessingly, then turned to Toreth with a warm, welcoming smile.

"Welcome to the Shop. Can I help you?" "My name's Val Toreth." "Oh, yes, of course. You called last week and spoke to Shel I should have recognised the picture from the credit check. I'm Fran." Toreth nodded. "This is your first time here, isn't it? I can run through how it all works here, or downstairs, as you prefer." "We'll go down." "Fine. Let me just lock the door." She reached over the desk briefly. "We're a bit short-staffed today. There. Follow me." "Wait." Toreth turned to him. "Shut your eyes." Game voice. He hadn't meant to play in public, he thought, as his eyes closed obediently. Toreth led him across the room and he heard the door open. "Steps down." Toreth held his arm tightly as they descended, fingers digging into his biceps. The last noise of the city above faded out. Putting out his free hand, he touched a brick wall painted, but he didn't open his eyes to see what colour. "End of the steps . . . now. Corridor. Curtain ahead. No!" The sharp voice snapped his eyes shut as he started to open them. Despite his resolve, here he was, stuck fast in the role, with every moment of acquiescence giving Toreth permission to do more. Still, he could always change his mind later. How many times had he thought that in the past? And of course, he always could. It was just that he never did. The curtain brushed across his face and the light through his eyelids dimmed, then brightened in the space of a few steps. He heard a low, surprised whistle from Toreth. They had entered a larger space, their footsteps echoing on what felt like a stone floor. The dry, warm air carried a musky, complicated scent of age and leather, with hints of a multitude of other things dust, oil, metal, paper. Sex definitely sex. Where the hell were they? Hands on his shoulders turned him. He wondered what Fran thought about it. Probably nothing. She must see it all the time. "Okay, you can open them now," Toreth said. In the car and on the way downstairs he'd imagined . . . well, he'd tried not to imagine anything. When he hadn't been able to avoid it, he'd steered himself towards thinking about glass cabinets and white walls. Packaging and price labels. Everything a little distant, a little untouchable. Clinical. He'd be able to walk round and pick something out without feeling . . . just without feeling. Without humiliating himself in public under Toreth's appreciative gaze. The cellar which housed the shop was nothing at all like that. It was made up of small, interconnected rooms, linked by low brick arches. This part of the building must be considerably older than the rest above, or it had been very skilfully designed to look it.

The lighting was low, but where they stood the lights above had brightened, forming a pool of relative clarity in the gloom. Fran moved round, leaving him with a clear view into the shop, and the light moved with her. Sensors, he thought, trying not to look at the contents of the room better to break his mind in gently to what was all around them. Sensors to pick up movement, to illuminate the immediate merchandise and keep everything else as shape and suggestion. When they started to browse, the light would seem to follow them around, if the controls were smooth enough. It was a nice effect, and he'd have to remember it for the sim. He let his attention slip gradually onto what the lighting showed. Had Toreth already seen it when he'd said, 'all the fuck toys you can imagine'? Presumably not, if he'd contacted the place for the first time the week before. Still, he'd certainly met, or exceeded, his promise. The room was full, and so were the rooms on either side, for as far as he could see. New and obviously second-hand items were jumbled together, displayed on tables and shelves. Not a price label in sight. Tall, wooden cabinets, with dozens of drawers in different sizes, stood against the dark painted walls. Where there were gaps between the cabinets, the walls were covered in things hanging from hooks. Or hooks hanging from things. He stared at a complicated frame nearby, something hung with neatly coiled whips, knowing he recognised the shape, until his mind produced the answer. A rack. A real, functioning rack. Heavy, polished wood, and a faint gleam of oil on the metalwork. The straps were worn, dark around the edges with old sweat, obviously well used. Who had owned it? Who had, finally, brought it to this place? From one of the further rooms beyond he caught a gleam of light and a moving figure. They weren't alone down here. In the next room to the left he could make out more large pieces of equipment, although it wasn't possible to discern function from here, only vague form. Through the arch ahead, the walls were painted white and lined with tall bookcases filled with paper books. Off to the right were racks of clothes costumes in a myriad of materials. Beyond those rooms were more, filled with shadows. The layout drew the eye onward to new areas, hinting at discoveries to be made. Treasure trove. Aladdin's cave. A king's ransom in leather and steel. No packaging and no glass cabinets. He could touch anything and everything, and that was what the woman who'd followed them downstairs was saying, when he managed to focus on her words. "And if you need any help, or if you want anything specific, just ask. Take your time. When you find something, let me know and we can talk about prices then. Don't forget everything's negotiable." All the words made sense, but he couldn't hold on to the meaning. God, he was losing it already, with the darkness and the strange, exciting smell. It didn't matter Toreth would remember it all. Now he was talking to Fran, but watching Warrick. The light from above sharpened the planes of his face, drew attention to the hard lines around his mouth and eyes. Cruel. It made him look cruel, and predatory. Dangerous. Compelling. He noticed a change in the room and realised that the conversation was over. Good job he hadn't been required to say anything. Fran looked between them, smiled, and disappeared back up the stairs. Toreth walked a little way off, and the light divided, amoeba-like, to follow him. "Well." He gestured around the room. "Go on, then." Where to go first? Warrick hesitated in the face of the bounty. "It's like Aladdin's cave."

"Huh?" He caught Toreth's frown, but he didn't feel capable of an explanation. "It doesn't matter. How about this way?" As Fran had recommended, Warrick took his time. There was so much to see, it overwhelmed him at first. How the staff would ever find a specific item, he couldn't imagine. It was, oddly, no different to shopping for anything else, except that virtually everything he touched, everything he picked up, was a turn-on. After an indeterminate length of time, he found he had reached a plateau of arousal. Surprisingly, it wasn't uncomfortable, just something that was there. Like in the sim, he could work round it, almost ignoring the feelings as he opened drawers, examining the chains, masks, gags and dildos (these latter two items plastic wrapped and in drawers labelled with neat hand-written notices politely reminding Customers to Speak to the Staff if they Wished to Test them). After a while he began to see that the rooms were themed, items collected together, however haphazardly. There were plenty of things he liked, but nothing that really called out to him. He spent time sorting through racks of elaborate, intricate costumes of leather and studs, appreciating the beautiful craftsmanship more than anything else. At first, Toreth shadowed him, making suggestions, fastening things and distracting him with bruising kisses. By the time he looped back to the book-lined room, though, Toreth had wandered off on his own somewhere. Not surprising, given his usual attention span and the toys all around. In the first bookcase Warrick looked at, the books mostly appeared old, and he was surprised that even these were freely available for examination. Taking a volume down from the shelf, he was about to open it when he realised he wasn't alone. In a dark corner, out of the ambit of the attentive lights, a black-clad man leaned with his arms braced against the wall. For a moment Warrick wondered if he was ill, until he caught sight of the woman crouching in front of him. Also dressed in black, and shadowed by his body, she was almost invisible. However, she was also quite clearly, and not in the least subtly, fellating him. Her head moved rhythmically, long dark-blonde hair swinging in the gloom. As he watched, the man threw his head back and sucked air in through his teeth, letting it out on a long shuddering breath. Warrick stood, book in hand, until the man turned and caught sight of him. He smiled, quite unselfconscious, refastening his trousers. Then he reached down and lifted the woman to her feet by the leash around her neck. "Would you like to borrow her for ten minutes?" he asked. "She's very good." The woman showed no reaction to the offer, positive or negative. It must have been the surreal atmosphere of the cellar, combined with a couple of hours' shopping, but Warrick seriously considered it. Then he imagined Toreth walking through the archway and seeing the scene he had just witnessed, but with himself starring. It would be a shame to get blood all over the books. "No, thanks." The man merely nodded, and it was only then that Warrick noticed he also wore a leash. The woman took hold of it and wrapped the thin leather around her hand, still without saying a word, and they departed towards the stairs. How the hell, he wondered, had Toreth found this place? Leaving the library by a different archway, he eventually found his way to a smaller room, towards what might be considered the back, if the stairs were the front. There, in a corner, he saw

something. It looked like a wardrobe, broad and tall, but not deep. What attracted him was the colour of the wood. It exactly matched the wood of his bed and the rest of the bedroom furniture. In fact, it might almost have been from the same set, except that he'd had the furniture made for the room when he'd moved into the flat, and this was much older. He studied it from a little way away. Unlike most items in the shop, its purpose wasn't obvious. Just a cupboard? For no particular reason he felt certain not, but even if it was it would make a nice addition to the bedroom. Not that he'd ask Toreth to buy it. After he'd found this incredible place and arranged the visit it would be ungrateful to ask him for an armoire. There was a lock, but no key in it, and no obvious handles. A few moments' examination found the catches, and the double doors folded back smoothly in sections to lie flat against the sides. The interior was also wooden, but tapping it showed it to be a shell covering what, from the weight of the thing, must be a metal frame. Four chains with padded metal manacles were bolted into the top and bottom. Stepping inside, he reached up and took hold of them. Too long at the moment, but they looked designed to be adjustable. At the right length, they would hold him with his feet barely touching the floor. Stretched. Helpless. Open. He closed his eyes, spread his legs a little, imagining the cabinet in his bedroom. Imagining the manacles, hidden and secret, and ready for him. Almost too much to think about. Almost. He leaned forwards, putting a little of his weight onto the chains, wary of tilting the frame, and rested his forehead on the smooth wood. It smelled of fresh wax and polish. Perfect. It was perfect. It felt somehow familiar, as if it had been waiting for him, his already. Toreth spoke from behind him. "For your flat." He let go of the chains. "Yes." He moved aside to let Toreth examine the cabinet. "It matches the bedroom suite." "Does it?" Toreth ran his hands over the wood, testing the seams and the fit with unexpected professionalism. Bracing his hand on the frame he took one of the chains and pulled, eventually putting most of his weight on it. Then he let go and stepped back. "It's very nice," Toreth said. Warrick shook his head. "It will be far too expensive. I'll " "I can afford it." "You don't even know " "I said, I can afford it. If you want it. Do you?" "Yes." An honest answer, because that was the rule. "Yes, I want it." "Then try the manacles." They proved to be far too small, although Warrick had to bite his lip to hold back a moan at the tight press of cold steel. "I'll get her to change them." Warrick nodded. "They don't look like they're original to it anyway." "Does it matter?" "Well, it would be a shame to spoil it, if it was all original."

Toreth laughed. "I just want to fuck you in it I don't care whether it's original or not." He stepped back, looking it over. "There's only one problem with it." "What?" "We can't wrap it and take it home. But that doesn't matter I like a little anticipation." "I don't." Toreth could move so quickly, so skilfully, when he wanted to. Before Warrick could react he was pinned face first against the wood inside the frame, his hands spread above him and pressing against the chains. "It doesn't matter what you want," Toreth breathed into his ear. "All that matters is what I want. Say it." "It doesn't matter what I want." Toreth's hands pressed down over his, driving the links into his palms. "Say it." Suddenly, he couldn't breathe. "It doesn't . . . it doesn't matter what I want. It only matters what you want." "Close enough." The pressure on his hands lifted briefly, then Toreth caught one arm by the wrist and twisted it up behind him. His other hand slid slowly down Warrick's arm, down his side, round his hip . . . No. Not in public. Not in public. Somehow he couldn't manage the words. Toreth's hand moulded gently round his cock, not moving at first, just holding him, then pressing him back slightly against him. Warrick fought to keep still. "You really do want it, don't you?" Toreth whispered. "I should make you ask me for it on your knees. I should make you beg me for it, while I fuck you in front of it. But how long would it take before you came? Twenty seconds? Ten?" His hands tightened and Warrick's breath caught on a whimper. "Five? Probably not even long enough for me to get my cock inside you." Desperately, he tried not to listen. He wouldn't let Toreth do it. He was going to stop this soon. Very soon. He wouldn't let him Then Toreth released him and stepped back, leaving him leaning against the wood, shaking. "I'll go find her," Toreth said, in a matter-of-fact voice. "Wait here." There wasn't much chance of him going anywhere else, at least not until he got himself back under control. He sat where he couldn't see the cabinet, on the edge of a table with heavy staples set at the corners, and concentrated very hard on being somewhere else. By the time Toreth returned, he had regained a tenuous hold on calm. "Ah," Fran said. "Yes. It's beautiful, isn't it? We've had it for a while now. I'll be sorry to see it go." Toreth smiled. "It's going to a good home." "His place? I thought so. Let me show you something." Fran reached into the cabinet and he heard a click. The back panel slid out in two pieces, revealing metal cross braces and the edge of the frame, with sturdy brackets to secure it to the wall. "All fairly self-explanatory, I think. Do bolt it in place, though, into a solid wall, or you might not be coming back to buy anything else. It's been professionally restored, and the frame has been tested to " She glanced at Warrick, then at Toreth. " more than adequate weight limits."

Toreth nodded. "It'll need new cuffs." "I'll find some pairs for him to try." "Hang on. Do they have to be padded?" Toreth asked. "Up to you, of course. But I'd normally recommend it, if you're planning to take his weight off the ground with them." It was strange, standing there while being discussed in the third person. Strange, and strangely relaxing another way to surrender. He'd chosen the gift, and now Toreth was filling in the details, the fine planning that Warrick knew always turned him on. "Okay. Padded." "Suspension cuffs . . . suspension cuffs . . . " Fran turned slowly, surveying the room. "I think . . . over here." She opened a large unlabelled drawer, revealing a tangle of metal with glimpses of leather, satin and silk. Toreth picked out half a dozen pairs, sizing them by eye. "Give me your hands." It wasn't until the second pair had been tried and discarded that he even remembered Fran was there, watching, and that he hadn't been going to do this in public. Too late, now. The feel of the bonds around his wrists was too intimately connected with the game to be anything other than intensely arousing. By the time the best-fitting pair had been chosen he felt light-headed from the on-off sensation and the heavy click of the locks. He could hear his own breathing, quick and shallow, but couldn't steady it. "Do the ankle cuffs fit him?" Fran asked. "I don't know. Try them." Fortunately, they did. He didn't think he could bear another fitting session. "Now," Fran said, "I'm afraid we get to the painful part." It took him a few seconds to realise what she meant. She was talking to Toreth, of course, not to him. "Including the new cuffs and delivery " "Hang on," Toreth said, and then turned to him. "Go away." "What? Why?" "It's a present you're not supposed to know how much it costs." He smiled slightly. "Sara explained that to me once." Warrick had wondered. He wanted to hear at least the starting price, though, because he had a feeling that Toreth was going to buy it even if it was a ridiculous amount of money, even if he couldn't really afford it. The damn thing the lovely thing was clearly an antique as well as being beautifully made. "I just want to know how much." "Well, you can't always have what you want. Remember?" Toreth's voice hardened into the tones that these days he had to fight to disobey. "Go away. Play somewhere else until we're done." "No, I " Toreth hit him, backhanded, not very hard, but the surprise made him gasp. Fran didn't even blink. "I said, go away." He smiled again, a cold shark smile. "And, as I know you're not fucking deaf,

if you don't go right now you're going to regret it." God, he doubted that. He still went anyway, while he could still stand, and because he didn't want to find out how far Toreth was willing to go in this strange kind of public. As far as Warrick would let him, he suspected. It was Toreth's money, after all, and he could spend it how he liked. It wasn't as if he'd get nothing out of it. Warrick wandered through the jumble, feeling strangely disconnected from it now that the choice had been made. Eventually, he stopped in the central room with the bookcases. He picked a book out at random and sat on the set of library steps. He'd spent ten minutes trying and failing to read the book mostly illustrations anyway before painfully out-of-key whistling heralded Toreth's reappearance. Fran seemed to have gone another way, because he was alone. "All done. Are you done?" The image flashed into his mind of the couple he'd seen earlier, with himself kneeling. Toreth would certainly appreciate it. But . . . "Yes." He stood up and replaced the book. "Let's go." That could wait for another time, because he knew that they'd be back.

Fucking
It was late, but not too late, by the time Toreth got to the flat. Late enough that Warrick would have begun to wonder if he was coming round this evening or not. When he pressed the comm for the flat, Warrick answered more quickly than he'd ever done. He must have been sitting, waiting for it all evening, probably. "Can I come up?" Toreth asked. "The door's open." Despite the hair-trigger answer, he looked calm enough. Let's see how long that lasts, Toreth thought. As it turned out, it didn't even last as long as it took for Toreth to go up in the lift. Warrick stood in the open doorway, waiting for him, pale and only a whisker away from shaking. "When did you do it?" he asked. "Yesterday afternoon." Toreth came in past him, closed the door and locked it, while Warrick watched him. "I took the time off work and had them bring it straight here. They fitted it, too, so you don't have to worry about my dubious D-I-Y non-skills." He walked down the hallway to the bedroom, and after a moment Warrick followed him. The cabinet had been bolted to the wall opposite the windows. He'd had it put there because the late afternoon sun hit the wall in that spot. He liked the idea of Warrick chained in the sunlight. Toreth brushed his hand over the closed doors, admiring. Out of the gloom of the Shop, the grain of the dark wood was even more beautiful. "Is it all right here?" he asked. Warrick was still standing in the hallway outside. "It's exactly where I would have put it." "Good." He sharpened his voice. "Come here." They stood in silence, looking at the cabinet. Warrick waited beside him, not asking the question he so obviously and desperately wanted to. Toreth waited, too, letting the tension build, then said, "Is there something you want?" "Yes." "Then ask." "I want to try it tonight. Please." Struggling to keep his voice level. "I've been thinking about it all day. All the very unproductive day." He ignored the request. "When did you find it?" "As soon as I came home. The flight didn't get in until quite late and I came in here to sort out my luggage. I tried to call you, to . . . to say thank you. But you weren't answering." "No. Did you have a good night?" Warrick smiled, lopsided. "I had to sleep in the spare room in the end. And I didn't do that very well." Toreth had brought a bag with everything he might possibly need. Warrick would have the things

anyway, but it was safer this way, just in case. Planning was important, because it was attention to the details that made something like this perfect. And he'd loved packing the bag, taking his time, thinking about what it meant. While Warrick watched, he emptied the bag and arranged everything by the right-hand side of the cabinet, so that he wouldn't have to move away. A side pocket of the bag held the key to the cabinet. He'd taken it home with him yesterday to make sure this was the first time Warrick would see it open in place. He thought about the doors, and then decided Warrick would want to do it. "Open it up." Warrick did, fumbling with the key. The doors swung back, revealing the new manacles and adjusted chains. Everything perfectly prepared. Everything just right. "I tried the cuffs yesterday," Toreth said. Warrick stared at him, eyes wide. "Only the wrist ones. I got the second one closed against the edge of the cabinet. They're a bit tight on me." He looked at Warrick consideringly. "That turns you on, doesn't it? The idea of me in chains." Warrick nodded sharply. "Just the idea. The times we tried it, it didn't feel right." "Good. Bores me rigid. Okay, strip." He leaned against the edge of the cabinet and watched. "I fucked up the timers. I meant to set them for a minute and it was ten. I thought they were broken and I'd still be chained up there when you got back from wherever it was." Warrick laughed unsteadily, folding his clothes. "New York. That would have been a nice surprise." "For you. I'd have felt like a complete fucking idiot. I spent nine minutes planning how to kill Fran next time we go shopping, and then they opened." Toreth stood up. "All right." There was a silence before he added, slowly and deliberately, "I can't chain you up and listen to you beg me to hurt you, and then hurt you and listen to you to beg me to fuck you, and then fuck you and listen to you scream, if you don't stand in the fucking frame." He was rather surprised when Warrick actually managed to move. "Reach up. Stretch." He fitted Warrick's wrists into the manacles, feeling him shiver against him as the locks clicked closed. "Spread your legs. Further. No, do what you're fucking well told to do." Balance is an instinct. He'd known it would be hard for Warrick to trust the chains, to take the bite of the steel and let himself hang free. He'd hoped he wouldn't be able to do it. Kneeling, he pulled Warrick's ankle to the side, fitted the cuff quickly, and repeated the action with the other leg. He stayed where he was, his hands resting on Warrick's heels. "This is just because it's the first time. Next time, you'll do it properly. You'll do what you're told, when you're told to do it. Understand?" "Yes." Breathless, from a combination of excitement and the strain of having his arms stretched. "Yes. I'm sorry." "Sorry is no fucking good to me." He stood up again, picking up the belt from the pile of

Warrick's clothes as he did so. "There. All done. Now there's nothing you can do. No way out. No way you can stop me doing anything I damn well want to you, is there?" Warrick swallowed. "No." "Can you move?" "No." "Try." The frame didn't even creak. He watched Warrick writhing against the chains, feeling their solid strength. It was an easy and reliable way to get him going. Eventually he gave up and hung in the chains, not saying anything. Waiting for Toreth to decide what to do to him. When the rush from that idea had died down, Toreth stepped up right behind him and said, "Do you know why I had my comm turned off? What I did last night, after I put this in here?" Warrick's head came up. He didn't say anything, but he was so clearly listening that he didn't need to. "I went out to a bar. I don't think you've ever been there. You wouldn't like it some of the I&I people drink there after work." He moved the belt to his left hand, and began stroking Warrick with his right, long slow sweeps down his back, over his buttocks. "I went to a bar and I met a couple. They were looking for someone for a threesome. Did I ever mention that I do that kind of thing sometimes?" Warrick still didn't speak, but Toreth could feel the tension in his muscles. "I'm sure I must've done. Anyway, he was all right attractive enough but nothing special but the interesting thing was that she looked like Dillian." Warrick moved under his hand, a helpless twitch of his shoulders. It made Toreth want to bite him and so he did. Warrick moaned through gritted teeth, responding and very obviously hating that he had. It took a few seconds before Toreth could carry on. "Not exactly like her, but enough that I noticed right away. Her eyes. Something about her mouth. And dark hair, in the same sort of general style. Interesting, as I said. And, come to think of it, it means she must have looked a bit like you. I didn't notice that, at the time." He reached over Warrick's shoulder, brushed his fingertips across the smooth wood. "There should be a mirror, just there. So I can see you." He stroked Warrick's cheek, then said, "Turn your head. Do it." Slowly, Warrick obeyed. His eyes were closed, and his lips pressed tight together. "It's not that important, I suppose what she looked like. Or who. All cats look the same in the dark, as the saying goes. I didn't talk to her much in any case. He was the one who came up to me and it must've been his idea in the first place. I could tell she wasn't sure about it. She was only going along with it because he wanted her to. He wanted to watch me fuck her." Toreth slid his hands up Warrick's arms, letting the belt trail across him. He'd love the touch of the leather, even as he hated listening to this. Toreth leaned closer, adding a little of his own weight and coincidentally bringing his mouth close against Warrick's ear. "So, tell me what happened in the end." Out of the corner of his eye he caught the flick of lashes as Warrick's eyes opened. Good that had surprised him. He pushed harder, stretching Warrick against the chains. "Tell me what happened. I want to know you're paying attention to me."

Silence, nothing but Warrick moving against him as he struggled reflexively to brace his feet, finding no purchase in his light contact with the smooth wood. "You'll have to do it, eventually. So tell me." "No. I ah!" "Tell me." "You fucked her. While he watched you." His voice was cold, edged with pain. Toreth laughed, and released the pressure. "No, I didn't. They bought me a drink, and we talked for a while, and then I said I wasn't interested." Warrick craned his neck round further, trying to see his face. "They gave me a number, in case I changed my mind, but I deleted it after they'd gone off to talk to someone else. And after that I went home and spent the whole night thinking about this evening. In fact, I woke up once and nearly came round here, but it was some Godforsaken hour of the night and you don't like those, do you?" "I wouldn't . . . have minded." "I'll remember you said that, next time. Tell me how it feels." "It's hard to breathe properly. And it hurts. They hurt." He tugged at the chains on his wrists and gasped softly. "I didn't think they'd hurt so much." "Too much?" "No. God, no." "Enough?" "No." Toreth coiled the belt around his hand, getting the strap to precisely the right length. "And?" Warrick hung his head, the chains twisting as his shoulders tensed in anticipation, his breathing rapid. God, but he looked incredible like this. "You know you have to ask for it. Don't make me remind you about things like that." "Hit me." "How hard?" Warrick didn't reply for a moment. Then he said, "As hard . . . as you want to." "Good. Very, very good." And he brought the strap down. ~~~ Toreth had dreamed about this, about having Warrick like this, hanging in chains. Except he remembered that in the dream he'd hurt him, genuinely hurt him, beyond the game. Now, here, it would be as perfect as he could make it. In his pile of essentials towels, gel, straps, gag, hip flask he'd forgotten a clock. He could just see the one by the bed, although he found himself begrudging looking away from Warrick long enough to read it. He'd set himself a goal of half an hour and an absolute maximum limit of an hour, because this was something new, and he didn't want it to end up with another trip to Accident and Emergency. A very boring way to spend the evening, unless someone from Justice took an interest in the injuries, in which case it would be an awkward evening.

He left himself plenty of time for the wrap-up. Stepping away, he undressed. Looking at Warrick, listening to him, trying to shut out everything else in the room. It didn't take much effort. It had become a ritual part of the game a pause before he finished it. There was a thought that went with it. Mine. He's mine. He'll never walk away not as long as he wants this. Not as long as he needs it this badly. I can make him stay. He'll never leave me. It was the only time he could think it. The only time he could almost believe it. Then it was over, and he stepped up close. Hands on Warrick's shoulders, back where they'd started. The touch was also part of it, and it pulled Warrick back from wherever he'd been. "Yes," he said. "Please." "Please, what? Tell me what you want." "Fuck me. Please. I want " A fine shiver ran through him. "I need you to fuck me." Not yet. Not quite yet. He put his hand to Warrick's mouth, fingers pressing against his lips. "Lick them." Warrick opened his mouth eagerly, taking him in, and his other hand tightened on Warrick's shoulder. God, he loved that. Wet mouth around him, sucking. Tongue against his fingertips. It was an effort to take his hand away. Just spit wasn't going to be enough, but it was fun to start with. Making Warrick do it to himself, although they'd gone beyond any pretence of force today. He knelt behind him and licked him a few times, enough to cause a sharp gasp, then slid a finger into him. He'd thought that the chains might make it more difficult, but they didn't. Warrick was already relaxed, open to him, enough not to need this. But he didn't stop. As he kept working, he could hear Warrick starting to whimper. It gave him a dizzying feeling of power: trust, vulnerability, the heat of Warrick's body in the tightness around his fingers and the sweat-damp skin against his mouth. Kisses interspersed with hard bites, each drawing out another soft, pleading sound of surrender. Mine. He's mine. All his fingers and finally his whole hand buried inside. Being careful how he touched him, he slid his other hand slowly up Warrick's thigh. Warrick tried to squirm away, desperate movements, desperately constrained. "Please, no. Not like that. I don't . . . I want you to . . . I want " Toreth dropped his hand away, even though 'Not like that' didn't last long, as he'd known it wouldn't. He moved his arm, fucking him slowly and deeply, listening to Warrick falling apart above him. He could hear the sob in his voice now, between heaving breaths. "More. Yes, more. Please. Please, Toreth. Please." A few more thrusts, then he pulled his hand out, wiped it on the towel and stood up. Warrick panted, twisting weakly in the chains, still whispering, "Please." He twined his fingers in Warrick's hair and turned his head, kissing salty tears from his cheek and eyelashes. "Now," he whispered, although Warrick probably couldn't hear him. "I'm going to do it now."

Wrapping his arm around Warrick's waist, he slid in, all the way in one smooth movement. He always promised himself he was going to go slowly, to make it last at least for a little while, but he usually waited too long. So that it was usually like this, struggling for control for a while before letting go and just fucking him, too hard and too fast because it felt so fucking good he couldn't bear it. Now, Warrick was relatively quiet, only moaning deep in his throat as his hips jerked helplessly against him. A few more thrusts and Toreth was nearly there, pulling back just enough from the edge to reach down with perfect, practised precision for Warrick's cock. Warrick screamed. Contained and reflected back by the cabinet, it was deafening. His head went back, fast and far enough to have broken Toreth's nose if he hadn't been expecting it, and he screamed again, and came, every muscle tightening against the chains. Muscles tightening around him, and often that was enough to tip him over. Not this time, not even with Warrick shuddering in his arms, and the smell of fresh sweat from his neck. Toreth counted strokes, unable to believe it wasn't yet, wasn't quite yet. He knew that he often cried out as he came, but afterwards he rarely remembered exactly what he'd said. Warrick's name, other things. He didn't care. Nothing mattered except that he was going to "Mine. Oh, God, yes, Warrick. Mine." ~~~ He had no idea how long it was before he opened his eyes, but it surely couldn't have been more than a couple of minutes. When he did, he realised that he had almost his full weight on Warrick, and that his ears were still ringing faintly. He stood up on the second try. Warrick hung limp in the chains, and his fingers were taking on a distinct and alarming bluish tinge. When Toreth knelt and unfastened the ankle restraints, he didn't react. "Warrick?" He stood up and shook him gently. "Mm." He stirred and lifted his head a fraction. "Mm?" "Can you take some weight on your feet, please?" "Mm. I . . . yes. Can try." He did try, although the efforts didn't seem likely to have much immediate effect. In the end, Toreth supported him with an arm round his waist and undid the manacles one-handed. Nice easy design, he thought vaguely. By the time he'd done it, Warrick was sufficiently with it to make it as far as the bed without actually needing to be carried. He collapsed onto it bonelessly and went out like a light. He was smiling. Toreth shoved him into something approximating a comfortable position, then sat on the edge of the bed. The sight of Warrick sprawled there had a muted version of the kick he'd got earlier. He'd done this to Warrick he came like that for and because of him. No one else would ever be able to make it that good. No one but him. Nice for his ego, anyway, although the thought didn't have the same certainty now. The feeling was slipping away, as it always did, try as he might to hold on to it. So after a few minutes he decided on a shower to help wash the last of it away quickly. He thought about waking Warrick, then decided that nothing short of a shock stick would do the job. Warrick could have a shower later. It wasn't Toreth's sheets that were going to suffer this time.

By the time Toreth had had his own shower, he felt surprisingly awake far too awake to even think about going back to bed. He cleaned up the cabinet, with Warrick still unmoving on the bed. Then he raided the fridge for juice and went into the sitting room. He sprawled on the sofa, feeling generally extremely pleased with his life high, almost. So much so that it took nearly three minutes for boredom to set in. After that, it took him another couple of minutes to find the remote for the large screen. Warrick rarely watched the thing and sometimes Toreth wondered why he bothered to have one at all. "Housekeeping screen on." With the sound turned low (not that Warrick would wake up if he turned it to full volume), he found the porn feeds and flicked through them, pausing from time to time to heckle. Watching other people fucking bored him, even live. It was a turn-on, in a reflexive way, from the sounds more than anything else. Overall it was too plastic and unreal, though. Nothing at all to do with him. Still, it beat watching the news. He thought back to the couple he'd met last night, both of them calm on the surface, but him so keen underneath, her so reluctant. Weird. He'd have done it with them anyway, and enjoyed it, but even so it was weird. He couldn't begin to imagine wanting to watch anyone else fucking Warrick. He could hardly bear to think of it happening at all. That line of thought led somewhere he didn't want to go. Warrick had fucked away from home once, that was all. Once since they'd . . . known each other. Once outside work in the sim. But he'd never do it again. Warrick had said so himself and Toreth believed him. He didn't have to think about it any more. About Warrick wanting someone else, about what they might have done. Wanting a distraction from the unwelcome thought, he flicked back and forth through channels until the image went away, buried under other people, other bodies. Dull, most of it. A recording of himself and Warrick, though, that would be a different question. Warrick would never let him do it, unfortunately. He'd be terrified that the tape would escape, which was weird in itself when you thought about how much there must be from the sim of him doing God knows what with God knows who. Warrick would still say flat no, though. On the other hand, there was no law saying that he had to tell Warrick he was going to do it. What he didn't know couldn't hurt him. It would be easier to set it up in Toreth's own flat. He could have a word with the surveillance techs at work. They'd be able to come up with something nice and discreet. How long would it take to watch Warrick come, a frame at a time? "Oh, you found it. Well done. I haven't seen it for weeks." Warrick's voice came from right above him. Toreth craned his neck back to look up at him, his cheek brushing silk dressing gown. He hadn't noticed the shower running, but Warrick's hair was tousled and he smelt warm and clean. "I didn't think you'd wake up," Toreth said. "I . . . noticed you weren't there." Warrick held his arms out, turning his wrists round for inspection. "Look." The skin was red, which would fade by tomorrow, but there was an interrupted ring of bruising coming up around each wrist that wouldn't. Toreth took his hands and examined them with professional attention. Just bruises as far as he could tell like this, and the skin over the distal heads of the ulna and radius had been abraded.

"Can you feel your fingers?" "They were a little numb when I woke up. The hot shower seems to have sorted them out." "Clench your fists. Hm. Looks okay. It's the edge of the cuffs. They'll do it every time, unless you put more padding on. Or I could get them changed. Fran said it was no problem." "Mm." Warrick took his hands away and came round to sit on the sofa. "I'll see how it looks in the morning." Which probably translated as 'no'. He remembered Warrick's voice, twisted with pain. "Felt good?" "Yes. Or rather, it hurt. It was very clear and very specific. I could feel it until quite near the end." "And then?" "Then I lost it." Warrick sounded almost as analytical and cool as he did in the sim. "When you fucked me when you had your hand inside me I lost everything, except you. I always do when it's that good." Toreth imagined Bastard, sitting in Sara's lap and purring like a road drill. If Toreth had the vocal cords for it himself, he'd sound exactly the same right now. Warrick looked at the screen and frowned. "Isn't that illegal?" With an effort, Toreth managed to tear his eyes away from Warrick and check. "Yeah. But only doing it, not showing it. They do it all with computers, you should know that. It's hardly going to be a real dog, is it?" "No, I suppose not. I'm not thinking straight yet." He smiled. "You may have irreversibly melted some synapses. Is she real, do you think?" Toreth paid more attention to the screen. "Hard to tell. She could be. The CGI ones are usually a less convincing shape." "Yes, she looks real to me." Warrick shook his head. "What a very peculiar job." "You can talk. Don't you have fuckable animals in the sim yet?" "Not as such. Not that were made specifically for that, but it would only need the behaviour programming in and I don't keep too close a restriction on what the programmers get up to it stifles innovation. There's obviously a demand. But market research isn't my job." Taking that as a request, Toreth changed channels until he found something with less fur and more leather. Warrick lay down on the sofa next to him and put his head in his lap. To begin with, it felt deeply strange. Only Sara did that and never, of course, when he was naked (and only occasionally when he was hard, if she hadn't noticed). After the first minute or two it stopped being strange and started to be interesting. More interesting than whatever was happening on the screen, anyway. Warrick shifted position and his still-damp hair moved, soft and tickling. "You'll get your hair sticky," Toreth said. Warrick turned his head, rubbing his cheek along the length of his cock, then said, "I like a problem with an easy solution." Then he rolled over onto his stomach and replaced his cheek with his tongue long, slow licks from the base upwards, then sucking gently at the tip. Toreth leaned his head against the back of the sofa, a fraction of his attention still on the screen, luxuriating in being able to sit and take it, without having to plan what to do next. Not that he normally minded, but it made a very pleasant change. As Warrick's mouth slid down around him he

moaned softly, echoing the muted sounds from the screen. That triggered a random thought, something he felt curious enough about to ask. "Do you mind?" "Mmh?" "Doing that while I'm watching " And he had to look across to check. " women fucking each other with, um, champagne bottles?" Warrick lifted his head and glanced at the screen. "Not really." He leaned on his elbow and looked up. "Why should I? After all, I have no idea what you're thinking about while I'm doing it at any other time." "Well, I'm " Always thinking about you. Except when I'm thinking about fucking your sister at the same time. Or occasionally you and Sara, and God knows where that one comes from. "No, I suppose not. But I can tell you it's never champagne bottles." For a few seconds he considered asking Warrick if he ever thought about other people when they were fucking. The pleasure of a no wasn't worth the potential pain of a yes, though. Besides, how could he believe it anyway? "Did you want me to carry on?" Warrick asked. "What? Oh, yes. Please." Warrick smiled, and carried on, slowly and very thoroughly. By the time Toreth came he'd had his eyes closed for a quarter of an hour and he'd forgotten the screen was even on. He only remembered when the sound cut out as Warrick switched it off a minute later. "We should go to bed," Warrick said. "In a bit." Meaning never. Warrick stood up, dragged Toreth to his feet, and prodded him back into the bedroom. It seemed like miles, but it had been the right idea because the bed felt wonderful. About fifteen seconds later he was on the verge of falling asleep, when Warrick spoke. "Toreth?" "Uh?" "Was that all true?" It took him a few seconds to get the context, then he nodded drowsily. "Yeah, 'course it was." "Everything?" "Uh huh. All of it." Well, everything except that he hadn't deleted their number he still had that safe. "She looked like Dillian. I didn't fuck her." "Why?" What a time for bloody questions, especially ones to which he didn't know the answer. "'Cause I was coming round here today, I suppose. Didn't want to waste my energy fucking strangers when I knew I'd need it for fucking you." "That doesn't usually stop you." They hadn't had one of these conversations for months (because he'd managed to keep his mouth shut about things for most of that time) and he didn't want one now. Then again, he'd started it, so he ought to make some kind of an effort to smooth things over. "No. But . . . this was special."

"Yes. Yes, it was. Thank you." Sounded very formal. "For what?" "For buying the cabinet. For fucking me and making it so good that I almost hoped I'd die when it finished. For not . . . well, just thank you." No argument after all, thank God. "Pleasure," he mumbled. "Any time." Warrick moved up against him and laid his arm over his hip. Toreth was too nearly asleep to protest, even if he'd remembered that he ought to. "I'll remember you said that," Warrick said.

Icing On The Cake

The bruises had turned out worse than they'd looked last night. They weren't wide, but they were very black and very obviously from manacles. Pleading delayed jet lag, Warrick took the day off work. There were advantages to being the boss, but he would have to go in tomorrow. To sit through meetings, talk to people, and possibly meet sponsors in the afternoon. A long-sleeved pullover would cover things, as long as he remembered not to tug the sleeves back. Someone would see them, even so, and the story would fly round the building. Before he started breakfast, he spread his hands flat on the kitchen table and looked at them. The bruises bound his wrists, enchanting reminders of the night before, and he found himself hypnotised by them, losing time. After a while he could nearly feel the manacles against his skin. By the time he tore his attention away, the toast was cold and he didn't feel hungry anyway. Going through to the bedroom, he stood and looked at the cabinet. It had been left open and the chains hung free, unlocked. He could do it now, just for a little while. Toreth had said he'd been able to close the manacle against the side. Of course, Toreth was taller than he was, but he could stand on something. It was a stupid idea. He needed Toreth there, to make it work. He needed his voice, his hands, and his pure presence. If he did it on his own it would simply hurt like hell and make the bruises worse. So he closed and locked the cabinet and put the key safely away, in a box on the bedside table where he kept small things he didn't want to lose. Then he sat on the bed and looked at his wrists until he couldn't bear it any longer. He undressed slowly, making it last for as long as he reasonably could, then went over to the cabinet. He reached up, stretching, and touched his fingertips to the silky wood, breathing in the scent of the restorer's polish. That was going to add a new dimension to antique shop visits. Then he lay on the bed, closed his eyes, and began to work through the previous evening in as much detail as he could recall. He didn't touch himself anywhere to start with, because if he did this wouldn't last long. Thinking about it, that was all. That was enough. He lingered so long over 'stand in the fucking frame' that he was already breathing heavily by the time Toreth locked the chains around his ankles. He soaked himself in the memory of the first moments, when it was finally complete. Pain. Pain in his wrists. Muscles constricted around his chest, making each breath distinct and precious. Better than any of that, the feeling of total surrender, exactly as he'd imagined it in the shop. Toreth behind him, possessing him without even touching him. Stretched and helpless and absolutely vulnerable. Losing himself almost before it started, long before Toreth fucked him. Toreth, fucking him. His mind jumped track to the end, forgetting his resolve to take his time. Putting his hands flat on his hip bones, he pressed down, holding himself still. But he wanted it now, and Toreth wasn't there to make him wait. Slowly, he slid his hands across, brushing his cock. A gentle touch to start with, which wouldn't last long.

Discipline. He backtracked to the place at which he'd left the narrative. What were the words? 'There is nothing you can do. No way out.' After a few minutes, when he had almost reached the point of imagining the bite of the strap across his shoulders, he quite suddenly thought about calling Toreth, and telling him what he was doing. Why he was doing it. I couldn't stop myself. I needed it. This is what you do to me. Toreth would love to hear it. Automatically, he dismissed the impulse, as he had when the idea had occurred before. Then he thought, why the hell not? Toreth always said that I&I didn't monitor personal comms, and all past evidence had borne that out. They'd risked far more serious things than a little dirty talk. Finding the comm earpiece, he rearranged himself on the bed and called through, not giving himself time for second thoughts. Before Toreth answered, he suddenly thought, 'What if he's ' and then the call connected. "Val Toreth." What if he's in an interrogation? "It's me. Are you too busy to talk?" "Not at all." Toreth must still be in an extremely good mood if he didn't sound wary at the word 'talk'. "I'm just having a coffee in my office, in fact." He took a deep breath, feeling suddenly self-conscious. Ridiculous, when he thought of all the explicit conversations he'd had in the sim. Still, if he could've thought of a halfway plausible excuse for calling, he might have used it, but his mind went blank. He settled for "Guess what I'm doing," hearing his voice catch on the last word. There was a pause, and Toreth said, "Are you really?" "Yes." "Where?" "On the bed. Looking at the cabinet and thinking about last night. About you fucking me." He closed his eyes, and for some reason that made it less peculiar. "About how much I wanted you. How much I needed it. How much I want it again." "Okay, then, how much?" He smiled, because even as he'd been speaking he'd guessed Toreth would ask that. He never seemed to get tired of hearing about it. "Enough that I called you so I can hear your voice while I fuck my own hand and pretend it's yours." There was a brief pause, and he wondered if he'd actually managed to surprise Toreth. In fact, he seemed to have been checking his schedule because eventually he said, "I can't get away. I'm really sorry." For once, he sounded as though he meant it. "Not even for lunch. I've got things all day that I can't cancel." "I don't want you to come round." That wasn't true, but it sounded good. The tiny hint of independence laced into the conversation would sting Toreth. "I just wanted you to know . . . that I couldn't stop myself. Thinking about last night " "No. Don't think about last night. Think about tonight." Less than a dozen words, and the idea of doing it again, the idea that they would do it again, over and over, that the cabinet would be there forever and He somehow managed to stop himself moving and lay gasping for breath, waiting to get himself

under control because insofar as he'd had a plan, he'd wanted to drag it out a little longer than this. Now that he'd actually made the call. "Not tonight," Warrick said when he could speak. "My wrists " "Don't worry about that. You can come round to my flat." Toreth's voice changed, sliding subtly into something hard-edged but seductive. "I don't need chains to make you do what I want. I don't need anything. I can take whatever I want from you, however I want it, and you can't stop me. Are you listening?" "Mmh. Yes." One hand on his cock, one holding the bedpost not really what he wanted, but at least he could tense his arm against it, pain flaring down from his wrist. "Don't stop." "Or I can chain you to the bed, by your neck, so you don't have to worry about your precious wrists, and fuck you. Not like last night. Slowly. Slow and hard, until you don't know what you're saying, and then until you can't say anything." Toreth speaking right against his ear was always exquisite and here, when it was all the contact he had, it was nearly unbearable. He desperately wanted to hear it right to the end, but he couldn't hold back, thrusting up into his fist, tighter and faster. "I'm going to come deep inside you and leave you there, aching for more. You won't be able to lay a single finger on yourself then, however much you want it, because I'll be watching you to make sure you don't. And eventually, when I'm ready " Then he lost the words as the orgasm ripped through him nothing like last night, of course, but still good. Far better than it would have been without Toreth's voice. He came considerably more quietly on his own than he did in company, although he never heard himself when Toreth had really worked him over. This was somewhere in between and so for once he was aware of how loud it was. He didn't have a hand spare to put over his mouth, so he bit his lip instead and the small, sharp pain made it worse. When he'd subsided back to panting, he heard Toreth laugh quietly. "See you later," he said, and cut the call off before Warrick could reply. He opened his eyes and let his muscles relax. Mm. Well. That had been novel. On reflection, he should have tried it before. A pity he hadn't heard what came after 'when I'm ready', but he would find out tonight. ~~~ There was a long silence in the office afterwards. Toreth lined pencils up on the desk and listened to the blood humming in his ears. Could he wait until this evening, or was he going to have to add another ten minutes to an already over-long coffee break? "I would have left, you know," Sara said after a while. "If you'd asked." He swept the pencils up and dropped them into the holder. "Did you want to?" "Not really, no. That's a great voice you've got for that." "I can use it for leaving messages for you, if you like." "Um. Does he do it often?" "First time." It was oddly disturbing. Exciting to think of Warrick doing it, but so unexpected that he felt unbalanced. He hated unpredictability. "I thought so. I mean, I can't imagine him doing it at all. I'd never have believed you, if you'd told me. So what brought it on now?"

"Do you remember the address you found for me? The sex gear shop?" She nodded. "You went, then? What's it like?" "It's an amazing place. You should go, just to have a look. I'll take you there sometime. I bought him . . . well, it's like a wardrobe, with chains. Wrists and ankles. It's antique, as well. Cost a fucking fortune. I remembered your rule, though, about presents." "You didn't tell me about it before." She sounded surprised and almost offended. He thought about it for a minute. Why hadn't he told her? Since she'd found the place she'd have liked to hear about it. He shrugged, at her and at himself. "Nothing to tell before. They only delivered it the day before yesterday. That's why I took the afternoon off." "Does he like it?" He laughed. "Just a bit. We tried it out last night and he went into orbit." And so did I. "He's never done it before." "But I thought you had chains already? I mean, I've seen them." "Not quite like this. It holds him just off the ground, away from the wall. He's got no support at all, unless I take his weight." She winced. "Yeah, I think so, too. I prefer the comfortable part. You should see the bruises on his wrists." "Didn't sound to be hampering him much. Did he even want to know if you were on your own?" "No. He just asked if I had time to talk." Sara shook her head. "Jesus, it's a good job you like him." He blinked at her, nonplussed. "Like him?" "You'd never get rid of him, if you didn't. I wouldn't let go of anyone if they could get me so worked up just thinking about the night before that I had to call them at work and masturbate over the comm. If they tried to finish it, I'd be round with a tranquilliser gun and all the chains I had." Sara stood up and picked up his mug. "I've got work to do." She grinned at him. "And so have you. Are you going to be busy?" "Am I . . . no. No, I don't think so." He grinned back no, probably more of a smirk. "I'd hate to make any promises I couldn't keep." After she'd left, he sat back and thought for a while about what she'd said. Half of him liked the sound of it, wished he could believe it was true, and the other half, in the cold light of day, wanted to run from the idea that it might be. That they could be so, so . . . Tranquilliser gun and chains. So he opened a case file, and didn't think about it again. ~~~ After the second shower of the morning he was going to end up wrinkled Warrick went out to shop for baking ingredients. There wasn't any reason for a mass baking, other than that it was something relaxing, time consuming and didn't require too much concentration. The jet lag wasn't entirely a cover story. He could take some of the savoury things round to Toreth's tonight, to save them the distraction of a takeaway, and the rest he could take in to work tomorrow. They always received a flatteringly warm reception. Maybe he'd drop in on Dilly on campus. He added a lemon cake to the list, because

she liked them. Back at the flat he set to work. Mixing things by hand proved to be a little painful, but the electric hand mixer hurt, too, so he gave up and took a couple of painkillers. He hadn't wanted to, because he liked to feel the aftermath of a good night, but it wasn't usually this bad. Maybe he'd have to pad the manacles more after all. It would be a shame, but he couldn't end up looking like this every time. With the cushion of the painkillers, the project proceeded smoothly, and he managed to reduce the number of times he thought about last night to about ten an hour. How long would it take to reach the status of just another session? He was torn between wanting it to stay special, and the irresistible idea that it could be like that again. He wasn't optimistic enough to aim for 'often', still less 'always', but 'again' he could just about manage to believe. Still, he did get the memory under control to the extent that when he heard the door to the flat open, he was mildly annoyed that Toreth had changed his mind about being able to get away. He was unlikely to accept a desire to make gingerbread as a legitimate excuse for not wanting sex. So it was a relief as well as a disappointment when Dillian called, "It's me!" And then, "Do I smell lemon cake?" "I'm in here, and yes, you do." He heard the door close, and her voice coming down the hall. "God, you're a mind-reader. I called at SimTech and they said you were jet-lagged, so I thought I'd come round." She came into the kitchen, stopped in the doorway, and inhaled deeply. "Mmm. And on the way over I remembered the last time you were lagged you made me a lemon cake and I was really hoping you'd do it again." "It's on the rack don't touch it." "I know, I know." She came and looked over his shoulder. "Oh, not gingerbread as well. With real crystal stem ginger?" "Naturally. What else?" He glared at her, mock-affronted. "I feel spoiled. Are you going to ice the cake? Can I lick the bowl out?" He laughed, thinking about all the times when they were children. "Yes, of course. Do you remember 'helping' Jen, when she made them?" "Yes I do! We always used to fight over the bowl." "So she'd make us sit on opposite sides of the table and take turns until it was gone." He floured the board and started rolling out the gingerbread. "And you used to kick me when she wasn't watching so I'd jump and not get a proper finger full." "I don't remember that." "Well, you did. I used to have bruises. You could be so mean. I bet you don't even remember that you pulled my hair once, trying to get the first go, and she was so cross she rinsed the bowl out, right in front of us, and we didn't get anything." "Actually, yes, I do." He offered her a piece of dough. "Sorry." "Good. So you should be." She leaned on the counter top, nibbling the dough, and watched him pressing the gingerbread into the tin. "You know, it's grossly unfair that you got all the cooking genes. You'd think there'd be enough left over to let me boil an egg without " She stopped so abruptly that he looked round. "What's the matter?" he asked.

"Keir, what happened to your hands?" He should have thought, because the problem had occupied him in one way or another almost all morning, but the flour was hiding the worst of it. Shaking his sleeves down had no effect, as he'd rolled them up tight to keep them clean. "It's nothing." "The hell it is. Wash your hands." "Dilly " "Wash your hands. Show me." Reluctantly he did it, and her eyes widened as she saw the bruises emerging. "Was it him?" "Yes. Or rather, it was us." She took his wet hands gently, turning them over, studying the damage as carefully as Toreth had done the night before. Then she released him. "I want to know how it happened." He picked up a tea towel and dried his hands. "I very much doubt that. It's just a few bruises, nothing to get excited about." "Don't try that tone with me I'm not one of your employees. I want to know exactly how it happened." "Trust me, you don't." "Why? Because of what I'll think of him? What did he do?" "Drop it, Dilly. Please." "No. Not this time. I'm not giving up, so you might as well tell me now." He briefly considered telling her that sometimes she sounded exactly like Jen. Except that he knew that, once she'd made her mind up, she could be even more stubborn. "All right. I'll show you." He raised his hand at her expression. "It's really much easier. In the bedroom." She followed him, close behind, as if she was afraid he might try to run. That was more Toreth's trick, although in this situation he could see the appeal. She looked around, frowning when she saw the cabinet. "Is that new?" "Yes." He took the key out of the box and put it in the lock. He glanced at her, tempted to ask if she was sure, but he knew an implacable Dilly when he saw one. Maybe this would even reassure her, in a strange way. It was furniture, and you couldn't get much more safe and respectable than nice antique furniture. Besides which, short of throwing her out of the flat, he didn't see an alternative. So he turned the key, opened the doors, stepped aside. She stared for a long moment, then put her hand up to her mouth, her face ashen. She stepped back, away from the open door until she bumped into the edge of the bed. "Oh, my God." "Dilly, it's just " "I know what it is. I can see what it is." Her colour returned as she continued, anger creeping into her voice. "I've got some imagination not that it takes much. I know what chains look like, and I know what those things are for." She looked between him and the cabinet. "That's how you got the bruises. You wouldn't be able to reach the floor. You'd have all your weight on your wrists."

"Yes." She'd always had excellent spatial perception. A natural structural engineer. "Oh, God. Keir, it it must hurt. It must be " She shook her head. Well, he was tempted to say, that is rather the point. "You already know what we do. I told you at Mother's house." "No. You didn't make it sound like this. He didn't, although God knows I should expect him to lie." "Toreth? When the hell did you talk to Toreth about it?" "It was . . . it doesn't matter. He said it was a game." "It is." "No. This isn't what games are. You don't hurt people you're supposed to love. It's it's wrong." She sounded furious now. "And I don't believe that you want this. I won't. It's " She bit back the words, whatever they were going to be. "Close the doors!" "Dilly " "Close the fucking doors! I don't want to see it any more." She'd gone pale again, her hands clenched, and the brief, treacherous thought crossed his mind that Toreth would love to see her like this. It appalled and amused him in equal amounts. He closed the cabinet up, put the key away, and went across to her. She had her arms folded across her chest, and she was still staring at the cabinet. "Dilly?" He touched her shoulder and was immeasurably relieved when she didn't flinch. "Dilly, I'm sorry you're upset. And I'm very sorry if knowing about it changes how you think of me. If it makes you " "No!" She looked round. "Don't be silly. I'm worried. No, not worried. Worried was before. I'm afraid for you." "There's no need to be." The assurance felt useless, even as he said it. Showing her the cabinet had been a terrible mistake. "No need?" She stared at him. "You know what he is. You told me you were being careful with him. You told me it was safe. You promised it was." Unspoken: you lied to me. There wasn't much he could say to any of that, but clearly she could see that her words weren't making any impression. "Keir, listen to me. He could do whatever he wanted to you." She sounded like an adult speaking to a child who deliberately refused to understand something terribly obvious. "When you're . . . like that. He could kill you and you couldn't stop him. You couldn't do anything to stop him." The words carried a terrible, illicit thrill. "If he wanted to kill me, I couldn't stop him anyway." He was amazed by how calm he sounded. "Any time I'm alone with him is just as dangerous. He's stronger than I am, and he's been trained how to do it. But it's not going to happen." She swallowed, looking ill. "How can you stand there and say that?" "It's true. Look, it's been nearly three years and " "I meant what he does his job. How can you say 'he's been trained' and not care? How can you even let him touch you?" "You sound like Tar." She didn't smile. "I owe him an apology."

"Dilly, I fuck Toreth, not his job." "I bet you wouldn't say that if you'd seen what he does to people." And, for that, he couldn't answer her. He couldn't tell the truth and he couldn't bear to lie. So he stood next to her until the silence answered her for him and she sat down abruptly on the bed. She said something, too quietly for him to hear. "I'm sorry?" "I said, did you enjoy it?" "No. It made me sick." That he could be truthful about. "Good. I'm glad." She looked up, questioning. "But you had to know what it was like?" He nodded, hoping she wouldn't want to know any more. "We're getting off the topic." "No, we're not. He is the topic. This is all him. You're different since you met him. We didn't used to have secrets. We were " She thumped the bed angrily. "We were close. We were always close. And now we're just friends, and God, I hate him." She sounded on the verge of tears and he desperately wanted to hug her and tell her everything was going to be all right. All that held him back was the fear that she wouldn't let him. That she would push him away because of what he'd shown her. "I'm going to make some tea." Maybe if he left her alone for a while, she'd be able to get some equilibrium back. ~~~ He'd poured the water into the pot and was wondering whether to set things out here or go through to the living room, when Dillian appeared in the doorway. "If you won't listen to me, I'm going to tell Mother," she said. "Maybe she can talk some sense into " It was a shame about the teapot. It had been a wedding present, but he'd always liked it and any connection with Lissa was long gone. It smashed impressively at his feet, and the fountain of tea and subsequent cloud of steam only added to the effect. He pulled off his trousers and socks before the heat could do anything worse than redden his shins. Dilly stood on the other edge of the steaming pool, their differences temporarily forgotten. "Oh, God, I'm sorry. Are you all right? That was so stupid of me. I didn't think, I didn't " She stopped, staring at his feet. It took him a moment to register the bruises on his ankles. He hadn't even noticed them before. Before she could say anything beyond the apologies, he left the room. ~~~ He took his time changing, and by the time he got back Dillian had cleared up the broken china and mopped up the tea. The water was boiling again. In the bedroom he'd tried to think of something, some clever argument, but he couldn't. He sat down at the table, and spoke before she could. "Please don't tell her, Dilly. It's got nothing to do with her, it will only upset her, and threatening to tell her won't stop me doing it, if that's what you were hoping." "I didn't " She took out another pot and measured out the tea before turning round to face him. "All right, yes, I was. I won't really tell her." He daren't let her see the extent of his relief. "Thank you."

"I'm sorry about the teapot. Are you sure you're not scalded?" "Quite sure. No damage done. Do you feel better now?" She frowned. "No. I'm still worried to death about you, you've still got bruises all over and a wardrobe full of chains, and you're still sleeping with a psychopath. So, no, I'd say not." He had to admit that, as a rather melodramatic summary of the situation, it wasn't bad. "That's not . . . I can only say that you don't understand, and I appreciate that hearing that probably doesn't help." "Then explain it to me." "I can't," he said, without even letting himself consider whether it might be possible. "You mean you won't." In that, she was probably right. He tried a different approach. "You don't want to hear about it." "No, maybe not. But I need to understand." Her voice sharpened. "I'm not a child. I'm not going to faint with horror if you tell me that he hurts you. I know he does. What I want to know is why it's all right." "Very well. Sit down and I'll try." As he said it, he had the feeling that it could only make things worse. He couldn't let her leave like this, though. "Would you like some lemon cake? It'll be cool now." After a couple of seconds she nodded. When he brought the slice over she licked her finger and dabbed up a few crumbs. "Lovely." Then she waited. He sat down, poured the tea and pushed her cup across. "The most important thing is that it's not about Toreth. It's me. I want it. I need it. I think I always have. I used to do it with Lissa. Oh, not like this. Just scarves, that kind of thing. She only did it to humour me. I could always tell when she wanted something because she'd offer to blindfold me." She made a face, the one specially reserved for mentions of the woman he wasn't supposed to know she referred to as the Bitch Queen. "I bet she did." "I wondered or at least I wonder now if that was one of the reasons it didn't last." Dillian snorted. "It didn't last because she didn't deserve you. Oh, and you can stop looking at me like that, because it's absolutely true. She didn't, and he doesn't either." He'd thought that she wouldn't be able to resist the follow on. The simplest way to deal with it seemed to be to ignore it. "Nothing's changed at all except that now I know what I need and I've met someone who's compatible." "You're just putting up with him because he likes to hurt you?" Now she was willfully misunderstanding him. "Dilly, if you aren't going to listen, what the hell is the point of my saying anything?" To his surprise, she subsided. "You're right. I'm sorry. Go on." He found he'd lost track of what he'd meant to say. "What do you want to know?" "I don't know. You keep saying you need it what's 'it'? Tell me . . . tell me what it's like." "Like?" He looked down at the table. "I'm not sure if I can, to be honest. I can tell you what we do easily enough, but I'm afraid it wouldn't be very reassuring. Or it would sound ridiculous. God knows, it must look strange enough. You know some of it, although the cabinet was new, yesterday. Toreth bought it for me, as a present."

He risked an upward glance. She sat, picking at the cake, watching him assessingly. "But what it's like . . . " He hesitated, searching for an approach to the question. "One thing about it is that I don't particularly enjoy pain. Not from cold." He took hold of his wrist, pressed his thumb against the bruise, and winced, because even though it was supposed to be a demonstration of exactly that, the pain was surprisingly unpleasant. "That hurts. Just hurts, nothing else. But after half an hour, an hour, I'd barely even feel that. He's incredibly good at that part of it. Building it up so I can take more, and then more again, until I want him to do things that the rest of the time would be . . . unbearable." "You're right," she said after a moment. "That isn't very reassuring." He shook his head. "That's not what it's really about. The essence of it is . . . is losing myself, my self, and belonging to him completely. Being taken, and not just physically. Everything else is what I need to get me there." She opened her mouth to say something, so he went on quickly. If he stopped now, he might never be able to do this again. "When he hurts me eventually, when it goes far enough there's a point when I finally lose control." He looked down at his cup, talking to it, not to her. "Or rather, I give it up, although that may be a distinction without a difference by then. It's more profound, more fundamental, than simply permitting him to tie me up in the first place. Often I don't even remember afterwards what I did, what I said. Just how it felt." He could feel himself getting caught up in it, right in front of her. Half of him wanted to stop right now, because she would be horrified. Half of him hoped that if she could see it, she might somehow understand. "I expect there's a lot of complex brain biochemistry involved. It feels . . . I can't explain it, not in a way that does it justice. It's not that the pain isn't there any more, but it changes, although I can't say how. It goes on, and on, and it keeps getting better, more intense. When I'm chained, when I can't do anything, can't move, can't . . . I've cried, I mean really cried tears begging him to finish it, to let me come, and I've still loved every second of it. And then . . . then, when he does it, when he . . . finally . . . fucks me, or when he " "Keir," she said sharply. He had, for a moment, forgotten that she was there. He looked up, startled, then smiled apologetically. "Sorry. Mm. Yes. Right. Well, you did ask." Her cheeks were pink, but all she said was, "I did ask." "And?" "And you're right about that, too I don't understand." No more than he'd expected. "I can't imagine being able to explain it well enough that you could. But did it help at all?" She thought about it for a long time, finishing the last bits of the slice of cake. "Well . . . I'm willing to believe that you really enjoy it. And, I suppose, to believe that he doesn't make you do it." "That's an improvement, then." "But I can't . . . Keir, he still does it. He hurts you. He wants to hurt you. He's dangerous." That he indisputably was. "It's not so much that he wants to hurt me. He does it because . . . no, it's not right to say that he only does it because I want it, either. It's not that simple."

"So what is it, then?" He looked at her, still worried for him, still uncertain, and made a decision. "If I tell you this, you must promise not to repeat it to anyone. Everything else is about me, but this is about Toreth and I have no right to tell you things like this about him." She hesitated, then said, "All right. I promise." "Toreth is . . . he finds it almost impossible to trust people. I can't explain how much the idea of risking caring, of dependency, frightens him." Angers him, he almost added, but a little selfcensorship, in the interests of reassurance, couldn't be wrong. "But he trusts me, partly because of what we do. I'm not saying that he doesn't enjoy it for its own sake. I assume he does. But it's also because of what he can do to me. What he can make me do. Making me prove to him, over and over again, how much I need it. And then he can allow himself to reciprocate, just a little. To . . . well, do you remember Carnac? The socioanalyst?" She nodded, looking surprised. "He was at I&I at the beginning of the year the hows and whys don't matter. He told me that Toreth loves me. I don't know if it's true. I don't know if he's even capable of it, in the way that a that someone else might be. But I need him, and he lets himself need me in return. Does that make any sense at all?" She didn't answer. "Dilly, I know he's dangerous, and " he took a deep breath, " to be honest, I want that. But I'm as safe with him as anyone could be. He's never hurt me, not outside the game. Never, in three years. If he did if he did it even once then I would leave him." "Truly?" He didn't know which part she meant, but the answer was the same. "I promise." "Do you think he'd let you go?" That was something he'd occasionally considered before. Not often, because Toreth tended to give the impression that he was perpetually on the verge of walking or running away himself. It was a real question, though, and one he couldn't answer. In place of an answer, he said, "You said once that the important thing was that I was happy. Do you still believe that?" There was a long silence, before she sighed. "Yes, of course. But it's not a fair question. I have to say yes, don't I?" "No, not if something else is more important to you, especially if it's a good reason. Not, for example, if you still think I'm in real danger from him." She shook her head, nearly smiling. "You're so . . . so reasonable sometimes. It's absolutely the most annoying thing about you." "I'll take that to mean that you don't." He gave her a space to argue, but although she frowned, she didn't say anything. Maybe she'd simply decided it was a lost cause. He hoped not. "To get back to the point: I am happy." And that surprised him a little, as it always did. "Very happy, in fact. I'm not pretending that Toreth doesn't have an extensive collection of faults, or that he isn't difficult to be with sometimes, or that what I have with him is anything like an average relationship. But it is what I want." She sat, staring down at the table, biting her lip, then looked up. "Should I ask again?"

It took him a moment to understand her. Then he said, "I still think it would be an incredibly stupid thing to do." "As stupid as letting someone hang you up by your wrists until they're black and blue?" "Almost exactly that stupid, yes." "Oh dear." She sighed again. "And that's it, I suppose, isn't it? Keir, I'm sorry about what I said, when we were in the bedroom. I'm " "No, don't apologise." For whatever it had been. He could feel things beginning, slowly, to return to normal, although they could never be quite the same. Whether the change was for better or worse he'd have to wait and see. "It was my fault for showing you the damn thing in the first place. I should just have explained." "I don't think it would have mattered much. I'd have freaked out either way. Maybe this was better. At least we talked." "At least that, yes." He reached out and laid his hand on hers. "And you were right about some things, too. It used to be SimTech that ate up all my time, and now it's SimTech and Toreth, and I haven't been paying as much attention as I should to other things which are just as important." "Keir, I didn't mean " "No." He tightened his grip as she started to pull away. "I'm glad you said it. And we'll do more things together, I promise. Not just shopping real time alone, to talk." "That would be nice." She closed her other hand over his, fingertips gently stroking the bruises. "I hate feeling like you're disappearing." "I'm not, I promise." "Good." She sat in silence for a while, then shook her head, dismissing a thought unvoiced. "Can I have some more cake?" "Wouldn't you like me to ice it first?" He smiled, and pulled his hand back gently. "You can have first lick of the bowl."

Pool School
"I should've gone to the canteen earlier," Sara said as she dumped her burden on the coffee-room table and sat down beside him. "All they had left were the really cheap baps, so that's what we've got. The donut's for me, the crisps are yours if you want them." "Yeah. And I'll have the corned beef," Toreth said. Not too bad if you ate it quickly and didn't concentrate on the flavour. "And the cheese and onion." "Tough." Sara took possession of the disputed sandwich. "Cheese and onion's mine. You got first pick. That one's cheese and beetroot, have that." Toreth hated beetroot, as she well knew. "I thought you had a date tonight?" He breathed on his palm and sniffed it suggestively. She shrugged. "I've got mints in my desk. He'll have to cope. And he'll have to do a lot better than he did on the first date if he's expecting to get close enough for it to matter. Now, where was I?" Sara unwrapped her sandwich, which Toreth knew was destined to remain untouched for at least five minutes while she finished the story. As usual, Sara continued their previous conversation as if there hadn't been a fifteen-minute break. "So then Dillian said she'd never even been to a strip club. Can you imagine? She's thirtywhatever and never anyway. So Cele said she had to, just for the aesthetic experience, and I said I'd organise it. Dillian said I'd better not tell Warrick what we were planning, but she was only joking because she called later to say he's free that evening and he's coming, too." Sara picked up half a sandwich, gesturing with it for emphasis rather than eating it. "You know, it's funny but the first time I met Dillian way back when at the theatre, you remember I thought she was going to turn out to be a bit of a stuck-up rich bitch. But she's okay. Not as friendly as Cele, but okay." "Don't you want to know what I think about her?" Toreth asked through a mouthful of corned beef. "No need. I already do. You want to screw her." "She's Warrick's sister," he said, aiming to sound disapproving and very nearly managing it. "Yeah, and that's why you want to screw her. Because they have that weird identical twin thing going on, even though they aren't." Her eyes narrowed. "In fact, I bet you've thought about doing both of them at the same time. Side-by-side comparison. Or top-and-bottom comparison." "That's disgusting," Toreth said, grinning hugely. "I knew it!" Sara shrieked with delight, shedding grated cheese liberally. "You are sick." "Maybe." He swallowed the last mouthful. "But I have fucking fantastic dreams." Sara examined her sandwich, wrapped it up again, and picked up the donut. "So, are you coming on Saturday?" Toreth hesitated, not entirely sure why. He thought it over while he extracted the limp beetroot from the second sandwich and piled crisps over the lurid pink stains on the synthetic cheese. Warrick was a truly spectacular fuck and utterly shameless in private. In public, though, he still liked to keep a distance and what he called 'a minimum standard of civilised behaviour'. His presence

would put a major limit on the amount of fun Toreth could have, especially if Dillian was there too. On the other hand, it would be a pity to let Warrick have all the fun alcohol, great bodies to at least look at and three lovely women for the evening. It would also make a change. In the weeks since he'd bought the cabinet for Warrick, most of the evenings they'd spent together had been at Warrick's flat, using the cabinet, or fucking in front of it if Warrick didn't want the bruises. They were certainly getting their money's worth out of the gift, but variety would be nice. He squashed the sandwich down, scattering crisp shrapnel over the table and floor. More memos from the cleaners, no doubt. Fuck them. "Yeah, okay. Count me in." ~~~ There was no reason for Toreth to worry about the evening, he told himself in the taxi. Sara had organised it, she was responsible for any disasters ensuing. Just so long as nothing happened to Dillian. Like SimTech, Dillian brought out Warrick's worst overprotective streak. When they reached the club, he assessed it while Sara handed her coat into the cloakroom. Toreth classified these places primarily on how strongly they smelled of stale sweat and whether his feet stuck to the floor. This one had a clean carpet and an air conditioning system that filled the air with a faint, musky perfume. Newly decorated, excellent sound system, lighting low but not dingy. One of Sara's more tasteful venue choices. There were mixed strippers and an equally mixed crowd. He spotted six or seven groups made up of lower-ranking corporates enjoying an evening entertaining clients on expenses; other groups were probably on early pre-New Year office outings. Single men and couples of various kinds made up the remainder of the crowd. Respectable, insofar as a strip club could be the sort of place where dancer meant dancer, not anything more available. Toreth relaxed a little. When Warrick arrived with Cele and Dillian, he wore a smart-casual jacket and tie that screamed corporate. He still attracted a few looks, but probably for the two women with him. His first comment to Sara and Toreth was, "So is this what you two do for fun when I'm not around?" At this relatively early hour the larger stage was still curtained off, waiting for performances later. They spent a while wandering between the smaller platforms clustered in the middle spotlit and with and without central poles watching the dancers. Pairs and singles, in varying gender combinations and degrees of undress, worked the crowd and almost looked to be having fun doing it. Cele, of course, was in her element, but her cheerfulness didn't have any positive influence on Dillian, who was less friendly than Toreth had seen her for months. Or rather, perfectly friendly with everyone except himself. Maybe it was the time of year stirring bad memories. In recent months she'd seemed to have at least partially forgiven him for the pass over the washing up at the family gathering last New Year. Well, she didn't need to worry. He fully intended to spend this New Year getting pissed with Sara and an assortment of I&I staff Warrick wouldn't want to meet. Fuck families his own and everyone elses'. Dillian and Sara concentrated on the men. Toreth and Cele had an edge in being able to appreciate all the bodies on display, although Toreth remembered belatedly that was technically also true for Warrick. Warrick was quiet, watching more than talking, but smiling as well. Real smiles, too,

not his half-smile mask. Good start to the evening. "She's nice, don't you think?" He looked round, but this time Cele was talking to Dillian. Cele nudged her, and pointed out a dark-haired woman, pale-skinned and somehow aloof. "Just my type," Cele continued. It was hard to tell in the club lighting, but Toreth could have sworn Dillian blushed. Oh ho. Interesting. Toreth circled round to the other side of the group, where he could watch the two women more easily. Dillian had always struck him as what Kel would call 'straight, but not narrow'. There was something there, definitely. Not an entirely new thing, either, because nothing had fundamentally changed in the way they related to each other. Cele slipped her arm round Dillian's shoulders, laughed, and pointed. Following her gesture, Toreth spotted Warrick, leaning on one of the stages, looking up at a male dancer. Talking, by the look of it, although Toreth couldn't be sure from this angle. The man was blond, nicely built, and young very early twenties. After a moment, he crouched down, balancing easily on the balls of his feet. The light caught his hair as he shook his head. Toreth watched, gritting his teeth, resisting the urge to go over. What the hell were they talking about? Much too long for a simple compliment. Finally Warrick reached up and handed over a folded note, a piece of the brightly coloured faux-currency for sale behind the bar. At least he hadn't followed the traditional route of tucking the tip into the man's G-string. The dancer grinned and straightened. Warrick strolled back, smiling to himself. "Well?" Toreth asked, trying to keep the edginess out of his voice. "Believe it or not, he's a university student at SimTech." Warrick turned to look at the man. "Rather more rhythm than your average computer scientist, I think you'll agree. It's against the university rules for first-year postgrads to have evening jobs, so I thought I'd better reassure him that I have no intention of reporting his extracurricular employment." Warrick looked back, one eyebrow arching slightly. "Was that a satisfactory explanation? Or would you have preferred that I took a camera over to record the interview?" When Warrick made the effort, he could be insanely annoying. "Jesus, all I said was 'well'." "There was a certain . . . never mind. Look but don't touch, I think was the general rule of the establishment?" "Yes." Don't fucking forget it. "And that is all I intend to do." Warrick looked round. "Where are Dilly and the others?" After a few minutes' searching, they found them by an oddly incongruous pool table, tucked away to one side of the room. Sara and Cele were playing Cele rather well, Sara terribly badly while Dillian watched. "What the hell's this?" Toreth asked. Distracted, Sara hit the cue ball harder than was wise, and it took flight. Warrick caught it onehanded and tossed it back to Sara, who dropped it. "Pool school, until the main show starts," Cele said cheerfully as Sara scrabbled under a chair for the lost ball. "I thought I could teach anyone but I think I might've finally found a hopeless case. Your round, sweetheart," she added to Dillian. "I'll give you a hand to carry the drinks," Toreth said, starting for the bar before she could refuse

the offer. As they waited at the bar, Toreth said, "I haven't forgotten New Year, by the way." Dillian's expression frosted over. "What about it?" "Never again. I promised, and I keep my promises." "Oh." She looked startled but at least a little pleased, which was just the effect Toreth had hoped for. The fascination Sara had spotted surfaced again, unquenchable. Maybe if he could put her in a positive mood, he'd get somewhere with her not tonight, but eventually. He could wait. "I saw the present you bought him," she said suddenly. Toreth blinked. "What present?" Not that any of them were good things for Dillian to see, but the worst would be "The cabinet." the cabinet. "He likes antique furniture." "He showed me inside it." "Really." Nice of Warrick to warn him. At least it explained the resumption of hostilities. She looked up at him, her expression fierce and intent. "I'm keeping an eye on him, and I'm watching you. I don't care what he says if it goes too far, don't think I won't call Justice." He managed to keep his voice level. "He wouldn't thank you for it. Quite the opposite." Her determination didn't waver. "I know, but I'll do it anyway because I love him." "Fine." Only the fact that Warrick would be unbearably tedious about it stopped him returning the slap from last year and telling her to mind her own business. "Do you know what? I don't care, because there won't be any need. It's all under control. It's just a fucking game." She frowned, looking as though she were trying to strip the skin and bone away and see right into his mind. Then she nodded. "I hope so." He glanced away, down the bar, but there was still no one free to serve them. "Nice to see Cele again," he said. "Did you know she was after me to model?" She visibly adjusted to the change of topic, then said, "She mentioned something like that, yes." "Keeps passing messages through Sara, and Warrick when she sees him at SimTech. Sounds a bit boring, though. I don't sit still well. Do you ever get naked for her?" "Do I . . . ?" Her voice shot up in pitch and volume. "Do I what?" Toreth checked the open neck of her shirt definite blush starting. "Do you ever model for her?" he asked slowly. A misunderstanding, clearly, and all Dillian's fault. "Oh. Um." The flush deepened, creeping up her throat. "Sometimes." "What's it like? Do you have fun with her?" Her mouth opened and closed. Just then, the barman finished serving someone else. Dillian waved to catch his attention. "Drinks over here, please," she called and Toreth smiled. When they returned to the table with the drinks, the game was still in progress. Cele was obviously doing her best to let Sara down gently, but it was a one-sided affair. Toreth sat beside Warrick, dividing his attention between the pool and the SimTech postgrad, who was dancing on a platform not too far away. Lots of rhythm indeed, and plenty of other assets as well. But Toreth's occasional glances in Warrick's direction revealed no hint of an untoward interest.

The blond's G-string was fringed with the scrip notes, and Toreth wondered vaguely what cut the place charged to change them back into real cash. As he watched, the music paused, and the shift changed, replacing the student with a generically blonde girl less to Toreth's taste. Hopefully less to Warrick's taste, too. On the other hand, he couldn't help remembering that Melissa had been blonde when Warrick married her. It was gradually dawning on Toreth that there were less stressful places to spend an evening with Warrick. Determined to ignore the irrational edginess, he nudged Warrick's elbow. "Warrick?" "Yes?" Toreth pointed over to the woman, and Warrick followed his hand. After a moment, Warrick asked, "What about her?" "What do you think of her?" His mouth quirked. "Do you want a formal assessment? Very well." Warrick studied her carefully, for what seemed to Toreth to be an unnecessary length of time. "She's very attractive," he said finally. "But for my personal tastes a little too feminine. Too soft. I prefer a more athletic look, in women as well as men. More sculpted." He looked back to the pool table, where Cele was reaching for a shot, one knee on the edge of the table. "Speaking of athletic, Cele used to work part time in a gym. A long time ago, now even before you met her the first time, I think. I've always thought she has an extremely attractive physique, but back then she was irresistible." Cele? She and Warrick had always both said they'd never fucked, and what the hell did he mean by irresist and then he caught Warrick's half smile. Bastard. Toreth closed his mouth and returned his full attention to the pool table. "Ever played?" Toreth asked Warrick as the game drew to its inevitable conclusion. "Oh, yes. Sign of a misspent youth." Warrick sipped his drink. "I played for my college won a few inter-college matches, too." Toreth bet that Warrick's youth hadn't been anywhere near as misspent as his own. Played for his fucking college, indeed. "Want a game now?" "Love to." It's near-impossible to fake never having held a cue before, but not so difficult to play less well than you can. Toreth held back, missing the odd easy pot, assessing Warrick's game. He obviously knew what he was doing, but he was nowhere near up to Toreth's standard. Toreth dropped his game a notch, letting Warrick pull level, before he deliberately fluffed an easy shot to let Warrick win. Warrick laid his cue down on the side of the table. "Thanks. That was fun." His nostalgic smile stirred evilly entertaining ideas in Toreth's mind. "Another game?" Toreth offered. "We could make it a bit more serious, if you like?" "You mean betting?" "Something like that. How about strip pool? One item of clothing per game." "Oh, good idea!" Cele exclaimed. "Strip . . . " Warrick looked around the club. Nothing to worry about there, as Toreth had already decided. This was the kind of place that would treat all-male strip pool as a spectator sport, not a reason for violence.

"Oh, go on," Sara said. Dillian looked neutral about the idea, but then she disliked him and the other competitor was her brother. Toreth was fairly sure any incestual yearnings between her and Warrick took place only in Toreth's own fantasies. "Well now, why not?" Warrick picked the cue up again and smiled. "For one thing, if all the games take that long, we'll both still be fully dressed when the place closes." "I'll get some more drinks," Sara said. "Same again for everyone?" "See if they sell popcorn," Cele called after her as she left. Not wanting to scare his opponent, Toreth kept his play down for the next game. He didn't let it drag on too long, though. At the end, Warrick removed his jacket, hanging it neatly over the back of a chair. Toreth watched, sipping his drink and nibbling a handful of the popcorn that Sara had managed to procure from somewhere. Salted, just as he preferred it. "Wrists hurting?" he asked Warrick in an undertone as they set the table up again. Warrick looked at him blankly for a moment, then smiled. "Not at all." He tugged one sleeve back. "See?" Toreth only noticed the faint marks because he knew they must be there. They hadn't used the cabinet since last weekend, but even with the healing accelerator cream from the I&I pharmacy, the bruises should look worse. He took Warrick's hand and ran his thumb over the skin of his wrist. A barely perceptible oiliness hinted at some kind of concealer. Warrick planning ahead, as usual. Well, thank God for that. Dillian had been enough of a pain in the neck already tonight without seeing her brother bruised to fuck. Toreth put losing the next game down to sheer carelessness and distracting thoughts about Warrick in the cabinet. He played as he'd played in the last game, giving Warrick chances, keeping him hoping. The result should have been the same. Warrick, though, performed notably better. Maybe he hadn't been kidding about being a whiz back at university. Toreth had left him too big a lead, and at the end he watched Warrick sink the black, then exchange the cue for his glass with a very satisfied smile. "Fuck. You're a lot better at this than you let on." Toreth added his jacket to Warrick's the last piece of clothing he intended to lose for the evening. "It's a long time since I played. Although we have a setup in the sim have done for years." Warrick racked the balls with millimetre precision, then lifted the triangle away without moving a single ball. "Nicely limited physical problem with broad user familiarity. Your break." The next game went quickly and decisively. Warrick slowly removed his tie, rolled it up and slipped it into the pocket of his jacket, looking distinctly less happy. "Want to change your mind?" Toreth asked as he set the table up. "Last chance." Warrick smiled. "Oh, I don't think so. I'm just getting my game back. I think you'll be in trouble soon. In fact, I should offer you a chance to back out." Obviously bluffing Toreth knew false confidence when he saw it. "Oh yeah? Want to up the stakes? Loser pays a forfeit?" "Which is?" Toreth savoured a delicious image of Warrick, naked, on his knees, sucking Toreth off in the middle of the crowded club. He would never do it, of course. And Dillian would . . . well, the English

language didn't possess the adjectives to describe the fit she would throw at the mere suggestion. It would be worth it just for that. "Oh, we can decide that at the end of the game," Toreth said. Warrick tilted his head, staring at the tip of his cue as he chalked it, weighing the suggestion up. "That's okay," Toreth said. "Since you're obviously going to lose, I don't blame you for being scared to " Warrick's head snapped up. "Scared? Nothing of the sort. I was merely trying to come up with an appropriate idea, that's all." Warrick set the chalk down decisively on the edge of the table. "I'm sure I'll be able to think of something when the time comes." "You heard that, didn't you?" Toreth asked their three spectators. Sara, Cele and Dillian all nodded. For a moment, the conspiratorial expression of barely suppressed amusement shared by Dillian and Cele stirred unease, then Warrick tapped him on the shoulder, and he forgot about it. "My break, I think," Warrick said. This time, with Warrick irrevocably committed, Toreth stopped fucking about and played seriously. Time to show off exactly what he could do and to let Warrick know how thoroughly he'd been had. Warrick trounced him. Maybe, Toreth thought as the black went down while Toreth still had half a dozen balls on the table, he didn't know false confidence when he saw it after all. Quite a crowd had gathered, and when Toreth pulled off his shirt, there were appreciative whistles, from male and female onlookers. Cele and Sara led it, of course. In the next game, Toreth played his hardest, and also not far below his absolute best. It wasn't enough. Warrick played safe for a few minutes, giving him no chances, until the balls were beautifully set up, then he cleaned up the table in one visit with remorseless efficiency. "Shoes count as one item," Warrick said. "No way. Two." Warrick turned to the crowd, obviously appealing to them for a ruling. Which was unanimous. Toreth removed both shoes, watching Warrick, who leaned against the edge of the table with a faint smile curving his lips. God, he was enjoying this. All his protestations about keeping things quiet in public and here he was, centre of attention, watching his regular fuck stripping in front of his sister and one of his oldest friends and smirking like he'd planned it all along. Toreth racked the balls. Over the music and voices, he could just hear Sara behind him. "I hope he's got smart underwear on," she said. "What if he ended up being taken to hospital?" Cele chimed in. Sara choked on her drink. "Oh my God! Does your mother say that, too?" "All the time. And 'but what if you get hit by a bus'? Even though everything's been autoguided since before I was born. I always thought it was a Service thing." "No. Must be a mother thing," Sara said. "Give me some more popcorn. Dillian, does Kate . . . " Toreth shut them out and concentrated on his game. Winning outright was no longer a realistic option, but if he could get Warrick out of his shirt at least, then he'd be able to say he hadn't been comprehensively thrashed when the story went round the section next week. No way would Sara keep

quiet about this, no matter what threats he issued. Losing that game wouldn't have been quite so bad if Warrick hadn't finished the frame by potting the black off three cushions. The crowd clapped, the noise transmuting into whistles as Toreth stripped off his jeans. "Oh, yes!" Cele crowed as Toreth revealed his white briefs. "Timeless classic! Now, girls, you see what I was going on about before." Cele gestured expansively, taking him in from head to foot. "My dream model, if he'd only agree to stand still long enough." Dillian and Sara were laughing too much to say anything at all. Cele turned to Warrick. "Any chance of making the forfeit . . . ?" "Oh, no." Warrick smiled as he lifted the rack away, showing a feral glint of teeth. "I don't think so. Nothing that easy." "Maybe I'll do it anyway," Toreth said. It didn't sound quite so boring now he had an incentive. A few hours alone with Cele would be plenty of time to find out more about her and Dillian. Cele brightened. "Really? I don't suppose you'd like to put that in writing, would you?" "Are you still playing, Toreth?" Warrick asked silkily. "Or do you want to concede the game? It's a foregone conclusion, really." Toreth downed his drink and picked up his cue. "Keeping the socks?" Warrick asked in a low voice as Toreth passed him. "I thought I'd try a bit of distraction." Whether the distraction worked or not, Warrick wasn't quite on his previous form. Or maybe he was sandbagging again to spend longer watching Toreth bend over the table. Either way, Toreth held him to a closer game, and was even briefly ahead, before Warrick took the first of his last three balls with an admittedly impressive double, leaving himself an easy clean-up. Warrick watched the black trickle into the pocket, then turned, eyebrow arching. "Well?" No way was he playing the last game in socks and nothing else. He rolled the socks together, then batted them over to Sara with his hand. She caught them and called, "Good luck." "You'll need it," Cele added. Actually what he needed was a miracle. Warrick grinned, twirled his cue round in his hand and said, "I'll make it quick." Which he did fast, but brutal. No showing off in this game. Toreth grimly played his best, but it took only a few minutes before the last hopes of avoiding embarrassment vanished with the black ball. Applause changed into a slow clap, and Toreth sighed, waved his hands to indicate surrender, and reached for the waistband of his briefs. Warrick grabbed his wrist and stopped him. "Wait," Warrick said, then disappeared into the crowd. Toreth sat on the edge of the table and tried to maintain an air of dignity in the face of the forfeit suggestions being offered around him. Most of them were illegal, physically impossible, or both. Some of the spectators drifted away back to the stage, or to the bar. Most didn't, as there was so obviously still more to come. Eventually, Warrick excuse-me'd his way back through the crowd, wearing an expression of gleeful anticipation that made Toreth's heart sink. "Where the hell have you been?" Toreth asked. "Arranging your forfeit." Warrick offered his hand. "Come on."

Bemused, Toreth let Warrick lead him across the bar, crowd parting for them and closing in behind. He counted a dozen grabs on various parts of his anatomy although at least two were Cele before . . . "Oh, no, no, no. No fucking way!" "If I recall correctly, you were the one who suggested the idea of forfeits in the first place. Five minutes up there, then the briefs come off." "Now just hang on one fucking minute " "I could make it ten," Warrick said blandly. "Or twenty even. All evening, in fact, since we didn't set terms before we started." Toreth stared, unable to think of a reply. "Or naked from the beginning, if you'd rather, but then how would the audience show their appreciation?" "You are dead." Toreth climbed onto the platform. "So fucking dead, you have no idea." Warrick smiled, tapped his watch, and sat down at a table with the other three. The spotlights came up and Toreth stepped into them, blinking at little at the brightness. The music was already playing, of course. He stood still for a moment, catching the beat, until a piece of popcorn hit his midsection and he heard Sara exclaim, "Good shot!" Traitor. He'd been to enough of these places to have a general idea of the principles, and dancing was a critical club pick-up skill. Listening to the music, he let the rhythm slide down his spine and into his hips. He heard laughter from the crowd, catcalls and whistles, and more or less encouraging comments from the dancers nearby. The spotlights left him feeling oddly isolated. The audience were visible but shadowed, forcing him to squint a little to see faces. Amateurs were clearly excluded from the no touching rule, though, because hands reached in from beyond the circle of light, tucking in money but also groping before they withdrew. He kept moving round the platform, using the music to slip away from the most insistent hands. By the time the five minutes were up, he felt thoroughly mauled. Good job, Toreth thought, that he'd kept an eye on his own watch because Warrick, the bastard, kept quiet as the time ticked past the mark. He paused, looking over to the expectant table. Cele lifted her hand to her mouth and whistled piercingly. "Off!" she called, and the rest of the onlookers picked up the chant. Toreth grinned, and bowed. Notes scattered onto the stage like confetti as he pulled down the briefs and threw them in the general direction of Sara. Then he stayed in place, one hand holding on to the pole, leaning away from it, listening to the shadowy crowd applauding until the spotlights went out. As his eyes adjusted back to the lower lights, he knelt and scooped up the paper money. Might as well take his earnings. "Yes, maybe, but I'm talking useful length," Cele was saying as Toreth approached the table. "That's what counts, isn't it? Come on, Keir back me up on this one. My artistic reputation's at stake here." "Ahem," Warrick said pointedly, and the conversation stopped.

Cele looked up at Toreth, a question forming, and he shook his head as he dropped the notes on the table. "Nope. I don't have a tape measure and anyway, you've seen all you're seeing for the evening." "I'm afraid the underwear is missing in action," Warrick said, holding out Toreth's clothes in a neatly folded stack. Then he lowered his voice and added, "Not that I have a problem with that." Once dressed, Toreth sat down and drained Warrick's drink, then made a grab for Sara's. She snatched it out of his reach. "Jesus, that pays well." Toreth looked at the colourful notes on the table in front of Warrick, separated into piles by denomination. Another stack seemed to be comm numbers written on scraps of paper and torn edges of scrip money. "I'm in the wrong fucking job." Warrick collected the cash up. "I promised to distribute it amongst the dancers, in return for letting you use the facilities without a licence." "What, now you're pimping for me as well? Nice one." "Good God, if only. I could probably afford to retire." Warrick leaned down and kissed his neck. "Or at least to drop a sponsor or two at SimTech." Speechless again, Toreth watched him go. When he turned back to the table, Cele was grinning. Even Dillian was smirking, trying unsuccessfully to wipe the expression away when she caught his gaze. So, now you've seen the goods, can I interest you in a fuck? "Is he often like this when he's out with you two?" he asked Dillian. Dillian shook her head, still smiling. "Not very often, no. And hardly ever since " "Before SimTech," Cele said. Dillian frowned. "Before Melissa." Toreth wondered whether it was the thought of Melissa that annoyed her, or the idea that he might have had a positive influence on Warrick. "Coincidence of timing," Cele said briskly. "We've all got to grow up sometime." Then she grinned. "Well, you hard-working professional types do. I plan to stay wild and reckless until I get to be old and crabby enough to shout at the young 'uns and hit people with my walking stick." Sara raised her glass. "I'll drink to that." Lacking a glass of his own to toast with, Toreth took advantage of the distraction to pocket the comm numbers that Warrick had left on the table. The money might be gone, but he was quite happy to take remuneration in kind. He'd paid a lot worse forfeits in his time.

Without The Game

It had started last night, as Toreth had stood over the bed in Warrick's flat. Warrick lay asleep, or maybe passed out, damp with sweat, his wrists bruised by the manacles. Quite suddenly, Toreth had been angry. Inexplicably, irrationally, bewilderingly furious. He'd left before Warrick woke, walking home through slushy city snow in the hope that the cold February air would clear his mind. By the time he reached his flat all he'd achieved was wet feet and a headache. He'd slept fitfully and spent the whole of the day in a tired, bad-tempered haze, with the anger spiking every time he thought about the night before. Then Warrick had called him just before he left work and asked him no, told him to come round tonight. Not a mention of the fact that he'd not been there that morning. Shortly afterwards, Sara had asked him what on Earth was wrong with him, wasn't he getting enough? and his reply had been . . . well, flowers were at the top of his to-do list for tomorrow. He almost hadn't made it to Warrick's. In the taxi over, watching the wintery night passing, he'd had the very strong feeling that he didn't want to see Warrick. He still didn't understand why he hadn't changed his mind right then and gone home. Or why he hadn't done so a little later, when Warrick had opened to door to the flat, looked right through him, and said, "You're late." The argument had started approximately ten seconds after that, in the hallway, and they were still at it now, fifteen minutes later, in the bedroom, with no end in sight. A serious argument, eroding his self-control with every word. Any moment now, he was going to lose his temper, or at least his ability to put up with Warrick's 'I'm being perfectly reasonable' tone of voice, which drove him mad at the best of times. This was rapidly heading towards being one of the worst times ever. "So how often would you say we've done it in the last month?" Toreth asked. "I have no idea. But it's hardly 'every time' you've been here." You liar. You fucking liar. He made another, futile effort. "I'm not saying we can't do it ever again, I'm just saying you need to give your wrists a chance to heal up first." "I'd like to do it tonight," Warrick said, "and I still fail to see the problem." Finally, his temper slipped away from him and he shouted, "That's because you don't bloody well want to see it!" Grabbing Warrick's hands, he held them up in front of his face. "Look at them! No, don't fucking glaze over at me, look at them." Warrick tugged sharply, trying to pull away, but Toreth held him fast. Probably wouldn't do much for Warrick's concentration, but he didn't want him turning away, which would make it that much easier for him not to hear what he didn't want to. "Pretend they're mine," Toreth said. "Pretend they're Dillian's and I did it to her." That suggestion finally had the desired effect. Warrick blinked, focusing, hopefully seeing the livid bruises with some degree of objectivity. For a moment, Toreth thought that might be enough, but then Warrick shook his head. "They're only bruises. If we do it again tonight, they'll be slightly worse bruises tomorrow, that's all."

He should go. He should turn round and walk out right now before he did something unforgivable. He tried bleeding off a little of the anger into an exasperated sigh. "Okay. Were your fingers numb this morning?" "Toreth, I don't need a medical lecture." Warrick had stopped resisting his hold, apparently deciding to try ignoring the situation instead. "I think you do. Now answer the fucking question." That phrase drew a sharp look. "Yes. A little. They're perfectly all right now." "Warrick, I do this for a living. No, keep looking at me. You don't want to hear it the rest of the time, fine. But you're going to hear it now. I do this for a living. If you keep overdoing this, the repeated pressure from the cuffs and the chronic inflammation are going to damage the nerves. Permanently." "I took the anti-inflammatories as soon as I got up." "It makes no fucking difference in the long run. If we do it tonight, you might be okay tomorrow, but that's not the point. I know it's going to happen in the end, because I've seen it before. There's only so much that can be done with nerve regeneration to repair that kind of damage. At worst you could lose the use of your hands, and at best you'll be in pain for the rest of your life. Even if they re-graft the whole fucking arm, it might not cure it. Do you know what phantom nerve pain is?" "Of course," Warrick said. "It's come up in several sim projects. But in any case, they are my hands. Not that I'm not touched by your concern." "Christ, are you even fucking listening to me?" The idea of hitting Warrick was becoming so damn tempting. Not to hurt him, but to make him see past this infuriating, uncharacteristic fixation. "Right. Fine. You want another reason? When I interrogate a prisoner before I start I get something called a damage waiver. It tells me exactly what I can do to them, how much they can be injured. Whether they can die." "Toreth " "Shut up and listen. If I exceed the terms of the waiver, I'm breaking the law. I could be dismissed from I&I. If I went far enough I could get re-education, or restrictive detention. Do you have any idea of the life expectancy of paras in prison? Let's just say I wouldn't need to bother packing a fucking toothbrush." He shook Warrick's hands sharply. "This doesn't have a waiver. It's assault with intent to occasion actual bodily harm. It doesn't matter whether you consented or not, or even if you got on your knees and begged me to do it. The bastards at Justice wouldn't give a shit about any of that, if some officious medic reported it. They'd just get all wet and sticky about the chance to screw over someone from I&I." Warrick seemed to be listening now, at least if he wasn't simply waiting until Toreth ran out of things to say. "The time when we broke your wrist, pratting about with that chair, do you know what I was thinking in Casualty? 'If anyone calls this in, if Justice finds out, I'm fucked'. You were there in fucking handcuffs, Warrick handcuffs that I took from work. It was a miracle nothing happened. Okay, in the end I might not have gone to prison, or even been sacked, but it would've done my career no fucking good at all. I easily could've been bounced back down to junior for something like that. Bringing the division into disrepute, or whatever the hell they call it. Do you at least understand that?" Warrick nodded, his expression closed.

Was he finally getting somewhere? Already knowing the answer, Toreth asked, "Did you go home for New Year?" Warrick stayed silent for a moment, then said, "No." "And why not?" "Because . . . " "Say it." "Because I didn't want Dilly to see the bruises." "And I was fucking glad you didn't go, because if she had she would've been down at Justice in five fucking seconds flat and I'd have got an arrest warrant for New Year. I still might, because you know damn well you can't hide from her forever. And if it isn't Dillian, it'll be someone else. It's going to happen." Toreth stopped and took a deep breath; he was almost scaring himself now. "I'm only going to say this once more. Pull yourself together and get a grip on it, or I'm taking that fucking cabinet back to the Shop and getting a credit note that'll keep you supplied with gags and belts for the rest of your life. You can fuck up your hands if you want to. Do you know what? I don't care. But I'm not going to risk screwing up my life because you're so obsessed with suspension fucks that you don't even notice that " He stopped dead, understanding sweeping over him like vertigo and leaving him dumb with the shock of revelation. You don't even notice any more that it's me there with you. Eventually, he realised that he'd tightened his grip on Warrick's hands he must be hurting him. Letting go, he stepped back. Warrick lowered his hands slowly, and rubbed them together, kneading his palms with his thumbs. His expression hadn't changed, and Toreth couldn't tell whether he was thinking about what he'd said, or had noticed the sudden halt, or was still being stubborn. Again, he wanted to hit him, shake him, anything to get a reaction from him, but now the impulse was distant and easily ignored. He finally found his voice. "Warrick, you know it's not that I don't want to do it. Just the opposite. But give it a rest. A month. Six weeks would be better. And then we can do it again. Think how good it'll be when we do, when it's been so long since the last time." That was beginning to sound dangerously like pleading, so he shut up. Warrick looked at him for a moment, still unreadable, then walked away to the window and stood staring out at the falling snow, his reflection hidden. The snowflakes framed him, each one briefly picked out by the light from the window. Toreth sat down on the bed, wondering if anything he'd said had actually made an impression. He hated the idea of issuing an ultimatum. In fact, he'd never done it before, because it meant acknowledging that either of them might have the right. This time it mattered enough that he didn't care. A minute passed, then two, and he tried to decide what he was going to do if Warrick still insisted on going on with it. Walk out if he had any sense, but he doubted it. Adrenaline from the anger and frustration still pumped through him and whatever his mind was saying, his body wanted Warrick. Wanted him desperately, even like that, if that was all he could have. Thinking with his dick, Sara would say. "I'm sorry," Warrick said.

The last of the anger vanished, replaced by relief so intense that he felt sick, and glad that he was already sitting down. At least he could manage to sound steady. "Don't be sorry, just be sensible about it." Warrick turned round to face him, and leaned against the window, his hands on the sill. "Yes. I will be. Or at least I'll try to be, in future. You're quite correct about the situation. Even if I haven't been obsessed, precisely, then I've certainly been thinking about it far too much. Not only with you, but at work, the rest of the time, and " He shrugged. "All right, obsessed probably is the word. I should've noticed it myself. It's no different to overdoing it in the sim, and I've warned enough people about that over the years." "And?" "And yes, like the sim, a break is a very good idea. I need to . . . regain some perspective. We'll stop, for however long you think is best. I'll give you the key, if you like, and you can take it home with you." He nodded. "Thanks." "No, thank you. For . . . " Toreth waited through the silence of Warrick trying to paraphrase something he thought was going to panic him. These days they both knew what the pauses meant, and sometimes he felt like telling Warrick that he might as well go ahead and say whatever it was. Not today, though. "Thank you for making me see the situation more clearly." Christ, that was bland. It must have had started out life as something good. Well, it didn't matter, as long as Warrick meant what he'd said, and he usually did. "No problem. Any time." He kicked off his shoes and moved further up the bed. "Now, come to bed and we can fuck. If you still want to." Then he found himself hesitating, looking for the right words. Must be contagious. In the end, all he could think of was, "Without the game. Just us." Which sounded unbelievably stupid, said out loud. Luckily, Warrick didn't seem to think so because he smiled, warm and genuine. "I can't think of anything I'd enjoy more."

Control
Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five

Chapter One
Sara stared at the cracks in the ceiling and tried to stay awake. Even though the pain medication made her drowsy, she didn't want to sleep. First thing in the morning she'd had the most horrible nightmare. She'd woken up, and then thrown up, and then, fortunately not long afterwards, her mother had arrived and stayed until lunchtime. Calming her mother down had helped keep her calm. Now she was on her own again, for the afternoon. Not for very long. There would be friends arriving once work was over. Her sister was coming for the evening. All she had to do was stay awake and think about something else and she'd be fine. Someone knocked at the door. "Come in," she said. She expected another medic, wanting to ask her another lot of questions. To her surprise, it was Toreth, only partially visible behind an enormous bunch of white flowers. He stopped inside the doorway and stared at her, clearly appalled. "Sara? Jesus fucking Christ. You look like you've been answering questions over at Justice." "Great. Thanks for that." She edged up on the pillows and tried to smile without stretching her lips. "It looks worse than it is, honest. I'm only in bed because I was knocked out for a while; I'm not supposed to go wandering around unsupervised, in case I fall over and sue the hospital." He came over and put the flowers down on the bed. Getting a closer look at them, she couldn't help laughing, even though it hurt her ribs. "They're lilies." "What?" "The flowers." She stroked the thick, velvety petals. "Lilies are for funerals." Maybe it wasn't so funny, at that. "Are they? Damn." He grinned, looking almost sheepish. "Sorry." "It doesn't matter they're lovely. I'll get someone to put them in some water. It's really nice of you to come," she added as she rang for a nurse. He shrugged. "There's the safety meeting this afternoon, which is going to win awards for boredom. And since my admin didn't turn up for work and her desk is a mess, I couldn't find the crap for it, anyway." Her desk was nothing of the kind, and besides, she'd transferred the files to him yesterday. Only yesterday. "Memo me." "I'll let you off." He sat down by the bed, looking her over more assessingly. She'd explained most of it to him that morning when she'd called work, and she felt relieved that she wouldn't have to go through it all again. That was the bad thing about visitors, medical or otherwise. "What happened to your hand?" he asked when the nurse had come and gone. He had an unerring eye for the worst injuries. She looked down at the bandaging, feeling strangely reluctant to tell him. "It's fine. It's, well . . . he gave me a ring. I don't know if you noticed it? Antique. Nice. It belonged to his grandmother or something. Or that's what he told me." As she

continued talking, the words came more easily. "He said that while I was wearing it, I was his. Yeah, I know, how moronic was I to think that was sweet. Possessive fucking maniac. That's what set him off. Said he'd seen me looking at someone else. I told him he didn't own me and he could stick his money if he thought he could buy me." She rubbed her temple, wincing as she caught a bruise. "Christ, I must have had my brain switched off." Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Toreth fidgeting slightly in his chair. Really, she knew better than to expect him to sit patiently through too much of this kind of stuff. But it was an unexpected relief to say it all to someone who would sit and almost listen, and not get hysterical or feel obliged to comment. "Anyway. When he stopped . . . before he left, he took it back. The ring. Only it was rather a tight fit and some bits of my finger went with it. They're doing something to it tomorrow. An operation. But don't worry, it's fine, honestly." Anger bubbled up suddenly anger with herself for saying that, because it wasn't fine at all, none of it was. "I'm sorry," she said, as she started to cry. He handed tissues over from the box by the bed and waited until she was done, silent and wonderfully unembarrassed. "Stupid. I was so stupid," she said eventually, staring at the crumpled tissues in her hand. "I should've seen it. Bastard didn't like him." Toreth sighed. "Sara, that fucking cat hates everyone in the world except you." "And Daedra told me what he was like. I thought she was just being a bit off because when I met him at first he was still with her sister. He seemed so . . . it's all my own stupid bloody fault. I was an idiot. I " "Did you call Justice?" he asked, interrupting. "No." She sniffed, and sighed. "I thought about it. Mum wanted me to. But there's no point. His dad's some important corporate. Lots of friends, lots of money. They'd investigate and there'd be no case. You know how it works." He nodded. "Who is he?" She hesitated, understanding what he was offering with the question. Asking her permission, maybe, because it would be dangerous, and it might only make things worse. Maybe she shouldn't . . . Then the memory of her terror came back, very nearly sharp enough to make her sick again. The bruises didn't matter. It was the helplessness nothing she could have done then, and nothing she could do now. The sound of him laughing at her as she slid into unconsciousness, her last clear thought being the certainty that he would kill her before she came round. Laughing because he knew no one could touch him. Because his money could buy her, one way or another. Because if he wanted to hurt her again there was nothing she could do to stop it. "Jonny. Jon Kemp. He's a student. I don't know where he lives." She cursed her stupidity again, silently, because she should have known. Normal, safe people didn't hide things like that. "Daedra might know." He nodded again. "He hit you?" What the hell did he think had happened? "I didn't walk into a door twenty times." "No," he said levelly. "I mean, that's all he did?"

"Oh." She swallowed down the rising nausea. "Yes. Nothing else." "Right." He stood up. "I have to get back to work. I'll see you tomorrow." ~~~ Warrick was on his way out of his office when reception called to say that Toreth wanted to see him. He checked his watch, sighed, and told them to send him up. He sat on the edge of the desk, tapping his fingers impatiently, until the door opened. "You're lucky you caught me. I've got a meeting with " The sentence died out as he registered Toreth's expression. 'Grim' didn't do it justice. "What's wrong?" "Nothing." He closed the door. "Except that I need you to do me a favour, and not ask me what it's about." Anger, but not directed at him. It was focused elsewhere and under tight control. Warrick considered briefly. He had the feeling that if he asked, Toreth would tell him. On balance, though, he decided that Toreth deserved at least that much trust from him. "All right, I'll do my best. No guarantees." "I need an address for a Jon Kemp. He's a student at the university, probably History or Art, possibly lives somewhere in the new development north of campus. Rich corporate father." A trivial question, if it hadn't been for his tone of voice. "You can't find this out at I&I because . . . ?" Toreth frowned, but answered anyway. "Because then there'll be a record of the enquiry and I don't want to be connected to him. And, if you can, I'd like to know if there's any internal video security wherever he lives, and if he lives alone." Warrick felt his eyebrows go up before he could keep the surprise from showing. Toreth started to say something, but he cut him off. "Give me ten minutes." Toreth stood behind him, humming tunelessly and irritatingly, while he ran the searches. Warrick didn't think it was worth asking him to shut up. "There you go," he said eventually. "Small house on the edge of the development. Do you want me to write the address down?" "I'll remember it." "No other occupants listed, for what that's worth. And according to the insurance details, there's no video inside. Odd, considering how expensive it is." "Probably doesn't want daddy finding out the kind of thing he gets up to." Flat and cold. Curiosity kicked in again, but he'd said he wouldn't ask, so he wouldn't. "Anything else?" "No. And you " "Never looked at the files. Never even heard the name." "Right." He paused in the doorway on the way out. "I might not come round tonight, after all. It depends. But I'd like to be there, if it's possible." Warrick nodded, understanding the oblique request. "No problem. Thanks for letting me know." Even though he was late, Warrick stayed at his desk for a minute, looking at the closed door and wondering. It would be nice to know what Toreth was up to, beyond the obvious conclusion of it being illegal and very likely dangerous. Then he carefully erased the records of his enquiries and went off to his meeting. ~~~

As dusk fell, a patch of rather prickly bushes provided Toreth with an uncomfortable changing room on the northern edge of the university campus. The under-the-counter Justice uniform had cost him a large favour at the I&I stores. He'd added a pair of thin leather gloves to the outfit. They weren't a normal part of the uniform, but they wouldn't be too conspicuous. He folded his own clothes into the bag he'd brought the uniform in and hid it under a pile of leaves. It should be safe enough until he got back this shouldn't take long. The pleasant and obviously expensive development was within easy walking distance of the university, but still nicely insulated from the less salubrious areas where most students lived. Tall terraced houses, some split into flats, surrounded courtyards with areas of well-tended grass and even parking spaces for private vehicles; just the right sort of place to look for a spoiled corporate brat who thought he could get away with a little assault and battery. A spoiled corporate brat who'd find out that he'd picked the wrong fucking woman this time. He activated the comm at the address provided by Warrick, and offered a highly unofficial Justice ID to be scanned and authenticated. The first risk was that Jonny would tell him to come back tomorrow, when he would have a lawyer ready for him. Toreth hoped he was too arrogant to be frightened by some Justice nobody. He wouldn't want his father to hear what he'd been doing if he could help it. Not good for the corporate image, even if they would be able to bury it. Now it all depended on whether Jonny was alone. To Toreth's relief, it was Jonny who appeared on the screen. Or at least the man matched Daedra's description of wavy dark hair, olive complexion and dark, long-lashed eyes. Attractive, Toreth would have said under other circumstances. If he answered his own door, that was promising. Keeping his face in shadow, Toreth said, "Officer Pat Vardon, Justice Department. I'd like to speak to Jon Kemp, please." "Come in, Officer," Jonny said, and unlocked the door. The fine edge of contempt he gave the title made Toreth grit his teeth. Once inside, Toreth closed the door, slid home the security chain, and waited in the hall until Jonny appeared on the stairs. "This way, Officer." On the way upstairs, Toreth assessed his target. Tall, well built. He made a couple of modifications to the plan, but he still felt confident he could handle him without too much trouble. Jonny led him into a living room small but expensively furnished, Toreth noted on an automatic sweep and still they'd met no one and heard no sounds from elsewhere in the house. "What can I do for you?" Jonny asked, without offering him a seat. "A complaint of assault has been made by a young woman, sir, against your good self," Toreth said in his best Justice Department manner. "Oh?" Not fear. Not guilt. Just insolent questioning and something very close to amusement. Jonny rubbed the back of his right hand absently, and Toreth could see the bruises on his knuckles, faint but unmistakable. He decided not to bother with the rest of the questions, except for the important one. "Are you alone in the house at the moment?" Toreth asked. Surprise slid into suspicion on Jonny's face even as he said, "Yes. Why?" On that, Toreth moved, quickly and confidently. After a struggle almost too brief to qualify as one, Toreth held him pinned easily against a wall. They were much the same height and weight, but training and technique won out, just as he'd expected they would. "This is your lucky day," Toreth said conversationally, as Jonny swore and twisted futilely. "You

hurt a friend of mine. So I'm going to hurt you. But because I asked her a question and she said 'yes', I'm not going to kill you. Do you feel lucky yet?" He didn't seem to. Once Jonny had tired himself out somewhat with fighting, Toreth hit him not hard, but strategically. Then he let him drop, so that he landed heavily, sobbing for breath. Toreth smiled at the sound. "Oh, we're only just getting started." Jonny began swearing at him again, weakly. Toreth switched it off. It didn't matter, any more than it mattered when prisoners did it at work, except as a measure of how much progress he was making. He gave himself five minutes. Long enough to do what he wanted to, not so long that someone was likely to come along and interrupt them. From here on in, the plan was simple maximum pain and minimum damage. No marks at all, ideally. As time went by and the swearing faded out into breathless whimpers, he had to expend less effort in keeping physical control, and so could devote more concentration to stretching the limits of non-bruising violence. Striking with impersonal efficiency, he found the old lessons coming back easily. Drugs and direct nerve induction were better tools, but the physical contact had a certain satisfaction. Especially here. Especially with this cowardly fuck who'd hurt Sara. He felt his temper slipping, caught it, and carried on. Finally, he checked his watch. Time up. He moved back, leaving Jonny crumpled on the floor by the wall, and gave him a few minutes to recover. "Get up." Unsurprisingly, there was no response, so Toreth pulled him to his feet and slammed him against the wall, then took a couple of steps back. Jonny stayed leaning on the wall, wiping tears of pain from his cheeks. When the bastard was breathing more easily, Toreth said, "I want the ring." He looked up, caught a breath. "What?" "You heard me. You took a ring back from my friend. I want it." Jonny shook his head, dazed and sullen. "It was it was my great-grandmother's engagement ring." As if it made any fucking difference. "She'd be proud of you. Get it." Toreth took a step towards him. "Get it." "All right." A more pleasing edge of panic. "It's in there." "Well, go on." Jonny tried to stand up straighter and stopped, still leaning heavily against the wall. "I can't," he whined. "Please. It's on the dressing table." Toreth weighed the situation up, deciding not to take the risk. If he left Jonny alone, he'd take the chance to call for help if he could. Rich corporate kids were trained what to do in situations like this he'd even trained a few himself. He grabbed Jonny's arm, and hauled him upright despite his anguished protest. "My heart bleeds. Move."

Once in the bedroom, the box was easy to spot. Toreth opened it and checked the contents, keeping one eye on the other man. Empty. He'd been half expecting that. "One last fucking chance, or I take the rest of the debt out of you." Jonny hesitated for a couple of seconds, some of his former manner creeping back already and sorely testing Toreth's resolve over his time limit. "It's in the drawer," he said reluctantly. Remembering his training, obviously: cooperate and keep calm. Pity. "Then you'd better open it slowly and not do anything I don't like the look of. No, don't put your hand inside. Good. Now step away. Sit down on the bed." There was only one likely box, and Toreth took it and checked the contents. Finally. He closed the drawer. "I'm leaving, now." It was an anticlimax, unexpectedly dissatisfying, because Jonny was still sitting, watching him with a competing mixture of fear and hatred. Not unconscious and bleeding. He wasn't going to come round alone in a dark flat and have to crawl across the floor to call for help because some pathetic, obsessive, jealous Stick to the plan, he told himself firmly. "You're thinking about the comm. Before you call anyone, you might want to see if there's any significant evidence that I laid a finger on you. And then you might also want to think what you'll say about why I was here. Talk, and what you did to my friend comes out, too. Even at Justice we'll have to do something about her complaint then." That should have been it but, as he started to walk away, Jonny struggled to his feet, took a couple of steps across the room towards him, and found his tongue again. "Don't think you're going to get away with this." Toreth stopped dead, turned back slowly. "What the hell did you say?" he asked quietly. "You won't get away with it. Don't you know who my father is?" All anger now, and barely shaken arrogance. "I'm going to have you crucified. You and your stupid whore. She was mine and " Rage and reflexes took over. Seven steps to close the distance, a couple of seconds to brush his resistance aside, and then Toreth had him down on the bed, knee on his chest and left hand around his throat. He had a moment of clarity to savour the utter shock in Jonny's eyes, although it was only a moment. Then plans and time frames and subtlety all flashed over into white-hot fury, and he hit Jonny and kept on hitting. Not with a great deal of strategy this time, but with significantly more enjoyment. The crunch of knuckles against flesh and bone jarred through him, hot as fucking, and even the dimly felt pain in his knuckles only fed back into the rage. It wasn't until he finally registered that all resistance to his assault had ceased that the haze cleared and he could make himself stop. Panting, he assessed the results. Jonny lay on the bed, barely conscious and bleeding enough to satisfy any comparisons, a halo of blood spatters around his head speckling the pale duvet. So much for the 'no marks' resolution, but the injuries seemed to be mostly cosmetic. That was something, at least. Fuck. Fuck Jonny for being so stupid, and fuck himself for losing control. He knew better and he'd been trained better. He took a few deep breaths. Damage limitation was needed, and quickly, or he would be seriously screwed. Stay in charge; make it look planned.

Jonny moaned and coughed, saving Toreth the trouble of slapping him back to full consciousness. He waited until his eyes opened and focused on him. Then he dug his fingers into Jonny's throat again and the man gulped desperately for air, gagging on the blood trickling into his throat from his broken nose. Toreth leaned down and put every ounce of menace he could summon into his voice. "Listen to me very, very carefully. If you tell anyone what happened here, I'll fucking kill you. You can run and hide wherever the hell you like; it won't make any fucking difference. Say one word, and I'll know about it. And then I'll find you." He shook Jonny for emphasis. "This was just a taster. One word, to anyone, and by the time I'm finished with you, you'll be begging me to let you die. Is that one hundred fucking percent clear? Well? Well?" Deeply satisfying as the expression of absolute terror was, Toreth realised that if he wanted an answer he would have to loosen his hold enough to let Jonny speak. "Yes," he croaked. "Good. You'll keep your mouth shut, and you'll stay the fuck away from my friend. If you even fucking look at her, I'll be back. She's nothing to do with you. You don't own her. You never did. Understand?" Without his noticing, his grip had tightened again. Jonny nodded wordlessly, struggling for breath. "Are you sure?" Toreth forced his fingers to relax. "You don't look very sure to me. I'd hate you to forget this in the morning." "No . . . no. Yes. I'm sure. Please." The little shit was crying properly now, which went a tiny way towards making up for having to watch Sara do the same thing at the hospital. Toreth held him down for a while longer, as he snivelled and choked out pleas and promises. A shame Sara wasn't here to watch. Finally, he let go and stood up. "Anything else you wanted to say before I go?" Jonny shook his head minutely, frozen in place on the bed. Toreth knew the look well: not daring to believe it could really be over, that he might live. "Good plan." He paused in the doorway, checked the ring was still in his pocket, and smiled with no humour whatsoever. "Don't forget, now." He let himself out of the house without hearing any movement from the bedroom, and walked out of the development without meeting anyone. Still miraculously unobserved, he made it back to where he'd left his clothes and changed. The gloves were ruined, and he'd have to get the uniform cleaned before he returned it. Standing in the pleasantly cool night air, he considered what to do next. It had been a stupid lapse of self-control but, despite fucking up his original plan, he felt reasonably sure that Jonny wouldn't report this to Justice, or anyone else who mattered. There was more than an outside chance, though, that word of the too-visible damage would get back to his father anyway. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do about that now. Time enough to worry when, or if, it happened. Even though it was a long way to his flat, he wouldn't risk catching a taxi from near here, not now. Warrick's place was much closer. His right hand had begun to hurt like fucking hell, so he picked up his bag left-handed and started across the campus.

~~~ Warrick changed his dinner plans and casseroled something that would keep in the oven until needed. Then he filled an hour or so creating the alibi which Toreth had obliquely asked him for, making up edits for the building entrance and flat surveillance records, which would prove to the absolute satisfaction of anyone who might be curious that Toreth had been there all evening. Once prepared, they would only take a few minutes to finish and install in the building's security system. After that, he spent ten minutes on unnecessary tidying around the flat, until he began to annoy himself and instead went back into the office to do some work. That was the wonderful thing about coding; it could take his mind off anything. It absorbed him sufficiently that he didn't really feel the time pass. Even so, he hit the button to open the door to the building before Toreth had time to take his finger off the comm. He let Toreth into the flat and closed the door without comment. "Have you got any ice?" Toreth asked. He didn't look in a significantly better frame of mind than he had at SimTech. "What do you " Then Warrick caught sight of his hand. No cuts he could see, but badly bruised and starting to swell. "Come into the kitchen." Toreth helped himself to a drink while Warrick crushed ice cubes and wrapped them in a plastic bag. Then he handed the ice pack over and dropped a couple of whole cubes into Toreth's drink. "Are you hungry?" He tried to sound unconcerned, keeping his impatience to know what had happened out of his voice. "No." Toreth pressed the ice onto his hand and hissed through his teeth. "Fuck, that smarts." "Would you like painkillers to go with your alcohol?" "Yes." "I'll see what I've got." All he had was standard over-the-counter tablets, but Toreth accepted them and professed gratitude. Warrick sat in silence and watched him drinking and slowly unwinding from whatever it was that he'd done. In an abstract sense, he was aware that seeing Toreth like this should probably scare him, or at least worry him. Dilly would've had fifteen kinds of fits. He wasn't frightened, though, and all the worry he had was for the man in front of him. He must remember to find out the times for the security tape. Eventually, Toreth spoke, startling him. "I trashed your gloves. The ones you gave me for the New Year before last. Sorry." "It doesn't matter." Doing what to whom? "It'll give me something to buy for your birthday. You're a hard man to choose presents for." Toreth didn't smile. "I don't think I said thanks for the information." "Any time." Toreth nodded. Then after a short silence he cleared his throat and said, "Warrick?" "Mm?" He swirled the watery remains of his drink and then drained the glass. "Warrick, I wouldn't . . . that is, I'd never . . . " Warrick couldn't remember ever hearing him sound so uncertain. "You'd never what?" he prompted after a while.

"I " Toreth shook his head. "Nothing. It's not important." Putting down his glass, he looked across the table, focusing on him at last. "Did you say something about food?" Warrick smiled, relieved. "Yes, I did." He'd ask about it later. Or tomorrow. Or maybe not at all. ~~~ Sara was trying to eat a breakfast of unappetising hospital porridge when Toreth called in to see her on his way in to work. She hadn't slept very well, not entirely because of the bruises, and she'd been hoping he'd come. "You look much better," he said, closing the door behind him. "Liar." She noticed he had an elastic bandage covering his right hand. He followed her gaze. "Sprained it at the gym." Sitting down by the bed, he offered her a small box. "Souvenir." She took it, opened it, and when she saw what was inside she dropped the box on the bed as if it had burned her. The ring fell out and Toreth caught it as it slid towards the floor. "I don't want it," she said, sickness tightening her throat again. "Then smash it. Or throw it down a drain. Or sell it and go on holiday. Up to you." He held it out again, and she took it reluctantly. "I think I'm going off antique jewellery," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "New only, from now on." She turned the ring over in her hand. "He gave it to Daedra's sister as well, you know. She told me when she came round yesterday after work. She said you, er, hadn't spoken to her." "She wasn't very helpful," he agreed. "Mmm. He must have been royally pissed off when he lost it." "Royally," he said with great satisfaction. It probably wasn't a good idea to talk about it too much, here, but she had to ask. "Was he . . . sorry?" "Oh, yes. Yes, he was. Very, very fucking sorry." "Good." She'd worried during the long night that this thing he'd done for her might not make her feel any better after all. But it had. "Thanks," she added after a moment. "Nothing to thank me for," he said, then stood up. "I've got to get to work. I'll be back later. I'll bring you some transcripts to keep you busy." She heard him whistling as he went off down the corridor and smiled, ignoring the twinge in her lip. Christ, he really couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. Sara lay back and closed her eyes, the ring still in her hand. She'd smash it, probably, although it seemed a waste. She wouldn't like to own anything she bought with money from it. Maybe she could sell it, though, if she blew the money on something silly. She hadn't held a really good party for a while, with fizzy wine and decent bought-in stuff for nibbles. She'd think of an excuse. The cat's birthday would do. She could invite all her work friends, and people from her building, and her sister and the childhood friends they still kept in touch with, and the assorted other acquaintances such as Cele, Warrick and Dillian. The flat was far too small, but maybe she could talk her neighbour into opening the connecting door again and letting it spill through. She'd paid him for the damage from the last time.

She was still planning when she fell asleep.

Chapter Two
As the sun began to edge into the room, Warrick looked out of his living room window, searching the street below. Plenty of strolling Saturday-afternoon pedestrians, but not the one he wanted to see. Toreth was late. As an event, it rated in improbability somewhere around night following day and water flowing downhill. It wasn't even as if he was so consistently late that it was easy to plan around him. Anywhere between five minutes and an hour was perfectly likely. Occasionally, he was even early. That usually meant he wanted to fuck, though, and then they would be late, anyway. To his annoyance, he caught himself smiling, spoiling the bad mood he'd rather been enjoying. Pity Toreth hadn't been early today. For peace of mind, if they were required to be anywhere on time, Warrick had taken to giving himself fifteen minutes lead on the real time they needed to leave by, and then simply leaving without him if necessary. He was on the verge of doing precisely that when the comm chimed. A call from Toreth's flat, which meant there was no chance of his getting here on time now. What would the excuse be this time? Something mildly creative, no doubt, since it was a Saturday. On a weekday it was usually work, because Toreth knew he wouldn't want details. To his surprise, though, he heard Sara's voice, cutting in halfway through a sentence. " hell are you? Come on, answer, come on, come on " "Sara?" "Oh, thank Christ," she said, managing to sound relieved and panicky at the same time. "Is Toreth there?" It couldn't be about anything else, of course. Their main topic of mutual concern. "No. He's late. He was supposed to be here a quarter of an hour ago. What's wrong?" "Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. When did you hear from him last?" "Yesterday, after lunch, I think. To confirm about this afternoon. Sara, what's wrong?" "I was hoping . . . he's disappeared." "What the hell do you mean, 'disappeared'?" She hesitated. "Don't go anywhere," she said finally. "I'm on my way over." ~~~ Handcuffed to the wall in near-darkness, Toreth had plenty of time to reflect on what an idiot he'd been. He'd been surprised when the door to the flat opened. Warrick and Sara knew the code, but both of them usually called up rather than let themselves in. Stupidly, he hadn't thought what that might mean, other than to assume he'd made a mistake. Hadn't he arranged to meet Sara at the bar? So he'd called out, "In here," and sat there, waiting for them. Making it easy. Nondescript dark suits, that was the first thing he noticed about them. They could have been some obscure branch of Int-Sec, or Justice getting above themselves, but they didn't show any ID. They piled through the door and across the room to him while he was still getting out of the chair. He hadn't had a real chance against four of them, all decently trained. He made a mess, though,

and broke a few glasses, which was what he'd wanted to do. The struggle came to an abrupt end when one of them caught his right wrist, twisting it up and back until he felt the bones grinding, and he'd yelled out, from the surprise as much as the pain. One of the men, dark-haired and cold-eyed, had stepped round in front of him, straightening his suit as he did so. "My instructions are to bring you in alive if possible. So don't fuck me around. Cooperate, and you'll get out of this alive. Understand?" It wasn't entirely convincing, but Toreth had nodded. Possibly dead later was better odds than definitely dead now. "Cuff him, bring him along." Once they left the building, he had decided to try to run for it anyway, because that would probably be his only chance. As the door opened onto the street, and he saw the black car parked immediately outside, he felt a cold pressure on his neck. Unconsciousness had followed so quickly that he didn't remember hearing the hiss of the injector. Stupid. He'd been so fucking stupid. He heard Sara's voice in his head, saying the same thing to him at the hospital. 'My own stupid bloody fault'. He shifted against the wall, trying to find a position that would allow him to relax a few muscles. Chained as he was, facing the wall and with his hands at head height, there weren't many options. His legs, back, arms and shoulders were all on a sliding scale somewhere between aching and agony. When they'd cuffed him to the wall, he'd been coming round, fuzzy with the after-effects of whatever they'd given him. It hadn't been too bad at first, but he'd known how it would go. Known in a professional, abstract sense he'd never had it done to him before. He wondered how the hell Warrick could do this for fun. Except, of course, that he didn't. He did it for half an hour, an hour, so high on the game that it couldn't hurt him anyway. Then he got fucked hard against the wall, and afterwards he went to bed. That was fun. Not hour upon hour of the pain getting worse, long past the point when that had seemed impossible. Putting up a fight in his flat no longer seemed like such a brilliant idea. His wrist hurt like fuck broken, or nastily sprained, the handcuff biting into the swollen flesh. When he'd made the mistake of trying to take some of the strain off his shoulders onto the cuffs, he'd nearly blacked out. Despite the pain, he flexed his fingers from time to time, checking for feeling. Plenty of that, which he supposed was a good thing. He'd never fancied gangrene. Apart from his wrist, he didn't seem to be in terribly bad shape. Beating him up while he was unconscious would have been a waste of time, after all. They'd taken his jacket and shirt off while he was out, but he didn't feel cold. The air in the room was warm and still stuffy, in fact. The dim light from around the door revealed no hint of a window, but he'd yelled a few times anyway, the sound dying quickly against the walls. No sound of machinery or traffic, no voices. Underground, would be his bet. Now they were waiting. Stopping him sleeping, lowering his resistance. Effective, and requiring minimal use of valuable personnel. Someone had read the manual. This place definitely wasn't an I&I cell, because the doors there didn't let in light. At first, he'd guessed Internal Investigations, because Justice would never dare pull anything like this and one or two of the things he'd done could justify a disappearance. As time had crawled by, he'd begun to let himself hope that it wasn't Internal. If it were, surely

someone would've come to speak to him by now, or he would be dead. It wasn't as if he was short of alternate candidates. He'd made enough personal enemies over his career, Jonny Kemp and possibly the rich father Sara had mentioned being only the most recent. With the possibility of Internal Investigations receding, he allowed himself a touch of optimism. This wouldn't go down as one of his better weekends, but he might get out of the other end of it alive. Whatever the hell they were going to do to him instead of killing him, he wished that they'd get on and do it. Toreth twisted round, trying to rest his hip and shoulder against the wall without putting too much pressure on his wrist. Still agonisingly uncomfortable, but in a new and interesting way. He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. Now. You can come back any time now. Whenever you're ready. Eventually, he drifted into a haze of pain and exhaustion, time passing slowly. ~~~ Warrick filled the time until Sara arrived with futile calls, which in all probability she had already made: to I&I, to Toreth's flat, to his personal comm which was dead, to coin an unfortunate phrase and, more pessimistically, to various hospitals. Nothing. He'd always known something like this would happen eventually. Toreth would fuck the wrong person and an outraged husband or wife would come after him. Or, worse, would send someone professional after him. Ironic that it should be now, when he'd been screwing around less than usual. Or at least he'd been keeping it quieter, which was almost as welcome and probably more likely. When Sara arrived at the flat she looked as distraught as she had sounded. Her face was mottled with bruises a few days old, and she had one finger encased in a protective plastic sheath. "Have you heard from him?" she asked as soon as he closed the door. "Nothing, no." "Oh, Christ, this is all my fault." She looked to be on the verge of tears, which wouldn't help either of them. Taking her arm gently, he led her down the hall. "Come through to the kitchen. Can I get you something to drink?" "No, I'm fine. I . . . " She sat down in a chair and wiped her eyes angrily with her good hand. "It's all my fault," she repeated. Despite her refusal, he poured her a glass of his cooking brandy and pressed it into her hand. She took a sip automatically. "All right." He sat down opposite her. "Start at the beginning." She gestured to her face. "Boyfriend." "Jon Kemp?" he said, and she stared, glass halfway to her lips. "I found the address for him. But he didn't tell me why he wanted it. I think I can guess, though." She nodded. "I didn't ask him to do it, Warrick. I wouldn't have. But I didn't tell him not to, either." Even though his first thought had been to blame her, he said, "From the temper he was in when I saw him, I don't think it would've made any difference, whatever you'd said." "He's done something like it before, though. I mean, he didn't say anything first, not that time, but I guessed afterwards what he'd done and I didn't say anything. I knew what he was going to do to Jonny. And I know how crazy Jonny is. I should've "

"Sara, this isn't going to help him. Tell me what happened, please." "Okay." She had another mouthful of the drink. "We were supposed to go out last night. Work thing. He went home to change and then he never made it to the bar. I didn't think much about it because I assumed he'd met someone and " She paused. "Well, you know." "Yes, I know." All too well. "Then he was supposed to be in work today. He asked me to come in, specially, to tidy up one of the cases; he wouldn't have forgotten about it. He never showed up. I waited until lunchtime because I had plenty to do, and I thought he'd call in eventually he always calls, wherever he's ended up but he didn't." To his surprise, he found his hands clenching, her panic communicating itself to him. Considering that he'd rarely seen her so much as ruffled, that wasn't surprising. "I tried to get hold of him," she continued, "but his personal comm isn't connecting. So I called his flat, no answer. And then I went round. I don't know why." To look for a body, Warrick thought. "He wasn't there. But there was a mess. Broken glass, stuff knocked over. That's when I started to get really worried." "Blood?" She stared at him for a moment, then shook her head. "No. No blood." That was something. Not much, but something. "It has to be Jonny," she continued. "Him or his wonderful corporate bloody father. It's my fault. Jesus, he could be dead and all because I " "No, he won't be." Warrick uncurled his hands, laid them flat on his thighs to stop them shaking. "What did he do to this Jon Kemp?" She sniffed hard, composing herself. "Beat him up. He didn't say in so many words, but I think he . . . lost control. He made a mess of him more than he meant to. Enough that I had the feeling he was worried about Jonny's father finding out from the medic or someone like that." "But he didn't kill him. Then he'll be all right." "How can you be so bloody calm about it?" she exploded. Briefly, he was tempted to tell her the truth, but it wouldn't help the situation. "Think it through. Toreth's a para-investigator. Senior para-investigator." This once, that was something he was unreservedly glad about. "He's not someone a corporate can have vanish. However rich his father is, he won't be able to buy off Int-Sec over something like that. So they'll take him somewhere, rough him up a little " a lot, it would be a lot, " do their best to frighten him, and then they'll let him go. Killing him would be stupid." "So where is he? They took him last night. If that's all it was, where is he?" That was the gaping hole in the explanation. "I don't know. But they won't kill him," he said, trying to sound reassuring for both of them. She shook her head. "His father mightn't. But Jonny . . . you don't know him. I didn't. He's a maniac you should've heard what he said to Toreth. He threatened him, right to his face. He thinks no one can touch him. He might kill Toreth and not think about the consequences until there's an armed squad kicking in his door."

He didn't want to believe her, especially not when he'd almost managed to convince himself otherwise. However, she was the one who knew Jon Kemp. Sitting still was suddenly impossible. Pacing worked better, and thinking about what he could do. "Very well," he said. "There was a struggle at the flat, so they've taken him somewhere, alive. Not to the address I gave him, though, because that would be too easy to find. You don't know anywhere else? Damn. Have you told I&I?" "No. If I tell them . . . " She shrugged. "Everything comes out and he'd be sacked at best. Sacked is better than dead, though." He looked at her, read what she didn't dare say because of how it would sound. "But it wouldn't just be sacked and it wouldn't just be him it would be you as well." She nodded. "Not just me, either. You found him the address. We'd all be screwed." He hadn't thought of that, and he dismissed it now. "If we can't think of something else, though, I&I is all we have to fall back on." "Of course." She looked hurt that he'd even suggested she wouldn't agree, but he didn't have attention to spare to apologise. "Do you know any other houses Jon Kemp might have access to? Most probably somewhere not too far away." "No. I didn't even know where he lived. But I can call Daedra Kincaidy. She might know something." While she made the call, he broke off pacing long enough to make tea. He'd had a coffee just before she arrived, but the ritual helped to calm him. Stick to the practical; don't speculate on what might be happening. What might already have happened, making all this frantic hunting for leads useless. ~~~ Toreth didn't notice the lights come up slowly, or the door open. "Good afternoon, 'Officer'." The mocking voice pulled him back to alertness. He turned round, ignoring the pain in his wrist. Doubts about who had sent the men were banished when he saw Jonny standing in the open doorway. He was twisting a thick leather strap between his hands which cleared up any other questions Toreth had about the planned programme and grinning like the arrogant little shit he was. The bruises Toreth had given him were still vivid, though, and satisfyingly worse than Sara's. Jonny closed the door and strolled over, stopping a couple of metres away out of kicking range. "Did you really think you were going to get away with it, Para-investigator Toreth? That I couldn't find out who you were?" No, I just didn't think you'd be stupid enough to try anything, he thought, but he kept his mouth shut. He might as well make an effort to be sensible, to start with. With Jonny's native talent for pushing his buttons, it wouldn't last long. "You're going to pay for everything you did, a hundred times over. Unfortunately, I have a prior engagement this evening, so I'm afraid you'll have to stand here," he smiled, "all night. Again. I hope you don't mind. Tomorrow will be worth waiting for, I assure you. And then, when I'm finished, I'm going to kill you. Slowly and painfully." Toreth blinked. It hadn't occurred to him until now that Jonny would seriously consider killing

him. But, Christ, he meant it. Sara was right he was a maniac. She hadn't mentioned that he got his overrehearsed dialogue from bad films, though, not that that made him any less dangerous. "Not so cocky now, are you?" Jonny continued. "Why don't you uncuff me and say that again?" he suggested, his resolve slipping already. Jonny took a couple of steps to the side, where he'd have a clearer view of Toreth's face. "No, I don't think so. Not while I can think of things to do with you there. Maybe later. When I'm listening to you begging for death. You can do that on your knees." This time Toreth tried to keep his expression neutral, give no reaction. Flexing the strap in his hands, Jonny stepped closer. "Was that stupid bitch worth dying for? I hope you got a fuck out of your white knight act, because you won't be having her again." Toreth kicked out, sooner than he'd meant to, and missed. Jonny stepped back smartly, laughing again. "Behave yourself, or I'll get someone in here to break your legs." It was the tone as much as the threat that chilled him: happy anticipation, a child with a new toy. Jonny smiled. "Well, are you going to behave?" Toreth's first impulse was to spit in his face and tell him to go fuck himself. On the other hand, he had the strong impression that once he'd given the order Jonny would go through with it whatever Toreth said. And then leave him here all night. Toreth couldn't begin to imagine how much that would hurt, if the shock didn't kill him. "Well?" "Yes," Toreth said, through gritted teeth. "Yes, what?" "Yes, I'll behave." If he wanted any more than that, he wasn't getting it. Fortunately or unfortunately Jonny didn't seem to be willing to wait any longer to get on to the main event. He stepped closer, still watching Toreth's face, daring him to move, then lifted the strap and brought it down hard. The smack across Toreth's shoulder sounded loud and, Christ, it hurt. It had been telegraphed enough to give Toreth plenty of time to set his jaw, but he couldn't stop the gasp of pain. Jonny smiled, eyes bright and mad as a fucking mink, and did it again. Again. And over and over again. ~~~ When Sara came back, Warrick didn't need to ask what the answer was. "Damn. All right, I'm tapped out. Your turn." She poured herself a cup of tea, slowly stirred in milk and sugar. "I think you're right. He's still alive. Because they took him on Friday they weren't to know he was supposed to be in work today. They'd have until Monday to . . . do whatever." "Sounds reasonable." "Reasonable." She looked at him briefly, and shook her head. "Anyway, if they needed that long, they won't be giving him a kicking and throwing him into an alley somewhere. They I don't know why I keep saying 'they'. It's Jonny, it has to be. Not his father."

She trailed off, and the only sound in the flat was the spoon clinking gently against the cup as she kept stirring mechanically. "Yes?" "There's only one thing I can think of to try. It's a bit of a risk, though." She looked up. "For you." "Anything," he said simply. "If there's any chance at all it will work." "Call his father. Let him know what Jonny's done. If Jonny . . . if he kills him, then it'll cause a hell of a mess, like you said. Bad for the corporation." He considered the idea. "Will he believe it?" "I don't know. I never met him. I never met any of his family." If Kemp knew nothing about Toreth's disappearance, then the idea was a sound one. If he was behind it himself, then it could place both of them in as much danger as Toreth. However, on balance, it seemed like the best idea so far. "I agree it has to be worth a try." ~~~ Jonny had more self-control than Toreth would have credited him with, pacing himself, spacing the blows, waiting between strikes for the first burning shock of pain to fade. He must have done this before, and he was enjoying doing it now. If he screened out his own harsh breathing, Toreth could hear Jonny panting, only partly from the exertion, if he was any judge. Nice hobby the bastard had. Professional admiration worked as a distraction for only so long. Eventually the pain from the strap began to drown out the pain of aching muscles. Of everything except his wrist, repeatedly jolted by the blows. Jonny might stop if he asked him to, if he begged hard enough, because that was what he wanted to hear. It was tempting, although Toreth knew he'd only switch to something else afterwards, once he'd enjoyed his first victory. Surrender would start the familiar pattern: breaking, moving on, breaking, moving on. Still, against his will, the words formed. No. He was fucked if he was playing that game. Toreth took a couple of breaths to steady his voice, not caring any more what was the sensible thing to say, just wanting to find something which would stop it without humiliating himself. "Getting off on it yet?" he asked. Jonny paused, strap raised. "What?" Toreth dropped his gaze to Jonny's crotch, looked up again slowly. "I said, 'getting off on it yet?'" He managed an unpleasant smile. "If you wanted a date, you should've asked. You like to take it, right?" Jonny's eyes went blank with rage, and he dropped the strap, clenching his fist. It was a reaction, anyway. Toreth took the punches, counting four of them, then let his head fall forwards. He'd seen enough prisoners passed out to allow him to fake it convincingly. But to make it look right he had to hang from the cuffs, and even taking as much weight as he could on his left arm, he nearly didn't have to pretend. Jonny stopped at once, shook his shoulder, and gave him a couple of open-handed blows to the face. Then, close enough that Toreth could feel his breath, he reached past him, took his right wrist, and squeezed.

Razor-edged claws of pain ripped at his self-control. Toreth somehow kept his muscles loose, didn't make any more noise than an unconscious man might. Fucking, fucking hell. I'm out, you moron. You knocked me out. For Christ's sake, stop it and go away. Swearing, Jonny kicked the strap across the floor and stamped out of the room. After a few seconds, the lights went out again. Once five minutes had passed with no sign of his return, Toreth let himself take his weight on his legs, without shifting position too much, and bit back a moan of relief. Wary of the possibility of a low-light camera, he kept his head hanging forwards. Not the most comfortable position, out of the range of extremely uncomfortable positions available to him. For the moment, though, it felt pretty fucking good. He wondered how long he'd been here now. Jonny had said 'good afternoon'. Unless he was smart enough to be screwing with Toreth's sense of time, that meant it was probably Saturday. Eighteen hours at least, and Sara would've missed him by now. Lucky that they'd had to work today. Jonny must have been hoping for a clear run up until Monday when he'd . . . what? Let him go? If he'd come to his senses by then. Kill him, if he hadn't. Toreth knew which one he was betting on. He could only hope that the people working for Jonny, whoever they were, weren't as fucking demented as he was and that someone would put a stop to this. Sara would have missed him. Most likely she'd tell Warrick, and they would be doing something about it. Even though he couldn't imagine what, the idea was strangely comforting. ~~~ Sara had been making yet more calls in the living room, so as not to disturb Warrick. Going back into the study, she put down the comm earpiece and looked at her nails. She'd chewed almost all the varnish off. It had taken her ages to apply it properly, too, with her finger in the stupid sheath. "Have you got through to Kemp yet?" she asked. "Yes." Warrick didn't look up from the computer. "I found his personal comm in the end." "And?" "I told him I was missing one senior para-investigator, and that it wouldn't be long before I&I missed him, too." "Did he believe you?" "Not at first. Possibly not at the end,either." He sounded impossibly calm. "But in his position, I wouldn't risk not checking, even if I didn't believe. Did you get anywhere?" "No. Daedra couldn't find anything. She called her sister, and she managed to track down another couple of Johnny's exes. None of them knew a fucking thing about him except that they never wanted to see him again." "Right," he said, obviously not listening beyond hearing the negative. "She said she'll keep trying and she'll call if she gets anything. Her sister's going to get hold of some friends at the university who probably won't know anything, but it's the only thing she can think of. They might at least be able to give her the names of some of his friends. If the bastard has any." "Good." Sara took a deep breath. She appreciated that he was doing his best to help Toreth, and she appreciated that it wasn't useful to panic, but it would be nice to have someone there who acted as if they cared. She had a sudden urge to throw something heavy at him, but she knew she was really angry

with herself. It was all her fault. She'd let Toreth do it and maybe she couldn't have stopped him, but that didn't matter. Her stupid mistake had started it. If she'd listened to Daedrea if she'd listened to herself when Jonny had started acting like a creep . . . "What next?" she asked. "I'm going to keep looking. There might be something out there, something to let us track him down." He didn't sound convinced, and she didn't blame him. There was no reason to think they would be able to find their lost needle in the haystack of New London if Jonny's father couldn't or wouldn't. But anything was better than simply sitting and waiting. "Give me something else to do," she said. Now he looked at her. That was the way to get his attention make a noise like a useful tool. "Ah, all right." He pointed to the screen on the other desk. "I'll send some records over there. I assume you know how to do the searches." She sat down and waited while the screen filled, nibbling the last patch of Metallic Midnight Blue from her thumbnail. ~~~ Toreth had given up faking unconsciousness when the pain from the position he was in became too much to bear. To his surprise, Jonny hadn't returned immediately. Not that he was complaining. In the dark, he couldn't tell for certain, but he felt bruised from neck to waist, with a few stray hits on his legs which felt as if they'd bruised even through his trousers. He'd tried it before, but he couldn't help another tug on the cuffs. He hooked the fingers of his left hand round the bolt in the wall and twisted. Nothing. Whoever had put the thing in had done a good job. He pulled harder, until finally his hand slipped and his right wrist slammed into the wall, driving the edge of the cuff into the abused flesh. "Jesus fucking Christ. Fuck, fuck, fuck " He bit the words off and waited, breathing hard, for the door to open. After a minute with no response to the noise, he let himself relax again. Ha. Relax there was a joke. He concentrated, cataloging his body, trying to find something that didn't ache. His eyelids felt pretty good. His tongue, although he was thirsty as hell. And no one had kicked him in the bollocks yet, although no doubt Jonny would get round to it eventually. There was a cheerful thought. Another few hours of this, twelve at the most, and Toreth knew he wouldn't be able to stand unaided. After that his chances of getting out on his own were zero. When the lights came up again, he'd completely lost track of time. For a disorienting moment, he imagined he'd been there all night and it must be Sunday. Surely it couldn't have been that long? The door opened and Jonny entered, with the dark-haired man who'd spoken to Toreth at his flat. He was speaking to Jonny now, urgently. Toreth caught the tail end of the sentence. " but no one saw us. No one." Jonny looked more like he had after their first meeting: flushed and wide-eyed. "Get him out of here, Chris. Get rid of him." Jonny was obviously trying to keep his voice low, but the high, panicked whisper carried perfectly. "Sir?" Toreth recognised that tone of voice: an underling's disagreement phrased as a request for

clarification. "You know what I mean. Get rid of him." The man addressed as Chris nodded, still looking reluctant. He waited by the door; Jonny crossed the room to stand in front of Toreth, making a poor stab at composure. "You're in luck. Change of plan. I have to go somewhere, so you get to die today instead of tomorrow." He smiled, a shadow of his normal arrogant smirk. "Do you feel lucky yet?" Toreth looked at him with open contempt. He didn't believe a word of it. The gutless fuck was running scared of something. An unlikely surge of optimism pushed the pain back. "When I&I get hold of you, you little shit," Toreth said clearly, projecting to Chris and anyone beyond the open door, "it's going to take a fuck sight more than a rich daddy and a handful of hired muscle to help you. Looking forward to the re-education, are you?" Jonny stood for a moment, his eyes sliding away from Toreth's, and then he turned to Chris. "Do it. Kill him," he said, leaving no room for misinterpretation. Then he hurried out of the room, without another glance at Toreth. Chris spoke to someone outside, then stood in silence, chewing his bottom lip and staring at the floor. "What's going on?" Toreth asked without much hope of an answer. He didn't need to ask, anyway, not for the general outline. "I hope you realise that if you kill me, you're stepping into deep shit. I&I doesn't appreciate losing employees." Chris looked up, actually seeing him for a moment. "Didn't your boss mention?" Toreth said. "I'm a para-investigator." "Shut the fuck up," Chris said after a moment. "Or you'll be a dead para-investigator, sooner rather than later." Toreth shut up. There was nothing more he could say, anyway. He hoped a sense of selfpreservation would do the rest for him. If it was going to, it didn't do it straight away. The three other men who'd collected him from his flat came into the room, looking professionally stoic. Chris gestured to him. "Bring him along," Chris said without enthusiasm, already turning to leave the room. Perhaps something in his tone made them hesitate. No one moved, and he stopped and glared at them. "Are you fucking deaf? You're not getting paid to stand around get him to the car. I won't be long. I'm going to discuss bonuses." ~~~ Warrick checked his watch. Two minutes later than when he'd last looked. Every minute that passed was a tiny decrease in the odds of seeing Toreth again. Warrick used to know the statistics for corporate kidnap victims by heart, before he'd decided that it was pointless to worry about it. "I was going to have a party," Sara said, unexpectedly. Warrick looked up from the computer, startled. She sat at the other desk, staring blankly at the screen where Jon Kemp's credit and purchase records lay open, illegally accessed. "What?" "The ring Toreth took back I told you about it earlier. I was going to sell it and have a party." "You still can."

She didn't reply, because she didn't need to. Not if he's dead, was what she meant. "He's going to be fine." Every time he said it to her, he believed it a little less. He wished that she'd go away, back to her own flat, so that he wouldn't feel obliged to keep pretending. Or at least leave him alone in the study for a while. Seeing her there, though, stricken with guilt, he couldn't say it. His stomach rumbled, reminding him of missed lunch, and he thought of a way to kill two birds with one stone. "Why don't you get us something to eat?" he suggested. "Take a break from the screen. Make sandwiches. Or there's fresh soup in the fridge." "I'm not hungry." "Well, I am." She hesitated. "What would you like?" "Banana sandwiches. With plenty of black pepper." Coding food. Comfort food. She wrinkled her nose. "God, that sounds revolting." "I like them." "Okay. Maybe I'll try one as well." He smiled, knowing it wasn't going to look very convincing. "You'll love them, I promise." After she left, he turned back to the screen, where the computer was running searches of Kemp's properties, looking for some link to Jonny, for somewhere he may have taken Toreth. An illusion of action, nothing more than killing time. Amazing how many metaphors used that word, when he thought about it. ~~~ Toreth sat in the car in a daze, sick with the relief of being able to lower his arms at last. They'd blindfolded him and recuffed his hands behind his back, and his wrist was still settling slowly back down from agony to manageable pain, but at that exact moment, he didn't care about any of it. It was almost worth the prospect of being shot if he could relax his shoulders until then. The abused muscles ached viciously, but at least it was a different kind of hurt. The door opened and closed as someone got in. Chris, at a guess. Toreth wondered how the bonus negotiations had gone. He hoped Jonny had told Chris where to stick it, but he very much doubted that he had. Judging from Jonny's expression in the cell, he'd probably pay anything to get rid of Toreth. A voice from the front of the car asked, "Where are we taking him?" "The usual place," Chris said. Toreth's hopes rose slightly, because he didn't sound happy. Maybe the bonus wouldn't be big enough after all. "Tell the car to take a long way round." "What do you " "Oh, for God's sake. A long way. Any way." Toreth was tempted to say something. In the end, he decided against making Chris any more annoyed than he already clearly was. ~~~ Sara ate her sandwiches in the sitting room, watching the setting sun finger-paint the sky in dabs of neon pinks and reds. Pollution in the atmosphere, as her dad always said when there was a particularly beautiful sunset. Lights were starting to come up across New London. This time yesterday

she had been in the bar, laughing at one of Kel's stories, only sparing a minute or two to wonder where Toreth was and who he was fucking. Knowing she'd get all the details at work in the morning. If she'd checked last night, instead of today . . . All her fault. Her mistakes, all along the way. Warrick wasn't in the study. She found him in the kitchen, brewing yet another pot of tea. The water was starting to boil, and he stood, apparently watching the steam wisping from the kettle. "We should've heard by now," she said. He didn't answer. "I thought it was going to work," she said bleakly. "I really did." "It still might." "We would've heard. It'll be dark soon." She didn't know why that mattered, but it did. He looked round briefly. The effort it cost him to keep his voice level showed in his set expression. "Sara, there is no reason to expect to hear anything. A call to us is a connection. An admission. Dangerous. All we can expect is that he turns up or he doesn't." She knew all that. It wasn't why she'd come to look for him. She'd wanted to ask him something since she'd first thought of it, a couple of hours ago. She hadn't asked then because she already knew the answer. "What if Jonny finds out we called Kemp?" "Then there's a chance that he'll kill Toreth." No hesitation he'd obviously thought about it as well. "Perhaps even if he hadn't planned to do it before." She stared at him, speechless, hating him for not lying to her. "That was always the risk." He paused, then added, "It was still a good idea. Is a good idea. It isn't time to write it off yet." She couldn't tell if he meant it, or if he was merely being kind. It didn't matter, anyway. It had been her idea and so, if it went wrong, her fault yet again. The water was boiling hard now, and the click of the kettle switching off sounded loud. "We have to call I&I." Sara didn't know why she was asking permission. She should just make the damn call, whatever he said. He'd been the one who had wanted to do it in the first place. "If they start a full-scale search, they can get Justice to help." Warrick looked up from pouring water into the teapot. "If we do, he's finished. We won't be able to stop everything coming out." "The sun's setting." The feeling came again that this was important. The last chance. "Give it another hour. Half an hour." Then she lost it. "I don't know why you're so keen he keeps his bloody job! You hate it, anyway. I'd have thought you'd be pleased if they threw him out." He turned quickly, slopping tea from the pot onto the floor. "Then you don't " Then, before she could register the emotion anger? fear? it was gone. Taking a cloth from the sink, he wiped up the tea. "Do whatever you think best," he said coldly, and went back into the study. She watched him go, thought about the comm.

She'd give it an hour. ~~~ The long way round hadn't felt very long. All the time he'd hoped for Jonny to call and tell them to let him go, or for Chris to have a spontaneous attack of intelligence. Neither had happened. Now he stood on a muddy bank, listening to the river nearby. That's where he'd end up, when they'd done with him. He could also hear a low, muttered discussion, not unlike the ripple of the water. An argument. He knew that he ought to try to listen, to work out what was going wrong and how he could use it. He ought to, but it was taking all his concentration to keep control of the knowledge that, whatever the trouble was, he was probably going to die here. Even if I&I hunted Jon Kemp and all his hired thugs down and nailed them to the wall over it, it wouldn't do him one fucking bit of good because his funeral would be long over. If anyone ever found his body. Dead and gone and he'd never . . . well, he'd never done a lot of things. Precious little point thinking about all that crap now, and it still might not come to that if he could keep his head. Concentrate. He tried to map out his surroundings: river to one side, voices in front and behind, the ground slippery underfoot. The air had a cool, evening feel against his bare skin and a warmth on his right side suggested sunlight. Stink of tidal river in the air. Death and decay. Chris's voice rose behind him, silencing the others. Sounding worried. "Yes, sir. Yes, I'm listening." Long pauses between the phrases he was speaking over a comm. "Yes, I do appreciate that. Thank you, sir." Now he sounded relieved, and there was an answering murmur from the others around him. Relief that they weren't going to have to take the risk of killing him? "I didn't no, sir. No. Yes, I can do that, sir, absolutely. I understand. Of course. Thank you, sir." Then footsteps approached, squelching up behind him. "Kneel," Chris ordered him. No way. No way in hell. "Fuck off." He felt a light touch on his thigh, then sudden, searing pain. Muscles spasmed, pitching him full length. More pain stabbed up his arm as he reflexively tried to bring his hands round to break his fall. As it was, the soft ground cushioned the impact, but left his mouth and nose full of filthy mud. Lifting his head, he coughed and spat. Shock stick, he thought. Not a high setting, so there wouldn't be any permanent damage. Then he realised how little that mattered. He struggled to his knees, despite the residual spasming in his leg, but he couldn't manage to stand. Bastards. "Fuck you," he said distinctly, hoping there was an open comm of some kind, so that Jonny could hear him. "Fuck you, you spineless cunt. I should have done the world a fucking favour and killed you when I had the chance." Then he closed his eyes tight behind the blindfold, feeling the grit in his mouth and the handcuff digging into his throbbing wrist. Cold mud clung to his chest, making him shiver. It couldn't take long. Now the order had been confirmed, they wouldn't stay out here in the open, wherever here was, for longer than they had to. Time stretched out, filled with the sound of the waiting water. Please, let them finish him before they threw him in. He'd always loathed the idea of drowning

 been terrified by it. Nightmares, since forever, of fighting the need to inhale. Feeling the pressure of water against his face, then pouring down his throat, flooding his lungs. In the sim he'd never been able to breathe underwater, even though Sara said it was piss easy, and now he felt himself starting to gag at the thought of it. Not with his hands bound. Hands bound and his life bleeding away into the cold water as Focus. Focus on at least not acting like the worthless piece of shit who'd put him here. He swallowed the sickness and the fear and clenched his fists, distracting himself with pain. Time passing, and the river. Then Toreth heard vehicles approaching and his tenuous hold on dignified resignation vanished. Friend or foe? He tensed, listening desperately, ready to run or fight. He heard nothing around him to suggest that the arrivals were unexpected. A firm, blunt pressure between his shoulder blades and a sharp "Keep still!" put an end to any idea of resistance. Whether gun or shock stick, it wasn't something he wanted fired into his spine. Pathetic, really, that he could still cling to the slimmest hope that it wouldn't happen anyway. The vehicles drew up nearby two of them. Doors opened and closed. Jonny come to witness his execution in person? Low voices, then silence. His whole awareness shrank down to the hard contact against his back. Soon. The pressure shifted slightly. Now. Christ, it would be soon, it would be now, it was Hands under his armpits hauled him upright, steadied him. A few steps sideways and they pushed him against what felt like a car and held him efficiently as the cuffs were removed. The relief from the pressure on his wrist was instantaneous, despite the agonising protest of strained muscles as he moved his arms. Then he was turned and the blindfold pulled away, leaving him squinting into the sun setting beyond the river. Shapes became visible through the orange and gold, more men than the four who had brought him here. Too many, too close for escape, even if he'd been in any condition to try it. Without a word, one of the newcomers handed him a towel. It was damp and, most bizarrely of all, faintly scented. Something floral. He took it numbly in his good hand. What the hell was going on? There was nothing else to do, so he cleaned the mud from his face, wiped the worst from his chest and trousers, and then handed the towel back. He was tempted to say thanks, but considering the reason he'd needed the towel in the first place, it seemed inappropriate to say the least. Next came a fresh shirt, again offered silently. He put it on, struggling against the painful clumsiness of his arms and shoulders. His fingers left smudges on the white fabric as he buttoned it awkwardly, left-handed. A smartly dressed, slender woman management, not muscle opened the rear door of the large dark blue car. Its minimalist sharp lines made it look brand new and expensively corporate, and Toreth wondered if that was good news or very, very bad. "Get in, please," the woman said. Still unsure as to exactly why he wasn't dead, but not feeling like pressing the point, Toreth did as he was told. Inside the car were two large men with the look of extremely professional bodyguards. Opposite them sat an older man, dark-haired maybe dyed and with dark eyes which assessed Toreth with sharp, arrogant intelligence. His suit must've cost more than Toreth's yearly salary.

Then the man smiled, showing perfect, even teeth. "My name is Gil Kemp. Please, sit down." Chris or one of his sidekicks one without a death wish must have tipped the man off about what Jonny was up to. Toreth sat, opposite Jonny Kemp's father and between the watchful guards. Moving slowly seemed to be a sensible idea, as well as all he could manage. When he had settled into the seat wonderfully comfortable despite his bruised back Kemp continued. "I apologise unreservedly for your unfortunate treatment, Val. I assure you that I had nothing to do with it. I make it a rule never to interfere with Int-Sec employees." "I didn't think it was anything to do with you, sir." He didn't think he'd return the use of the personal name. No point going out of his way to sabotage the unexpected reversal of fortune. "I also ask you to pass my regrets along to . . . your friend." Kemp's voice soured. "My son is a coward and a bully, amongst other of his less attractive qualities. However, he is also my only son and as such I am obliged to do the best I can by him." Not so promising. "Does this mean you're going to make an exception to your rule?" The expensive smile gleamed again. "No. I merely wish to secure an assurance that Jon has nothing further to fear from you. May I tell him that the matter is closed?" Tempting to say 'yes'. Tempting, in fact, to say whatever the hell it took to get out of here. He could feel the pressure between his shoulders, the choking fear. The river still flowed by, only yards away. As steadily as he could, Toreth said, "You can tell him that if he lays one finger on her again, I'll be back to do exactly what I said I'd do." Silence stretched out for what felt like minutes, with Kemp's expression unreadable, then he nodded. "You have my word that your friend will be perfectly safe," he said, in a voice so hard that Toreth believed him instantly. He let out the breath he'd been holding to steady his voice. "Then if I never see him again, it will be too fucking soon." "More than acceptable. Thank you for your forbearance." "It's . . . " It's my pleasure? Hardly. "It's over. As far as I'm concerned." Kemp nodded to one of the bodyguards. Toreth expected him to open the door, but instead the guard touched a panel and the car began to move, over the rough ground and then onto a smooth, paved road. Leaving the river behind. Through the window, Toreth caught a last glimpse of water, darkened by the tinted glass, as it disappeared behind a building. He still didn't recognise where they were, but he allowed himself to relax a tiny fraction. The sliding hiss of a panel opening jerked his attention back to the interior of the car. It took him a moment to register the open drinks cabinet, tiny but well stocked. "Would you like something?" Kemp offered. After looking longingly at the range of bottles, Toreth said, "Just water, thanks." He'd forgotten for a while how thirsty he was, and his mouth still tasted of the dirty river mud. He accepted the glass and drank slowly, gauging the reaction of his stomach. Throwing the water straight back up onto the expensive upholstery wouldn't create the best impression. "Now," Kemp said, "we can get to the real reason I wished to speak to you in person."

The real reason? Automatically, Toreth glanced at the bodyguards, but they appeared to be as relaxed as people in that line of work ever were. "Which is?" "I wish to offer you a job." There wasn't any way he could have misheard, but he still didn't believe it. "A . . . job?" "Indeed. My businesses employ a number of former para-investigators, in various capacities. I would like you to join them. The precise terms of the position and remuneration can be worked out later with my representatives, but I can assure you they will be generous." Too stunned for a considered response, he said, "Why the hell do you want to give me a job?" Kemp seemed amused rather than annoyed. "You have qualities that I value highly in my employees. Loyalty. Courage. Intelligence. A willingness to take risks for people who are important to you. Your encounter with my son, while I may deplore your actions, demonstrated those qualities amply." Toreth was becoming convinced that Kemp's disapproval was purely formal. "I fucked up," he said evenly. "I lost my temper." "Considering the circumstances, I won't hold it against you." Kemp smiled thinly. "Your security file suggests that was a singular lapse." Had everyone seen the fucking thing except him? He was going to have to ask Warrick for a copy, and damn the risk of letting slip to someone that he'd read it. "Do you have an answer for me?" Kemp enquired. He stalled with a mouthful of water, then said, "I'll have to think about it." Kemp frowned. He obviously had the same problem as his son about not getting what he wanted. "May I ask why?" "I try not to make important decisions when I've just had the shit kicked out of me." "Then I suggest you sleep on the question and give me your answer tomorrow." The conversation was clearly supposed to be over, but Toreth asked, "Where are we going?" Kemp frowned, irritated. "When I was informed of your whereabouts, or rather, informed that your whereabouts might be a matter for concern, I was also provided with an address to which you should be returned." "Warrick," he said without thinking, then cursed himself. Kemp merely nodded. "One of my subsidiaries has a speculative investment in Doctor Warrick's corporation." He smiled at Toreth's expression. "That was not intended to influence your decision in any way, neither as a recommendation nor a threat. It merely made him a more credible source for information I did not want to hear about Jon." Kemp sighed, his voice becoming quieter. "I ought to be used to it, by now. Sometimes I wonder if he is punishing me for something that I've done. Or failed to do. I used to hope that I would find out what it was, so that I could make amends. But now . . . " Toreth kept his mouth shut. People like Kemp didn't expect comments when they decided to share their personal problems with the furniture. All Toreth wanted was to get out of here in one piece, or at least in as few pieces as possible. He flexed his right wrist as carefully as he could. Sprain, he was sure. Kemp sighed again, then turned away to look out of the tinted window, further discussion now very definitely closed.

~~~ Warrick hadn't spoken to Sara since he'd so nearly lost control in the kitchen. He'd stayed in the study, running increasingly unlikely searches, more for something to do than because of any lingering hope. They'd had only one chance, and it didn't look as if it had worked out. He should have let Sara call I&I. Eventually, admitting defeat, he shut off the system and went to look for her. He found her in the living room, sitting with a clock in her lap, staring out of the window. There was no trace of the day left in the sky. "Did you call?" She shook her head. "Fifty-six minutes." "Sara, I'm sorry." "Forget it. I'm sorry I yelled at you." "I think, under the circumstances, you're entitled." He took the clock from her, being careful not to jar her injured hand, and set it back in its place. "Do you want to call, or shall I?" "I'll do it." Before she could pick up her comm, the door to the flat opened. They both froze, looking at each other, Sara with her hand still outstretched. Then, as they started for the hallway, he thought, it could be Dillian. ~~~ As the car pulled up, Toreth still didn't truly believe they would let him go. Even as he walked away, he found his shoulders tensing, hurting the strained muscles, waiting for the shot. Stupid, because the middle of a corporate residential district would be an insane place to carry out a killing. Then he was inside the building, inside the lift, outside the door to Warrick's flat, desperately racking his brain for the entry code. He should have knocked, but he didn't think of it. Then the door opened and he was safe. He was still trying to lock the door behind him, left-handed, when he heard footsteps and turned to find Sara flying down the hall towards him. He lifted his injured arm out of the way just in time to catch her up with the good one. She buried her face against his chest. "Oh, Christ, I was so worried," she said, her voice muffled in his new shirt. She looked up at him, without letting go, and bit her lip when she saw the marks on his face. "Are you hurt?" Looked like he'd been right when he guessed she'd miss him at work. "I'm fine. Some bruises. Nothing fatal." He looked over her shoulder to find Warrick standing just out of arm's reach, smiling slightly, although at which one of them he wasn't sure. Then Sara squeezed too tightly and he winced. She released him hurriedly. "I'm sorry," she said. "Come sit down. Jesus, look at your wrist." "It's okay." He let her lead him towards the living room anyway, because he did feel like sitting down. While it was still voluntary. "What happened?" Warrick asked on the way down the hall. He considered the options, then smiled. "I had a job interview." They both stopped and stared at him.

"A what?" Warrick enquired after a moment. Toreth grinned. "Get me a drink and I'll tell you all about it." Even the edited version took a while. As he talked, Sara demonstrated how well she'd been paying attention on the admins' first aid course, and disinfected and bandaged his wrist. He'd have preferred she left it alone, but she looked to be enjoying herself, and it had to be done sometime. Warrick contributed tea and a couple of painkillers, then sat on the chair opposite, listening intently. As he neared the end of the account, he began to wish he hadn't mentioned the job offer. It had been too tempting a line not to use. Now, however, it occurred to him that Warrick would probably like him to take it. A nice, safe corporate job he wouldn't have to remember not to talk about. But he couldn't, and he couldn't explain why. Not that he particularly cared about Warrick's opinion, but, as the last dregs of adrenaline drained from his system, he found that he couldn't face an argument, or silent disapproval, or any other fucking thing which wasn't closely connected to food, a shower and sleep. He sketched out the scene by the river, glossing over the details. Better not to think about it. "And then the cavalry arrived, thanks to you." Warrick waved the credit aside. "It was all Sara's idea. I merely made the call and put on my best corporate act. Which obviously worked." "More or less. He's a sponsor, you know." Warrick nodded. "Indirectly. But I didn't know that until after I'd spoken to him. He was extremely unwilling to believe me at first, but that at least gave me some confidence that he knew nothing about it before I called. After we'd contacted him, we had nothing else to do." "Except keep trying to find you," Sara put in. "And I am just going to forget how many files I looked at illegally while I was doing it. I hoped Kemp would call to let us know you were all right, but of course he didn't. The first thing we knew was when you opened the door." He thought for a moment she was going to hug him again, but she just tucked her legs up under her and grinned. "Anyway, what the hell did you mean about an interview?" "Kemp asked me to work for him," he said lightly. Her mouth fell open. "He what? Seriously? He offered you a job? After what you did?" "No, because of what I did." She looked at him blankly, and he shrugged. "I didn't get it either. But yeah, he was serious." "Are you going to accept it?" she asked, suddenly subdued. "No." Don't leave an opening. Never qualify a refusal. "Good. Unless you could get me a job as well." She brightened. "Do you think you could? You'd still need an admin, I should think. What did he want you " "I'm not taking it." He hadn't meant it to sound quite so forceful, but she shut her mouth abruptly. To his surprise, he found himself wanting to tell her why. Ridiculous, because she wouldn't couldn't understand. When he looked away from Sara, he found Warrick watching him, frowning slightly. Sara stood up. "I should get home." "You don't have to," Warrick said without looking at her. "No. I need to get back and . . . feed the cat." She looked between them. "Or something." On the

way out, she stopped behind Toreth and, after a moment, he felt her hand on his shoulder. "See you on Monday." He touched her hand and nodded. "See you." "She thinks it was all her fault," Warrick commented, when the outer door had closed behind her. "It wasn't." A second's pause. "I was merely telling you what she thought." "Well, don't. It's none of your business." He wished straight away that he hadn't said it, because whether it was or not, it was something else he couldn't bear to argue about right now. He sat up, too quickly, and the room tilted and blurred, a buzzing in his ears drowning out Warrick's voice. When he could focus again he found Warrick looking at him with guarded concern. "I'm fine," he snapped. "When did you last eat?" Warrick asked the practical question in a neutral tone. "I don't remember. Yesterday. If yesterday was Friday?" He found he wasn't sure. Warrick stood up and carefully straightened the cushions on the sofa. "Yes, it was. Why don't you go and get cleaned up and I'll make some food?" ~~~ The shower helped more than he'd thought it would. It was an indescribable relief to be free of the filthy clothes and the clean shirt and wash away the sweat and mud and then to stand under the soothing warm water, letting his mind go blank. As he dried himself, very carefully, he admired the rest of the bruises in the mirror. No swimming until they'd faded. Swimming made him think of the river again and, before he could draw in a breath, the nausea swept over him like a tide. He leaned over the sink until his stomach stopped heaving; there was nothing much to throw up, anyway. By the time he'd brushed his teeth and borrowed a clean, soft dressing gown from Warrick's wardrobe, he felt halfway human again. Or he would, with about forty-eight hours' sleep. In the kitchen he found Warrick standing by the counter, slicing something with unnecessary violence. He apparently hadn't heard Toreth come in, and walking up behind him unannounced didn't seem like a good idea. "Warrick?" He started, but not enough to lose any fingers. "Feeling any better?" he asked. "Yes." He bundled his clothes into the washing machine, with the exception of the shirt. They'd be dry in the morning and the only reminders he'd have left would be the impressive collection of bruises. Even they would be gone before too long. It was over, just as he'd told Kemp. The shirt he stuffed into the recycling. As the washer started up, Warrick spoke without turning round. "I didn't mean to sound as if I blamed Sara for what happened. I don't. While we were waiting, she told me what he did to her. So I quite understand why you did what you did." "Forget it. It doesn't matter." He sat down at the table and watched Warrick work. 'Possessive fucking maniac', Sara had called Jonny. He found the words poised again. I wouldn't hurt you. I'd never do to you what he did to Sara.

Who would he have been trying to reassure? He could hurt Warrick, he knew damn well he could. In the past he nearly had. He'd wanted to but he'd only wanted to. Jonny had wanted to and done it. That was the difference. He could stay in control. Except when he hadn't been able to. Toreth flexed his right hand, and even with all the other aches and bruises, his knuckles still hurt. What if one day Warrick pushed him that hard? Would he be able to step back? Even if he'd been sure the denial was true, he couldn't make himself say it aloud. Warrick had more than enough of him already; he wasn't giving any more away. Warrick finished doing whatever he was doing, and wiped the knife blade carefully. Then he laid it down and turned round, squaring his shoulders. Toreth expected him to say something else about Jonny or Sara. Instead he asked, "Why aren't you going to take the job?" The question surprised him, because Warrick hadn't pursued it earlier. "Not everyone wants to work for corporates," he said after a moment. "That's not the reason." "You don't want to hear it." "I do. That's why I asked. However, if you mean that you don't want to tell me, that's fine. I won't mention it again." He could have let it go. When Warrick said something like that, he meant it. Instead, following his earlier impulse, he said tentatively, "I missed some of the detail out. Some of the more colourful parts." Warrick nodded. "I rather thought that might be it. That's why I didn't ask when Sara was here. What happened?" "By the river, before Kemp turned up, they . . . made me kneel." He rubbed his thigh. "With a shock stick, and that hurt like fuck to start with but then, after that, they held a gun against my back. Until Kemp arrived. Which took . . . I thought I was absolutely fucking sure that they were going to kill me." Hungry water lapping at the bank, the river waiting for him. He felt sick again, and light-headed. Warrick said nothing, but his face was tight with anger. "I've never been so fucking frightened in my life," Toreth continued, when he could. "I didn't . . . I've had people shoot at me, I've been stabbed, but I've never had time to think about it like that. Kemp did it. He was the one who told them to do it." "Bastard," Warrick said softly. Then, "How can you be sure?" The question didn't offend. Warrick wasn't disbelieving, simply asking. He hadn't even considered the point before, the certainty was so strong. He thought it through, going back over the events. "Chris the one with gun. The way he talked over the comm. He didn't talk to Jonny like that. It was much too respectful." "Why the hell did he do it?" "Fuck knows. To scare me off from his precious son. Test his potential employee. Because he gets a kick out of that sort of thing maybe it runs in the family. He tried to make it sound as if Jonny was responsible for everything, but he wasn't. Not for that." Warrick nodded. "Kemp doesn't sound like someone you ought to be working for." "Understatement of the fucking century." And that was all he wanted to say. All he could say,

and he couldn't believe he'd said anything at all. Warrick cleared his throat. "I thought " Whatever it was, he didn't want to hear it. "I'm going home," he said, levering himself to his feet despite protesting muscles. "I need to get some sleep. I'll call tomorrow." Warrick ignored him. "I thought you were dead," he said, his voice still quiet. "Or rather, not precisely that, but I thought that there was a significant possibility that you were." Then he stopped. That was, apparently, everything. Oddly, that was almost the last thing Toreth had expected him to say. "I'm sorry," he said reflexively. He knew he ought to add something else, but he couldn't come up with anything, not with Warrick looking at him with such uncharacteristic, uncomfortable openness. Toreth finally persuaded his fingers to release the back of the chair. "I'm going. I'll " Warrick moved towards him, a hesitant approach that petered out halfway. He stood perfectly still for a moment, then smiled, very slightly. "Do you want to fuck?" Toreth blinked. "Do I want to fuck?" he repeated stupidly, while his brain tried to catch up with a second quite unexpected comment. Why, he wondered, couldn't Warrick hold conversations in the same way as other people? Warrick shook his head, the smile slipping away. "No, probably not. But I don't know how else " He lifted his hand, then let it drop. "Don't go. Please. Stay, and come to bed with me." To his surprise, Toreth found his exhausted, aching body responding. Wanting the contact, the closeness, if nothing more. Wanting not to wake up the next day hurting and alone. Wanting Warrick, too much, as usual. He thought again about leaving, but he didn't have the energy. Or, he realised belatedly, the clothes. He nodded. "Okay, I'll stay. I'm starving, anyway." Formal excuse, however unconvincing. Warrick smiled again, properly this time. "I'll finish the food first, then." He closed the rest of the distance, moving with confidence this time. "It won't take long." The food or the embrace? Toreth didn't really care. He shut his eyes, leaning into Warrick, surrendering just for now and ignoring the complaints from his bruises. It helped that he was too damn tired to care about whatever wasn't being said. Eventually Warrick pulled back and kissed him once, lightly. "Sit down. I'll be five minutes." Good idea. He sat, resting his head on his left arm and considered falling asleep right there. He could hear Warrick, by the hob, and after a minute or so, he smelled bacon frying. Maybe he could stay awake for that. As he waited, despite his best efforts to think of something else, his mind wandered back to the river. Then, strangely, on to Sara in the hospital, telling him about the ring. Did he feel any different for having told Warrick about the mock execution? In the end, he decided that he wasn't sure he had no idea how he would have felt if he hadn't. He didn't possess a basis for comparison for the last twenty-four hours. He'd think about it again later. Much later. In the morning, when everything was back to normal and he would be back in control.

Chapter Three
Fragmented images. Hands tied behind his back. The instructors' experienced hands pushing him down, forcing his head under the water. The world blurring above him. Losing the fight not to panic, not to struggle. Dull, distant laughter and cold, cold water in his mouth, in his throat, as he screamed Then a vicious, disconnected pain and Toreth woke, gulping air. For a moment, he still didn't know where he was. Then it came back, in bits and pieces: where he had been and where he was now. Warrick's flat. Warrick's bed. His injured wrist had slipped over the edge of the mattress, hitting the bedside table. Rolling onto his back, he groaned quietly. Every muscle ached and the bruises on his upper body added an extra level of hurt. It was every single time in his life that he'd overdone it at the gym, added together and then magnified tenfold. He also had a sick headache, which felt like dehydration. Wonderful a morning after without the night before. Painkillers. He wanted lots and lots of painkillers. And water. And breakfast. And then another night's sleep. He straightened his legs and groaned again. Warrick turned over beside him, and he felt warm fingers curl gently round his shoulder. "It's all right. You're safe. I'm here," Warrick mumbled, sounding more than half asleep. "What the hell are you talking about?" "Mm?" After a few seconds, Warrick propped himself up on his elbows. "Sorry. You were . . . you kept waking up." Water in his mouth, in his throat, flooding his lungs. Old dream. Done it before. Boring. "I don't remember." "I'm not surprised you never woke up for long. And you were absolutely spark out, in between." Warrick was clearly being tactful. How much had he been able to work out? "Sorry if I kept you awake. I should've gone home." Warrick shook his head. "If it had bothered me too much I would've gone to sleep in the spare room." Then he rolled away, out of the bed. "Stay there for now, anyway. I'll be right back." Toreth thought about sitting up, but in the end he decided that flat on his back was the least painful place he could be. Sunday today, which meant that technically he could lie here and do nothing except wait for Monday. That seemed like a very attractive option, apart from the fact that he was ravenous. With any luck, Warrick had gone to get breakfast. In fact, the first delivery was water, a couple of tablets, a cup of coffee and a spray can. Warrick set the tray down, then picked up the can and read the label while Toreth washed down the painkillers. "What's that?" Toreth asked. "Prescription-strength analgesic spray." "What the hell are you doing with a can of that?" "Comes in handy sometimes." He shook the can half a dozen times, then stripped the sheet down to Toreth's hips. His eyes narrowed as he surveyed the bruising from the strap.

"Is that safe to use with the tablets?" Toreth asked. "According to the label, yes. Put your hand over your eyes." The nozzle hissed as Warrick swept the can back and forth, slowly down from shoulders to stomach. The mist settled, burning cold, then hot and almost painful. Then the sensation faded into a faint tingling, which eventually died away completely, taking the pain of the bruising with it. "Mmh. That feels fucking fantastic." Warrick laughed. "I'll have to remember that." He opened his eyes to find Warrick looking at his watch. "Turn over." Warrick repeated the procedure, and this time even the brief burning was a pleasure. He stretched warily, his numbed skin feeling peculiar against the sheets. All that was left were deep muscle aches and the throbbing in his wrist, which the painkillers were already blunting. Absence of pain wasn't something he'd appreciated enough in the past. "Do you want breakfast in here, or in the kitchen?" Warrick asked. "Give me a minute, I'll be along."` Actually, it took more like ten. For one thing, what had felt good lying down wasn't as wonderful when he stood up and started moving around. He found his clothes folded on a chair and, for a moment, he wondered where his shirt was. Against his will the river bank came back into sharp focus, making his shoulders twitch at the memory of the gun. 'They made me kneel.' Why the hell had he told Warrick about it? Some unbelievably stupid reason, obviously, which he couldn't now recall. Any minute now, he would have to go into the kitchen and sit and eat breakfast, knowing that Warrick knew. 'I've never been so fucking frightened in my life'. Had he really said that? Reluctantly, he searched his memory of Warrick's face, his reaction to the words. He could find nothing he'd been afraid of remembering. No pity, no contempt only anger and outrage. Warrick had been angry again, just now, looking at the bruises, which was . . . nice of him, Toreth supposed. Either that, or Warrick was pissed off because he was too fucked to be fuckable. As he brushed his hair, he decided to forget it. It could be so much worse. He hadn't mentioned the river, and that was something. He could live with it with himself knowing that secret at least was safe. Stick to worrying about the important things in life. Breakfast, coffee, that sort of thing. ~~~ In the kitchen, Toreth sat at the table, helped himself to coffee and watched Warrick cooking pancakes, which somehow didn't surprise him. Even aching and tired as he was, he found it a mild turn-on. Something to do with the skill and concentration, maybe; he liked to watch anything being done well. Plus, for reasons he'd never bothered to explore, pancakes had coincided with some spectacularly good after-breakfast fucks. Not today, though. Not unless the painkillers had a lot more kick left in them. "How are you feeling?" Warrick asked when the stack of pancakes reached a respectable height.

"Much better, thanks. Top marks to the spray." "Take the can with you when you go, if you like." "I might just do that." "Right. Ready." Warrick set down the plates and sat down. The table already held coffee, fresh juice, breads, butter and conserves everything for a perfect lazy breakfast. A nice relaxing way to spend a Sunday morning, if he hadn't felt as though he'd been trampled in a riot. Fortunately, pancakes were easy to deal with one-handed. After they'd eaten in silence for a while, Warrick asked, "Are you still planning to turn down the job?" "Yes. Why? Changed your mind about it being the right thing to do?" "Good God, no. I was merely wondering about Kemp." "What about him?" "How he's going to react to your refusal." He didn't want to think about Kemp, even though he probably ought to. "I told him it was over. I don't see it makes any difference to that." "But will he agree?" "God, I hope so." He rubbed his wrist gingerly. "I'm really not in the fucking mood to do that again." "Mm." He had, Toreth noted, started the toast thing again. What was coming next? When the slice had been buttered to satisfactory evenness, Warrick bit the corner off and asked, "What are you going to do if he decides otherwise?" "I don't know." He hesitated, hating the sound of that. "Taking on corporates of his class one-onone is punching a long way above my weight. There's nothing I can do, that I can see, except to do to him what he did to me. Only I'd finish the fucking job." Warrick put the toast down. "No." The firmness caught Toreth by surprise. Before he could say anything, Warrick continued, "You wouldn't get away with it. And this isn't worth getting killed over." That was the problem. It nearly was, or it was beginning to feel that way. The humiliation burned in a slow, lasting fire. Nothing he could do, and he hated helplessness more than just about anything else. His life taken out of his control. Anger welled up and threatened to breach the dam. "Untouchable bastard corporate wankers." He smacked his left palm on the table, because Warrick wouldn't appreciate it if he threw his cup across the room. "Someone should shoot the fucking lot of them." Warrick steadied his own cup. "Rubbish. No one's untouchable. To pick a random example of a bastard corporate wanker, I'm not." "I didn't mean you," he said before he could stop himself. Oh, well done. Just what he needed to give Warrick more ammunition. Warrick smiled, looking delighted to have drawn a response. "Of course not. But there are always ways. Personal ways or business ways, depending on what you want to achieve. I know where I'm vulnerable." He counted points off on his fingers as he talked. "Dilly, and family in general. Friends, some of

whom are also colleagues. You. That's on the personal side. Professionally, SimTech has its own set of skeletons in its cupboard we make sure they never rattle, that's all. Disgruntled employees are always a danger, even though we make an effort to treat people well." He paused briefly. "And then there's the old business with the investigation. Plenty of approaches, if you think about it." Toreth considered the idea. He was used to looking at those situations from the other side, sifting through the debris of corporate unpleasantness when it escaped into the open. It hadn't occurred to him to try to play that game himself. "Kemp will have his own weaknesses," Warrick continued. "Far more than I do, I would say, because he's so much more successful." "Richer, anyway," Toreth said absently, still thinking about the list Warrick had given. Warrick smiled. "Thank you. Yes. Richer, anyway. But if he thinks he's safe, he's sadly misguided. We'll be able to think of something to correct the misapprehension." 'We'. Warrick's casual inclusion of himself in the enterprise almost slipped past him. "It's nothing to do with you. Whatever he says about the job, I'll sort it out myself." Warrick looked at him, then shrugged. "I'm not planning to go round to Kemp's office and punch him on your behalf, if that's what you're worried about." "I'm serious, Warrick. I want you to stay out of this. Is that clear?" "Perfectly. Would you like anything else to eat?" "I yes. Couple more pancakes, if there are any going." "Just let me get the pan hot." Topic closed. Opening it again would be the first step on the slippery slope down to a serious discussion of things he had no desire to talk about. After which Warrick would do whatever the hell he wanted to, anyway. Once he had poured in the batter, Warrick said, "To change the subject very slightly, what are you going to do about your flat? Specifically, about the security system." "I hadn't thought about it." "Well, if I might make a suggestion, you could consider replacing it with one which actually provides some measure of security." Toreth shrugged. "I've never needed it before. It's not like there's anything much valuable there." "Mm. I could send someone round, if you don't mind a company that does some security consultation for SimTech. They're very good. They did here." "Expensive?" "Not excessively. Consider it an early birthday present. Or you can pay me back, if you prefer. Later. However, I think it would be a good idea to have it fitted now." I thought I was the one who bought the chains. "I don't need " With miraculous timing, the door to the flat opened. They both froze, Warrick with a pancake half-lifted, until Dillian's voice called, "Keir? Are you ready? Sorry I'm late." Warrick flipped the pancake and did the remaining two quickly. "Oh, damn. Burned." He raised his voice. "We're in here." "We? Oh." Toreth heard her voice change as she came down the corridor. "Good morning, Toreth, I "

As she came into the room she stopped dead. He didn't bother to look round. She'd obviously seen the bruises they were a little difficult to miss. "Morning, Dillian. I have to be going, I'm afraid. I've got things to do." "I'll send someone round, shall I?" Warrick asked, as Toreth stood up. Taking the opportunity offered by Dillian's presence, when he wouldn't argue. Still, on the other hand, pride was a poor substitute for being alive. "Okay." Warrick nodded. "Do you want to borrow a shirt?" "Yeah, thanks." ~~~ To Warrick's relief, Dillian didn't say anything until the outer door of the flat closed. Then she asked, "Keir, what happened?" "Would you like a pancake?" He should have remembered that she was coming round. At least then Toreth could have had a shirt on. "And there's coffee, if you want some. Or we can get going." She sat down. "You can stop that right now. I'm not going anywhere until you tell me." "It's a long story." "I have plenty of time. Is he all right?" The genuine concern in her voice surprised him. "Yes. What you could see is more or less all the damage there is." "Good. There's no need to look at me like that. I may not like him very much, but I don't want to see him hurt. And I don't want to see you hurt, either." "It's absolutely nothing to do with me." He offered her a cup. "He was beaten up by someone who didn't even know I existed." She took the coffee, looking sceptical. "That didn't look like the result of a bar fight to me. Who was it? Outraged husband?" "Something like that." "You are the worst liar in the world, you know that? Tell me." He knew that she wouldn't let it drop until he'd told her something. "All right. But you have to promise me that you will keep this an absolute secret. Don't even tell anyone else involved that you know about it. Not Toreth, not Sara, not anyone at all." She stared at him. "Now you're scaring me. Yes, all right, I promise." He gave her the condensed version of the condensed version, missing out the whole scene by the river. When he'd finished, she didn't look any happier. "I can't believe you helped him." "I didn't know why he wanted the name." She sighed. "It wouldn't have made the blindest bit of difference, though, would it? You'd have done it for him anyway." "Probably, yes." "Oh, God. What were you thinking, Keir? What if this boyfriend of Sara's had gone to Justice? What if it had all come out? And how did you get hold of the name, anyway?" He ignored the last question. "He didn't go to Justice then, he can't now. There's nothing to worry

about." "Nothing to worry about?" "Not about me. I'm not involved." Yet. The unspoken qualifier sounded so loud to him that he was surprised when she didn't pick up on it. "But you told this Kemp your name when you called him, didn't you?" "Yes." "Oh!" She threw her hands up. "How can you be so, so " "Calm? Look, he has no idea that I had anything " "No, you idiot. How can you be so stupid? God, now I'm sorry that I felt sorry for him. I wish they'd broken every bloody bone in his body, twice over, for dragging you into this." He could feel his patience beginning to stretch thin; he tried to keep his voice level, because she was only worried for him. "Dilly, drop it. It happened, and it's over now." "Really?" She dragged the word out, disbelievingly. "What if Kemp doesn't think so?" Sometimes he wished she wasn't so astute. "Then Toreth's in serious trouble, which should make you happy." "No. No it doesn't, because it would make you very unhappy." She sat back in her chair with a sigh. "God, but that man is aggravating. Do you remember when I worried about you spending too much time in the sim? I take it all back." As usual, he couldn't manage to stay angry with her. He reached across the table and took her hand. "Everything will be fine." He squeezed her fingers gently for emphasis. "You caught the tail end of it. Nothing more is going to happen, I promise." She smiled wryly. "Don't make promises you can't keep. Just tell me that you'll try to stay out of it." He nodded, grateful that she'd said 'try'. "And all the rest," she said after a moment. "All the usual." "I know. I will be." Another squeeze, then he let go of her hand and checked his watch. "Do you want to go? We'll only miss twenty minutes or so." "No. I'm not really in the mood for music any more. I think I'll do some shopping, and then I'll go home and fret for a while." Relief that he hadn't had to cancel the day out himself cheered him slightly. "If it makes you happy, dearest Dilly darling." She made a face. "You know, sometimes you almost deserve him." When she had finally gone after extracting more promises that he would take care he set about finishing his breakfast. Dilly's arrival had been a mixed blessing. At least he'd managed to get Toreth to agree, however reluctantly, to the new security system. He'd anticipated a much tougher fight over that, and he'd better sort it out as soon as possible, before Toreth changed his mind. He wasn't in the least surprised that Toreth had left. The only real surprises were that he'd stayed as long as he had, and that he'd said what he had last night. Thinking it over now that he was alone, he felt incredibly . . . well, 'flattered' might be an acceptable approximation. Pleased that Toreth had trusted him enough to tell him what had happened even though he was very probably regretting it now and then to stay afterwards, although he

knew that neither of them would mention it again. It had been a display of trust by Toreth that a couple of years ago Warrick would have found impossible to imagine. Give it another ten years and they'd be living together. While he ate, he amused himself by exploring the full horror of the concept. Then, when he'd finished, he made another pot of coffee and took it into the study. Time to start finding out about Gil Kemp. ~~~ When he checked his comm back at his flat, Toreth found Kemp's job offer waiting for him. Quick work it made him wonder how often the situation arose for Kemp. Curiosity prompted him to see what he was turning down. Sitting down wincing as his back hit the chair he paged through the details, impressed despite himself. 'Generous' was a more than adequate description, starting with an undertaking to buy out any remaining training obligation to the Administration. Not an excessive amount in his case, after so long, but still a consideration. Plenty of corporate offers didn't include that, or translated it into a loan to be deducted from salary, although with the size of the salary on offer that wouldn't have been much of a deterrent. Accommodation was included in the package and reasonable latitude as to location, plus the option to appoint his own assistant. Had Kemp been thinking of Sara? The idea of working for Kemp hadn't seemed to bother her at all. Or had she just not thought it through then? Maybe he'd ask her tomorrow. Toreth paused. Was he sliding towards thinking about accepting the offer? Generous terms, indeed. For a moment, he deliberately directed his mind back to the river. Doesn't sound like someone you ought to be working for, Warrick had said, and he'd definitely had the right idea about that, although hopefully he was wrong about Kemp's likely reaction to a refusal. Toreth spent a while drafting a polite negative, then sent it to the reply address given on the offer. Kemp probably wouldn't see it until Monday, if ever. That was it. It was over. To his surprise, it wasn't even lunchtime before Warrick's pet security company turned up. As he'd expected, they were highly professional and efficient but, in such a small flat, it was impossible for them to work round him without disturbing him. In the end he asked for an estimate of how long it would take and went out to enjoy the first real sunshine of the summer. Or at least, to try to do so. He walked to the perimeter of the Int-Sec complex, scanned his ID at one of the unmanned staff entrances, and headed for the landscaped gardens around the small lake. Being a Sunday, it was quiet, although a few Int-Sec employees had brought their families along to this lower security zone to picnic in the sun. Perk of a good Administration job. Toreth lowered himself carefully to lie on the grass, and watched the clouds passing, and thought about corporates. Theirs wasn't a world he lived in, but it was one he understood well. Beating the crap out of a partner was something any senior corporate of middle ranking or higher could expect to get away with, as long as they picked the right victim, preferably someone poor and unprotected. Everything was relative. Jon Kemp was the son of a major corporate, but not influential himself. Sara worked for a powerful division, but had a low-status job within it. Toreth himself was a more important figure than Sara too important to consider simply disposing of, as Gil Kemp had clearly

understood. Set against Gil Kemp, though, Toreth's personal influence was no more significant than Sara's. He couldn't banish the uneasy feeling that it wasn't over. Warrick's doubts, clearly demonstrated in his insistence on the new security for the flat, and Toreth's own instincts agreed on that point. As a rule, he didn't trust instinct. In this case, though, he could spot a control freak at a hundred meters not difficult, because 'control freak' and 'senior corporate' were practically synonymous. By not playing the game, by refusing the gilded cage, he'd probably upset Kemp a great deal more than he had by assaulting his son. A loud splash wrenched him away from the depressing ruminations. He sat up too quickly, heart pounding, to find a small shoe bobbing in the centre of a widening ring on the lake and a child being soundly scolded by its mother. He looked at the dark water, ripples smoothing out in the gentle breeze, and wondered why the hell he'd come here instead of another part of the grounds. But moving somewhere else, now, would be an admission of defeat. Looking at his watch, he decided to head back home, via some food shopping. He didn't fancy going round to Warrick's for a few days, so he ought to get something in. On the way out, the scanner rejected his ID three times before it let him through. A glitch in the system, nothing more, and common enough. Still, it didn't improve his mood. The security firm estimated well. When he returned, they were finishing up, and the woman in charge, who styled herself as a personal security consultant, walked him through the system. He couldn't deny that it made him feel safer. It would be easier to come through the wall than the new door, and the upgraded alarm system encompassed all the windows, as well as sensors in every room. The personal security consultant told him that the invoice was already settled, but she gave him a copy without protest when he asked. Briefed by Warrick, no doubt. The total made his eyes water, and he decided to let Warrick pay it, if he really wanted to.

Chapter Four
Toreth nearly didn't go in to work on Monday. He hadn't slept well, and his wrist ached nastily. Although the bruises and general muscle pains were a little better, he still required handfuls of painkillers before he made it out of bed. In the end, though, hanging around at home with nothing to do but hurt seemed less attractive than hurting slightly more while being busy. As he prepared to leave the flat, Kemp called him. Not even half past eight. "What can I do for you?" Toreth asked, knowing the answer. "I have a note here saying that you declined my offer." Kemp's voice wasn't a bad approximation of friendly, but it had an edge of anger. "Yes. Thanks for the thought, and I appreciated the package, but I'm happy where I am." "That's a shame. I was looking forward to having you working for us. May I ask why?" I don't work for fucking psychos. "Personal reasons." "I see. A pity. But I have a number of friends at Int-Sec, and even a few at I&I. If there is anything I can do for you in the future, as recompense for your unfortunate experience, I hope you'll remember my influence there." Now the edge in his voice was definitely a threat. "Thanks. I will." "Excellent. I shall keep my eye on your doubtless successful career. Goodbye." ~~~ That afternoon, Toreth sat at his desk and looked at his sixth coffee of the day, cooling in front of him. It was always a bad sign when Sara provided drinks unprompted, particularly in these quantities. It meant that one of them was seriously out of sorts. Since it wasn't him, there had to be something wrong with her. He knew what it was. He'd known before Warrick had said it in the flat she blamed herself for what had happened to him. Annoying, but probably inevitable, Sara being who she was. As inevitable as the fact that he'd have to talk to her about it, although he wasn't sure what to say. No time like the present to find out. He tapped the comm. "Sara, could you come in here for a moment, please?" The 'please' probably threw her, because it took a few seconds for her to say, "I'll be a minute." "Now, please." Before he changed his mind. She took so long that he was about to go and drag her in. Then the door opened and she stepped through, stopping just over the threshold. "Yes?" "Sit down." "I'm busy." "And I'm your boss. So sit." Reluctantly, she perched on the edge of the desk. That would have to do. "Have you got something to say?"

She hesitated, biting her lip. "No? That must be a first." He pushed his chair back, put his feet up on the desk, and looked at his watch. "I've only got an hour before I'm due in a very boring meeting, and I've got better things to do with it than sit here and wait. But I will." "I'm sorry." She met his eyes briefly, then looked down at her hands. "I know you don't want to hear it. But it's my fault that you got hurt, and I'm so fucking sorry." "Oh? Well, that explains it then." She looked up, puzzled. "What?" "How they got the code into my flat." Her eyes went wide. "I've never told anyone! Why would you even think I oh. That's not fair. You know what I mean." "Yes, I do. And that's bollocks, too. If you want to blame someone, try Jonny. That's who I'm blaming. And his fucking father." "His father?" She frowned. "Why?" Oh, hell. Careless and stupid. He'd have to cut back on the painkillers. "Nothing serious. He made some threats he can't back up, to try to keep me quiet." Now she looked alarmed. "Threats? But I thought he offered you a job?" Something of his manner from Saturday night must have filtered back, because she shut her mouth abruptly. Toreth sighed. "There's nothing to worry about, I promise." I hope. "It wasn't your fault." Weak, and not surprisingly, ineffective. "Yes, it was. If I hadn't been so stupid as to get mixed up with Jon in the first place, you wouldn't have had to do anything." "Had to? Right, of course. You held a gun " Fucking, fucking hell. "You held a gun on me and forced me to go over and beat the shit out of him. Because it would never have occurred to me to do it on my own, would it? Seeing as the bastard richly deserved it and I wanted to do it. Anyway, it's just a few bruises and a bit of a sprain. Forget it, and we can get back to work." She looked down again. Impasse. This wasn't getting them anywhere. He should have put more thought into it to start with now he was stuck for a line of attack and that always looked bad. Luckily, as he was considering telling her to go, she gave him an opening. "I should have told you not to " "You could have told me anything you liked. I'd still have done it." She glanced up. "You know . . . that's what Warrick said." Thank you, Warrick. "Well, he's not just a great fuck." "God, he must be thrilled with me." "Not that it's any of his business what I do for my friends, but he thinks it was the only thing to do." "Really? He said that?" It seemed like a reasonable interpretation of Warrick's position to Toreth. Or at least plausible. "Of course, really. Ask him yourself if you like. Look, if me and Warrick both say that I'm stupid enough to have done it on my own, whatever the fuck you said about it, can we agree that it wasn't your fault?"

Small shrug. "I suppose so." Well, that was a slight improvement. "Anyway, I didn't say thanks properly, did I?" She looked at him blankly. "For what?" "Getting me out of there. I mean, it was your idea, wasn't it? Calling Kemp? I'd have been far more fucked up if he hadn't arrived when he did." Dead in the river, in fact. "So, thanks." "No. I mean, um, I was only trying to " "So we can call it quits. Right?" Another shrug. "All right." "Then are you going to stop this guilt crap? It's pissing me off, and I'm getting caffeine shakes." She smiled wanly. "Sorry." Progress, at last. Time to get things back to normal. "Right, that's it final warning. If I hear you say sorry one more time, I'll spank you." "You'll what?" Her smile turned into something almost worthy of the name. "You wouldn't dare." He took his feet off the desk and sat up. "Try me." "That's harassment, you know. Even admins have rights." She slid off the desk, jolting it and spilling his cold coffee. "Oops. Sorry." He let her beat him to the door, then went back to his chair. He meant to get back to work, but instead he found himself thinking about Kemp. The conversation this morning had been worrying. Kemp didn't strike him as the kind of man who made empty threats. If he said he had friends at I&I, he probably had. Which meant that Toreth's career prospects had sharply nosedived. Worst of all, he wouldn't be able to fight it. A call here, a word dropped there invisible, immune to retaliation or even discovery. He'd seen it happen to others, watching as their lives unraveled. People who'd played the game, fucked up and lost. Stupid or careless enough to have pissed off someone bigger than they could handle. Not him. He wasn't helpless. He couldn't be. If Kemp wasn't willing to let it go, Toreth wouldn't be the one who sat around waiting for the next move. He needed something on Kemp, some pre-emptive defence he could use to persuade the corporate that it would be easier to leave him alone. Or, better, something to shaft the bastard good and hard. To take him down and pay him back for what he'd done, although that was too much to hope for. He had an idea of where to start, too. Finding Chris's full name was easy. Toreth had a good memory for faces and it took him less than an hour to put a profile together and come up with the address. A search for Chris had none of the risks associated with putting Kemp's name through the I&I systems. Chris, last name Harper, had a very uninteresting record of a few minor Justice-level offences. The rest of his file was equally dull: married; privately rented registered living address in an insalubrious part of the city; personal contract with no name supplied, which was legal enough if a little unusual; no known political affiliation, which wasn't a surprise. Standard issue corporate muscle, except without a corporate job. Closing the file, Toreth smiled. It would make a welcome change to deal with someone he didn't have to treat with kid gloves. Still, it would be easier and safer with some help.

~~~ Toreth decided to go looking in person, rather than use the comm. Chevril's office was empty, but Toreth found his fellow senior in the coffee room, staring at the newly installed coffee machine with an air of baffled irritation. "Do you know how this bloody thing works? I'd only just got the hang of the old one when they changed the damn thing. Kel's off and if I don't get a coffee soon, I'm going to kill the next prisoner I work on." The coffee rooms were theoretically not under surveillance, but it wasn't a theory Toreth had ever wanted to test over anything serious. "Come out for lunch, and I'll buy you one." Chevril tended to regard unprovoked offers like that as possible chat-up lines, in which he was extremely uninterested. His expression of guarded suspicion prompted Toreth to add, "I need a favour." After a moment, Chevril shrugged. "Okay. I was thinking about going out anyway, since it's so nice." Like yesterday, the day was bright and summery. It was pleasant to get out of the office, even if Toreth's muscles weren't yet keen on prolonged exercise. At least the aches slowed him down a little Chevril, barely touching one meter sixty, and so thirty centimetres shorter than Toreth, was normally hard work to keep in step with. As they walked through the Int-Sec grounds towards one of the commercial complexes on the periphery, Toreth explained what had happened, as non-specifically as he could manage, leaving out the names and as many details as possible. Chevril who was fond of Sara reacted just as he'd expected. "So that's what happened to her. Kel didn't know. I hope you broke his bloody neck." "I probably should have." When he reached the end of the account, glossing over the river with what was becoming practised ease, Chevril shook his head. "Jesus, if there was ever a candidate for re-education. You were bloody lucky but then you always are, aren't you? Alive, and a nice corporate job offer. Some people." "I didn't take it." Chevril stopped dead and looked up at him. "You what? You turned him down?" "That's what I said." "Why, for fuck's sake?" He couldn't tell him the real reason, so he settled for the general one that had kept him at I&I for so long. "I'm not selling myself to a corporate." "You mean he's not offering enough?" "He's offering plenty. I mean I'm not doing it, whatever he offers." "So what was the deal?" Toreth had to admit he'd been hoping Chevril would ask. "More or less twice what I'm on now. Housing paid for on top of that, training debt cleared." "More or less . . . Christ all-bloody-mighty." Chevril's face screwed up in what looked like genuine pain. "If I turned that down, Elena would rip my heart out and casserole it."

"I don't fancy the idea of being someone's property, and that's what a personal contract makes you." This was one of Chevril's favourite arguments, and this time he had the added outrage of a genuine opportunity being refused right in front of him. "Bollocks does it. Besides, even if it did, it's no different to where you are now. The Administration owns your soul and Tillotson gets the rest of you." "That's not the same as belonging to someone. Tillotson works for I&I, just like us. He has a bigger office, that's all." "Right. Of course. So you're staying principled and poor." Chevril shook his head. "You're completely bloody mad. Or am I missing the whole point, and he pays for everything these days?" Stupidly, Toreth didn't realise what Chevril meant until he added, "The bloke with the corporate car and the expensive suits. The suspect you weren't " he grimaced slightly, "fucking all the way through that dead-end corporate murder." Although he knew Chevril was only saying it to get a rise, he couldn't help responding, not with the new alarm system in his flat. "You can fuck right off. No, he doesn't. And he was never a suspect." "If you say so." Chevril grinned, leaving it unclear which part he was referring to. "But anyway, apart from making me puke with envy, is there a point to any of this? What's the favour?" "I've got a nuts-on-the-chopping-block feeling about the father. I don't think he's willing to have me running around out here, where he can't control me, knowing what I know. I want to find something to give me some leverage if he won't back off." Chevril shook his head firmly. "Not through me, you bloody well don't. I'm not running any searches on corporate higher-ups, if that's what you want to ask." "No. But there's someone who might know some things. I want to have a nice little unofficial word with him, but I don't want to go on my own." Chevril, who despite his pan-European competition standard whinging was good at his job, thought for a few seconds, then asked, "Bloke who picked you up?" "That's him." Chevril considered for a moment longer. "As long as you remember that you owe me for it. When? Tonight?" "Tomorrow morning. I don't want to risk missing him and having to go back." "Okay. You know," he added after a moment, "you could solve the whole thing if you'd take the bloody job. You'd make me feel better, anyway." ~~~ When he'd woken up for the second time that night, gasping for air, Toreth gave up on the idea of even trying to sleep. Instead he got up and kicked through the pile of washing until he found something to wear. The air felt cool against his damp skin, which made a good excuse for the shivering. His wrist ached, as did the muscles in his shoulders, so he detoured to the bathroom for painkillers. Once in the living room, after switching on the heating, he poured himself a drink, sat down, and thought about drowning. Thinking it through sometimes stopped him dreaming about it later. Sometimes. Or sometimes he worked himself up to near hysterics, and couldn't go to bed at all until he was

drunk enough to pass out instead of fall asleep. Worth a try, though, because he knew that otherwise he would have the dream again, and he needed some sleep. Tomorrow he had things to do and he had to be sharp enough to get them done without screwing up. So. A couple of mouthfuls he didn't even taste, and then back to his first year of training. They'd known, of course. It would have been in his psych file accident on a family holiday, no permanent physical consequences, but . . . that's why they'd picked him out first, hoping he'd put on a good show to scare the rest of them. Well, that part had worked out. The dream was everything he remembered; it was more than possible that he was remembering the dream and the real thing had been nothing like that. The rest of it he'd heard from Chevril afterwards: panic stations and emergency resuscitation and finally, reluctantly, a call to the medical unit. The instructors had been shitting themselves, at least according to Chevril. Killing recruits must generate a ton of paperwork. The next day, though, when he'd discharged himself over the protests of the medic and turned up for training, the chief instructor had merely looked him up and down and said, "Can't you hold your fucking breath?" "No, sir. Sorry, sir." He'd won back whatever reputation he'd lost from his performance when Internal Investigations arrived. He'd told them it had been an accident, a practical joke that got out of hand. No, sorry, he couldn't remember who'd been involved. It had been dark; they'd all been drinking. The investigators had looked profoundly unconvinced, but they'd finally gone away, leaving him with a confidential contact number in case he changed his mind. After about ten seconds' thought he'd decided that he'd rather have a career, and had deleted it. That had pretty much been that. Why it still bothered him was a mystery; in fact, most of the time it didn't. The idea of being underwater made him uneasy, even in the sim, but he went swimming at the gym and enjoyed it. Or maybe enjoyed the mastery over what he was . . . what he disliked. Some psych rubbish like that, anyway. It never, really, went away, though. Months would go past and then he'd get a run of dreams. Sometimes there was no reason he could think of for it. Occasionally he knew what kicked them off. Once, he'd been over at Justice and he'd stood by and watched them breaking all the rules of due process to do to a prisoner what had been done to him. Screaming nightmares every night for a fortnight, after that one. The prisoner had talked, though. Jesus, who wouldn't? This time, the river. Worse, because he'd had his hands tied again. Just the thought, and his heart started to race. No big deal. It had happened, he'd survived, and he hadn't even got his feet wet so there was no reason for feeling like this. It would stop soon, because it always did in the end, and things would go back to normal. In a few weeks, he'd have forgotten all about it. This was the first time for a couple of years, and beyond the unpleasantness of the dreams themselves, it annoyed him that he couldn't see Warrick. Bad enough that he'd spent the one night at Warrick's flat those nightmares could be written off to exhaustion and the after-effects of a day that would be an excuse for anyone to sleep badly. He could go round to fuck, but Warrick would want him to stay, and he knew he'd be tempted to say yes, in case being there meant he wouldn't If he did, though, if Warrick was there and heard it, again, then he'd know. That was intolerable.

He'd stay away until the nightmares stopped. Still, there was no harm in thinking about Warrick, because he made a pretty good distraction from anything. He'd sleep better once he'd come he always did. Toreth lay down on his back on the sofa, finding it surprisingly comfortable now the painkillers and alcohol had kicked in, and started flicking through his mental database of Warrick fantasies. Some time ago he'd noticed that the majority of his fantasies involved Warrick nowadays. It had worried him briefly, and then he'd decided not to think about it. His right wrist hurt too much, so he placed his drink on the arm of the sofa above him and used his left. Ambidextrous, for all the important things who had he said that to? He closed his eyes, and pulled a memory to the front of his mind. Familiar and comforting. Warrick fucking him, moving against him, slow and deliciously deep inside him; Warrick's mouth pressed against his neck as he breathed faster . . . The glass was still balanced above him when the light through the window woke him in the morning. ~~~ Insalubrious turned out to be something to which Chris's neighbourhood could only aspire. Toreth couldn't recall ever coming to the area before, which was distinctly more of a Justice place than I&I. Ugly high-rise housing blocks, which looked like early second generation, built to replace even less substantial accomodation thrown up after clearance of the contaminated ruins of the old city. Chris's building was slightly above the average. At least there was a security lock on the door, and a guard in the entranceway old and deaf, but not too deaf to understand that their visit was one best not remembered or commented on. A glance over his desk showed that the security cameras in the entrance were at least partly functional. He and Chevril were on record, which put a limit on the amount of pressure they could apply, down here or with Chris. They took the stairs, and by the time they reached the eleventh floor they had to stop in the corridor for Chevril to get his breath back. Toreth leaned on the wall wincing as the bruises protested and watched the other senior panting, hands braced on his thighs. After a while Toreth said, "You ought to get to the gym more often." "That's what Elena keeps telling me." He straightened. "Ah, bloody hell. We should've used the bloody lift." "Somewhere like this? Even if it worked, I don't fancy being in an enclosed space with an emergency stop." Chevril looked up and down the empty corridor, his breathing still heavy. "Do you really think someone would try something?" "Probably not. But I don't want to end up having to explain to Justice what we were doing here, in uniform but without an investigation in progress, after we had to call for assistance." "Fair point. Okay, let's get on with it and get out." They walked down the corridor, which was fortunately blessed with a logical numbering system. Toreth stopped and checked his hand screen. "This is the one." Chevril nodded. "Shall I? If he recognises you, he might do something stupid. I'm not getting shot when I'm not properly on duty. Plays hell with the pension." "Go ahead."

The comm proved to be broken, so Chevril settled for thumping the door. It took nearly a minute to get a response, before the door opened a crack. Through the space Toreth could just see a woman's face pale in a frame of short, blonde hair and, lower down, a child, dark-eyed and with skin the colour of milky coffee. Chevril held up his ID, but the uniform had already registered. Her eyes went wide with fear, and she started to close the door. Chev put his foot in the way. "Don't be stupid." Reluctantly, she let them in. From an unobstructed viewpoint, she proved to be somewhere in her late twenties and fairly attractive, in a pinched way. She was also pregnant not heavily, but enough to show and to make her ineligible for various methods of interrogation. The little girl moved round behind her, shy in front of the strangers. Toreth nodded to Chevril, who stepped back, letting him take over. "We want to speak to Chris Harper. Is he in?" "No." He was preparing to cut his way through the ritual denials, but her expression had changed to one of surprise and, oddly, relief. "He's gone out just to the shop. He'll be back." "We'll wait." She showed them through to the tiny living room. An effort had been made to decorate the room, but spreading damp darkened one wall, the cheap wallpaper mottled with black patches. Fresh air from the wide-open window failed to eradicate the smell of mold. Toreth stood by the door, in case Chris was in another room waiting for a chance to run. The woman offered them a drink, which they refused, and then perched on the edge of a chair, her arms around the girl. "You're sure he'll be back?" Chevril asked. "Yes, of course. A few minutes at the most. I thought you might be him. We've been having trouble with the door. We've complained to the building agent, but he won't do anything about it." Whatever the reason for her earlier change of mind, she was still nervous as a cat. He let her keep talking, while he waited by the door. Nervous or not, her estimate had been good. After six minutes, Toreth heard the front door open. He stepped away, out of line of sight from the hallway, and put his finger to his lips. She nodded. The child beside her called out, "Daddy!" After a few seconds the living room door opened and Chris stepped through, balancing full shopping bags. "I'm here, 'gator. I " Then he saw Toreth and stopped dead. "Oh, fuck." Reflexively, the woman put her hands over the girl's ears. "Chris?" He dropped the bags onto a chair and went to stand beside her, touching her shoulder but looking at Toreth and Chevril. Toreth smiled, pleasant and calm, keeping the coldness for his voice. "I'd like a word with you." "Dina, I need some privacy here." Chris's eyes didn't leave Toreth's face, pleading with him. "Take Allie, go downstairs to Manak's. I'll come and get you when we're done." Toreth shook his head. "No. Chev, stay in here and keep them company." Out of the corner of his eye, Toreth could see Chevril grinning. He kept his own face expressionless, but it was an effort. Chris had just handed them whatever they wanted from him on a plate.

Dina looked between them. "Chris?" she asked again. Chris glared at Toreth, then nodded. "It's all right. Everything's going to be fine." Reluctantly, he obeyed Toreth's gesture to leave the room. Out in the hallway, Toreth pointed to a door at random. "What's that?" "Bedroom." Perfect. "That'll do." The bedroom was better than he'd hoped. Reminders of what had her name been? Dina? everywhere, and best of all, a cot in the corner. Exactly what he wanted to keep Chris's mind focused on cooperation. "Sit on the bed. Good. Now, you're going to answer some questions for me. There's no need to make this official. If I like the answers, we'll go away and you can tell Dina everything is fine. Understand?" "Yes. I understand." The anger showed only in his eyes, not his voice. "What do you want?" "I want to know about your employer." "About Jon Kemp?" He'd expected more resistance, but Chris seemed almost relieved. "That would be my former employer. Sure. What do you want to know?" "And also about his father." That produced slightly more of a reaction, a brief hesitation a man deciding what was safe to say. "I don't know anything about him. Except that after he told me that Jon wouldn't be paying me any more, he offered to pick up my contract." Sacked, then immediately reemployed. Obviously Kemp wanted Chris where he could keep an eye on him, at least for a while. "Did you accept?" "Did I accept?" Chris laughed. "Of course I did. You don't turn people like him down, especially not when they make it pretty clear that it's an order, not an offer." "Well, at least it's a job." "Except that the tight bastard cut the rate and won't pay me everything Jon owed me and I don't feel like pushing it with him. So I owe money to the . . . well, to lots of people, and I'm up shit creek." One of Warrick's listed vulnerabilities a disgruntled employee. "That's what you get for working in arrears. What are you doing for him?" He grimaced. "I'm supposed to be keeping an eye on Jon. You won't be surprised to hear Kemp's sacked the previous watchers. So I'm back doing my favourite job, for less money." "Music to my ears. So what's Jonny been doing since I saw him?" "I don't know." Chris held his hand up. "I really don't know. He's been with Kemp senior since Saturday evening, back at the family mansion. I think after the last fuckup, Kemp's planning to keep him locked in his room for a while. About the only thing I've done is collect Jon's gear from the campus house. Not that I care if Kemp wants to pay me to do nothing." Well, even Jonny probably had the sense to stay out of trouble for a while. "I want to know everything Jon Kemp's been up to that his father wouldn't want people to find out about." Chris shrugged, temporising. "Well . . . I didn't work for him for that long. Ten months. He promised me a corporate contract after three then he said no deal. I was planning to leave as soon as I could find something else."

"Bad timing," Toreth said without sympathy. "No shit. You probably noticed that he's got a screw loose. Not one fucking screw tightened, in fact. But he paid well, and that's why I stayed. All we had to do was clear up after him and make sure his father never heard anything he wouldn't like." "So tell me what happened in ten months." "Not much. I dealt with suppliers and prostitutes, I took him to some very dodgy clubs and stopped people beating him up in them, I paid off a couple of women who'd pissed him off, and I had a word with another one who took it into her head to get in touch with Justice about him." Toreth wondered if one of those three was Daedra's sister. It didn't matter, though. There was nothing there he could use none of that would come as a surprise to Kemp. "Anything else?" "Well . . . " The word dragged out with a promising show of reluctance. "What?" "We dumped a body for him. Woman. We cleaned her up and dropped her in the river." At the usual place, no doubt. A good choice, because by the time she was found, if she was found, connecting her to Jon Kemp would be Hell's own job. Toreth had a brief but absolutely clear image of Chris and his friends, of the body being lowered in. Of Sara's face, sliding under the water. He might never have found out what had happened to her. Anger tightened his shoulders, sending twinges down his back, but losing his temper again over might-have-beens wasn't productive. "Who was she? How did she die?" "I got rid of the body, I didn't check her DNA and do an autopsy." "Funny. What do you know?" "She was a prostitute, and she tried to blackmail him over something. I don't know what about if it wasn't the obvious pick any fucking thing, he could have done it." Useless, no-account victim. He pursued it anyway, because it was all he had so far. "Why was he worried about her?" "I don't think he was I expect she just said the wrong thing and he lost his temper. Easily done, with him. Or he got carried away once he started on her. Mind you, he did mention that she had Almond's number. That's who she was threatening to call." "Who?" "Almond. I don't know his first name the bloke who does the same thing for Kemp senior that I did for his son. Worked for Kemp forever, according to Jon. And he scares the shit out of Jon too, so hearing Almond's name might've been enough to tip him over." Interesting. "Corporate or private?" He shrugged. Toreth looked at his watch. All taking too long, and he wanted to finish and get going. He took a single step towards Chris, who looked up from his contemplation of the floor. "Hey! I don't know. Would you prefer me to lie about it? If you want me to guess, I'll say no. Almond's private, for private messes." "Does Kemp make much of a mess?" "I should think so." Chris raised his eyebrows. "I mean, with the way his son behaves? The man can't be normal." Not a bad point. "No. I didn't think much of his sense of humour, for one thing."

Chris glanced towards the door. For the first time, Toreth noted. Impressive discipline, under the circumstances. "Listen, that was Kemp's idea," Chris said, voice low. "You understand? It . . . oh, fuck." Toreth knew what was coming. "I was just doing my job. It wasn't anything personal. You understand?" Pleading. Looking at the door again, one step away from breaking down. Don't hurt them if you want to hurt someone, hurt me. Toreth didn't particularly want to hear it. He didn't feel a pressing need to settle any score with Chris, at least not pressing enough to want to complicate things any further. Besides, he might need him later, and he'd be far more useful grateful and no more humiliated than he had been. He was about to wrap things up, when he found himself sidetracked by the automatic, professional pursuit of something unusual in his witnesses' behaviour. A suspicion strengthened by something missing from Chris's file. "If I asked for it, you could show me a valid conception license, couldn't you?" Chris stared at him for a long moment, then nodded jerkily. "Sure. Yes. Of course." Toreth pulled out his comm earpiece. "Thirty seconds makes that an official enquiry to the Department of Population." "No!" He started to rise, only relaxing when Toreth put the comm away. "All right. No. We don't have one." Which neatly explained Chris's surprising willingness to talk about Kemp, as well as Dina's reaction in the hallway. "Tell me about it." Chris stared back, sullen and frightened, until Toreth reached for his pocket again. "All right. Allie isn't my daughter you probably guessed that. Dina had a partner, not for long. Allie was still a baby when we got together. And don't get me wrong, she's a lovely kid. But " He shrugged. "I wanted we wanted a child together. But the DoP won't give us a license. We applied, we did it all legally. Christ, we even appealed it when they turned us down, with the best representative we could afford, which wasn't saying much. But the system's not fair." His voice rose, making justifications he must know wouldn't do any good. "We're not doing anything wrong. I don't have any kids. I've never even applied to the DoP before. I've got a right to " Bored, Toreth cut him off. This wasn't what he was interested in. "You have a right to make the application, not to have it granted. How are you working it? Implant failures?" Chris shook his head. "The DoP doesn't accept double implant failure these days. Even if it's true, they'll force a termination. We're buying a fake pregnancy for . . . a woman we know. She'll call the baby hers and then we'll adopt him. We can get a license for that." "It'll get picked up at the hospital, when they do the genetics." "There's a . . . it's all taken care of." "Expensive?" Chris nodded. "Very." It would be. The reproduction control laws allowed no latitude. When everyone in the Administration was obliged to have a free and extremely reliable contraceptive implant, unlicensed pregancies were almost always both deliberate and criminal. So bribes alone would cost a fortune:

corrupt doctors to be paid off, other staff at the hospital and test lab, probably someone at the Department of Population. Someone like Chris would never be able to afford them on his own, and for an organised scheme to repay the time and expense, it would have to be big. In all probability, Chris and his wife would be one of dozens. Even hundreds. Toreth never understood why people did such fucking stupid things, simply out of some atavistic urge to breed. Still, if he couldn't find anything on Kemp, he'd take this as compensation. If he could dig up enough names, it would make a nice little case conspiracy, corruption, violation of numerous population control laws. He sat down on the bed next to Chris. "You don't need me to tell you how much shit you're in, but I will anyway. Reproduction without a valid license is a Justice matter. If I call it in now, they'll send someone round to arrest both of you, and that will be it. No mitigation, no right of appeal automatic processing." He paused for a moment to let that sink in, then continued. "It starts with enforced termination and sterilisation, and it doesn't improve much after that. Re-education for both of you, and when they're done, you won't be seeing each other again. Or Allie. At her age she'll probably end up in Administration care until she's fifteen, then she's out on the streets. Do you understand all that?" Chris nodded, staring straight ahead, hands clenched in the bedspread. "Now, here's the alternative. I can make it an I&I case, if you can tell me who else is involved. If you give me enough information to work it up into something I like the look of, I can have you classified as a privileged informant. That means money and resettlement, somewhere nicer than this. And I can get the pregnancy legitimised." Now Chris looked at him. He licked his lips and said, "Really?" "Yes, really." Toreth watched as Chris thought it over. Whatever his character flaws, impulsiveness wasn't foremost among them. After a while he said, "Does my name get tied to it?" There was no point lying. "Possibly. If there's anyone involved who can afford expensive lawyers, they might be able to force a disclosure of evidence. Or, well " he shrugged. Chris nodded. He'd know that all it took was a source in the right department, and I&I wasn't immune to that. "So what about protection? For Dina and Allie. Fuck for me too, once Kemp hears about it." "Why the hell would Kemp care?" "He likes his employees to stay on the straight and narrow. And " Chris hesitated, then the tension in his shoulders relaxed suddenly as he made up his mind. "Because he's behind it. He runs the scheme." Briefly, the bed seemed to tilt under him, like a bad room transition in the sim. It went way beyond 'too good to be true'. So far beyond, in fact, that Toreth wondered if he'd hallucinated the statement. "Runs it? Kemp senior?" Chris nodded. "How the fuck do you know?" He should've guessed the answer. "Jonny told me." "So how did he know?"

"No idea. But . . . well, after I'd been working for him for a couple of months, I told him I needed a corporate contract. It might've helped with the DoP. He said he couldn't do that, but he knew a different way round it. He said he'd fix it up." "Are you sure it was Kemp behind it?" "Yeah. Jonny took me up to Kemp at some kind of black-tie family event and he " Chris shrugged. "He just asked him about it, right out. Kemp was pretty fucked off, I can tell you. But the next week Almond, the man I mentioned before, came round to the flat to explain to us how it worked. He said " "Wait a minute Kemp knows that you know he's involved?" "I . . . yes, he does. Or he knows Jonny told me he was." Why was it that every fucking thing he heard made the situation more complicated? Toreth thought about the security cameras and the guard on the main desk. Not promising. If Gil Kemp got word that he and Chevril had been here, things were going to go very badly indeed. Bad for him and a great deal worse for Chris. "Is there a way out of here that isn't covered by the cameras?" "Yes. Out the back that's the way I came in." He grimaced. "We owe a month's rent, so I'm avoiding the agent. Why?" "Because you need to get out of here, quickly and quietly. I'll find somewhere for you, temporarily." "Dina and " "Yes. All three of you. Pack whatever you need, enough for a few days. Go down to the back and we'll be waiting for you." He hesitated. "No. Wait until we leave, go out the back and come in again through the front. Make sure the guard sees you. Then pack and come down. You know why I'm saying all this, don't you?" Chris nodded. "Kemp. So he doesn't know I talked to you." "Right. So you weren't planning to do anything fucking stupid, were you? Like run?" "No." His gaze slipped away, very briefly. "Not good enough. Listen to me. If you run, it becomes a question of who finds you first Kemp or me. It might not feel like it, but with me you have rights. I can only do what the law lets me. Now, that's a lot of very unpleasant things, but it's nothing compared to what Kemp can do, if he feels like it. How old's Allie?" Chris frowned at him, confused by the sudden question, then said, "Seven." "Which is below the age of criminal responsibility. Whatever you've done, I can't touch her. Kemp can do whatever he wants. No waiver, he just needs to find someone willing to do it for him. Think about that." It took another few seconds before Chris nodded. "Okay. Yes. I'll do what you said." "Good. Don't explain anything to Dina you can do that when we get you somewhere safe." "She won't panic. She isn't like that." Toreth sighed. "Just do what you're fucking told. Get in practice for later." ~~~ At the reception desk, Toreth and Chevril stopped to enquire, slowly and loudly, whether Chris

had arrived after they had, and then to impress how important it was that he didn't hear they'd been there. As the car drove round to the back of the building, he explained the plan to Chevril. "Why my flat?" Chevril asked, once the car had parked in the least conspicuous spot they could find. "Because they know exactly where I live. And I'm not risking a division safe house Kemp told me he had lots of friends. Maybe he does, maybe he doesn't, but I'd rather not take the chance of him finding out we have Chris. We need to get some solid evidence on him." "I'm not putting Ellie in danger. What if another load of his bloody heavies turn up?" "They won't. Kemp isn't as fucking stupid as his son. Chris is all the link we have to him at the moment Kemp'll go for him and leave us alone." "Remind me again why I'm doing this?" Toreth grinned. "Bonuses and commendations? Don't you want to be famous?" Chevril rolled his eyes. "No, I want a nice, cushy job exactly like the one you turned down. I wonder if stitching up a major corporate player is going to help my chances?" "Don't fuck around, Chev. Can I use the flat?" "Of course you can." Chevril sighed. "But don't say I didn't warn you if it all blows up in your bloody face. Our bloody faces." Rather to Toreth's surprise, Chris came out of the rear of the building only a few minutes after they parked the car. He looked frightened but in control, as did Dina. She didn't say anything for the duration of the journey, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor of the car. Toreth's spirits rose slightly hysterical witnesses were near the top of his list of dislikes about his job. At their destination, they stopped the car only long enough to get people out and into the building. Chevril agreed, somewhat reluctantly, to take the car and check for any signs that they'd been followed. Once inside, Toreth felt safe enough. Although, unlike his own place, the majority of tenants weren't Int-Sec employees, the place was solidly respectable middle-ranking Administration. The security covered all the entrances and corridors. Chevril's wife Elena welcomed them with her usual imperturbable calm. The abrupt appearance of Toreth and a fugitive witness complete with family seemed to cause her no more surprise than if it had been her husband at the door. Once inside, Toreth explained what they needed, and Elena smiled, nodded, and said it would be perfectly all right. "Thanks, Elena," Toreth said, as she took Dina and the child through to show them the guest room. "My pleasure. Help yourself to something to drink. You know where everything is." As he turned towards the kitchen, Toreth noticed Chris watching Elena walk away, his mouth slightly open. She tended to have that effect on men hell, she certainly did on him, even after knowing her for fifteen years. Her long, black hair hung down her back in an immaculate curtain, swaying as she walked. Dina, pretty enough in her own way, looked drab beside her, as well as suddenly tiny. When Chris tore his gaze away, Toreth raised an eyebrow. Chris frowned, defensive. "I was only thinking . . . "

"What?" "She's tall." Tall, dark, and mind-meltingly gorgeous. "One-eighty, in bare feet." Chris shook his head. "And she's married to " "Chevril. Yeah. Which, incidentally, is none of your fucking business, except for being grateful to have somewhere to stay." Chris smiled sourly. "Grateful. Right." Then his expression changed as he caught sight of Toreth's face. "I am! I am. It's just not what I was planning to do with my day." Toreth nodded. "Remember any time you want to get rid of me, I can call Justice and they can take over." Chris closed his eyes briefly. "Don't please, don't say that to Dina. She isn't thinking about it at the moment, and I don't want her to start." "Behave yourself and it won't be a problem." Toreth led him into the kitchen. "I'll make some coffee, and then we can go through everything you know about Kemp and his operation. Starting with names." Chris shook his head. "I don't know any. Honestly, I don't. Almond, that's all, and I only know that because Jon told me. None of the medics we met used names." "Fair enough, then we'll start with descriptions . . . " ~~~ They were still talking when Chevril reappeared. "I didn't see anyone, which means they aren't there, or they're very good. Probably the latter, knowing my luck. How's things?" "Fine. Did you keep the car?" "Yes. It's round the back." Chevril looked at his watch. "Are we going to have time?" "Should do they're very quick. Take over here for a minute, while I get everything set up." He went out into the hall to call Sara. When she answered, she sounded upset. "Toreth? Where are you?" "Somewhere." "I was worried." Daylight dawned. "No need. I'm fine. I've got caught up in something, though. Is there anything I absolutely have to be there for this afternoon?" "Let me look." Normal, unruffled Sara again. "Nothing that I can't postpone or delegate for you." "Good. I need you to do some things for me. First, I need a privileged informant application submitting. Chris Harper his file is already pulled in my name. It needs to go into the system now and, this is the important bit, it's got to be processed before this evening." "That's no problem." "Great. Second thing: connected to that, file an IIP, joint for Chevril and me. Conspiracy by someone to commit something corrupt as vague as you can make it." "Okay." "It's got to include an authorisation for the use of outside agencies for gathering evidence." "Oh."

"Yeah." He could imagine her face as she imagined Tillotson's. "Can you do it?" "How expensive will it be?" "Low thousands if it all goes wrong. Less if it doesn't." "Um . . . is it an emergency?" Toreth considered. If everything came off, it wouldn't matter whether it was or not. But if things fouled up, this was where Internal Investigations would start taking them to pieces. It had to be by the book. "Could be depends what happens, and when." "Fine. I'll say it is, and I'll put it through this afternoon. You're in luck it's Tuesday." For a moment, the comment puzzled him. Then he remembered: Tuesday was Tillotson's long lunch day. Fucking his mistress was the popular assumption, although Toreth found it hard to believe both that Tillotson had one in the first place, and that he'd take time off work for her if he had. "Is that all?" Sara asked. "No. One more thing get someone on my team to start some very discreet enquiries as to where Jon Kemp's got to. Probably his father's place, but I want to be sure. I don't want him brought in, I just need to know where he is. It's more important that no one hears about it than that we find him ask B-C to do it. That's all. I'll be in touch." As he was looking for the second number he needed, someone spoke behind him. "Parainvestigator?" It was Dina, without her daughter or Chris, and looking even more scared than she had at home. "What can I do for you?" Toreth asked. "Chris says . . . that if he helps you, you're going to sort things out with the Department of Population." She put one hand on her stomach. "Is that true?" Chris hadn't kept his mouth shut after all. "Yes." She looked up at him, her eyes searching his face. After a few seconds, she nodded. "Will you put that in writing for me?" Taken aback, he hesitated. "I'm sorry," Dina said, not sounding anything of the sort. "It's not that I don't trust you, but promises like that sometimes get forgotten. If you got taken off the case, I mean, or . . . something like that." "I understand." She had guts, that was for sure. Not many people would face down an I&I uniform, especially when it was plain she understood how much shit she was in. "In writing of course. Now?" "Yes, please. If it wouldn't be too much trouble." "No trouble at all. Go through to the living room, and I'll be there in a few minutes. I've got one more call I have to make." ~~~ Toreth felt confident that if Kemp was going to try something, it would be done tonight, because it was only worth the risk if it happened in time to stop Chris talking to them. Chevril's flat was closer to Chris's place than was I&I, so they both waited there. They took turns monitoring the emergency comms networks for anything that might show Kemp's men had moved. They'd need to get there quickly if they heard anything.

Besides, it gave him an excuse to stay awake. The dream the river lurked in the back of his mind, barely held at bay, waiting for sleep to release it. Sitting in the living room with Elena made a perfect distraction. Without any discussion, Elena seemed to have decided to stay awake with them. He watched her, admiring her hair, as she told him something about her family. He vaguely remembered they didn't like Chev and had cut her off without a cent when she married him, or something like that. They were old corporate money, anyway. Chevril hated them with uncharacteristic passion, and was willing to explain why at stunningly tedious length if Elena wasn't around. Toreth wasn't sure what she thought about her family or anything much. She had a distant, veiled quality: she flirted gently, took everything in with quiet attention, and hid her feelings with a slight smile that, in function if not appearance, reminded him of Warrick. Toreth used to call her Enigma, and that had made her smile too, impenetrable as ever. Sara, less charitably, said she was probably stoned all the time, because you'd have to be to marry Chevril for love. All that said, Elena wasn't entirely impenetrable, at least literally. He'd fucked her, once, but afterwards he'd been able to read her no better than before and her attitude towards him hadn't changed in the slightest. He wondered sometimes if Chevril knew about it. He was always keen enough to keep the two of them apart, but that could easily be on general principles, since A question caught his attention. "Don mentioned that you're seeing someone?" He blinked, surprised both by the enquiry and by the idea that Chevril would have said anything about it to her. "Yeah." She smiled. "And?" "And, well . . . that's it." "How long has it been going on?" "A couple of years, I suppose. Although it's not really 'going on' at all. It's a casual thing." That was, he reflected, sounding increasingly and uncomfortably improbable. "Does the casual thing have a name?" Although her smile hadn't changed, there was a definite note of teasing in her voice. "Warrick. Keir Warrick. He works at the university." "Don said he owned a corporation?" Now that was the kind of thing Chevril would mention. "SimTech. They develop virtual reality tech." "That must be very interesting." Away from Warrick and onto the topic of the sim, he felt more secure. "Yeah, it is. Fantastic, actually. Most mind-blowing thing I've ever seen in my life. It's . . . well, it's hard to explain what it's like. Very, very real, mostly. I could try to get you some time in it, if you'd " "Toreth!" Chevril's voice, from the kitchen. "Yeah?" Chevril appeared in the doorway, grinning. "Fire at Harper's flat. Going up a bloody treat, if you believe the fire service comms. Come on."

~~~ By the time they arrived, the fire service had beaten them to it, and they had the blaze well under control. The flat, however, was gutted, and it would have made an unhealthy place to leave a valuable witness. Toreth tracked down the lead fireman in the team. After taking his name and rank, he said, "I need a favour." The man considered Toreth's uniform, then nodded stiffly. "Sir?" "This flat is part of an investigation in progress. When you get in there, the place will be empty it'd be helpful for me if there was a rumour you found three bodies. Man, woman and child. It's what the neighbours'll be expecting in any case." The man nodded again, looked relieved probably that he wouldn't be spending the night extracting charred corpses from the ruins. Once the flat had cooled sufficiently, they went inside. Even to Toreth's relatively inexperienced eye, it was obvious what had happened a charred hole, halfway up the door, marked the start of the fire. Just inside, Toreth kicked something under the layer of fire suppressant foam. He retrieved it, burning his fingers slightly as he did so. It turned out to be the twisted remains of a small gas canister. "To start the fire?" Chevril suggested. "Or narcotics, if they wanted to make sure of them. They might as well, since they didn't bother making it look like an accident. We ought to know soon enough, anyway." He dropped the canister, and it disappeared under the foam. "Something for forensics to get excited about." Warrick's security company had been as good as their word the discreet box concealed in a cupboard in the kitchen had survived the fire unscathed, and the equipment inside was undamaged. Rather than watch the recording there, he took everything with him. No point in giving Kemp's men a chance to wonder what had taken them so long in the flat. Back at Chevril's flat, they woke Chris and gave him the bad news. He was predictably upset but Toreth lacked the time or patience to care. "The division will pay for the damage in the resettlement. Put in as big a claim as you like, I'll sign it. Now watch the fucking recording." It took only a few seconds of viewing before Chris nodded. "That's him. Almond." All he needed, and enough for tonight, or what was left of it. A glance at his watch showed it to be after three in the morning. Rather than go home, Toreth went to I&I. He prepared warrants, firmed up the IIP so that Tillotson wouldn't quibble over it too much, and left a list of things for Sara to do in the morning. Eventually, he fell asleep at his desk, as dawn started to lighten the courtyard outside his window.

Chapter Five
If Toreth had a nightmare then he was too exhausted to remember it, or for it to wake him up. It was Sara who woke him, at ten o'clock, with a cup of coffee and a plate of bacon sandwiches. When he sat up, his back and shoulders screamed protest at the uncomfortable night. "Anything new?" he asked, wishing for painkillers but settling for caffeine. "Chevril told me what's going on," she said reproachfully. "I didn't want to make it at all official until I had a link in to Kemp." Not much of an excuse, he reflected, since he'd told her any number of highly unofficial things in the past. She didn't comment on it. Instead she broke off a crisped piece of meat from the edge of a sandwich and nibbled it. "Do you think you're going to get him?" she asked. He blinked at her blearily, surprised by the question. Sara was a superb admin, but she rarely displayed any interest in the outcome of particular cases. No reason why she should. Of course, this was more personal than usual. "I hope so. Nowhere near enough evidence yet, but if Almond can give us names . . . maybe. Probably, even." She smiled. "Good. No more important corporate father." Ah. "What about Jon Kemp? Any sign of him?" "Not yet." She licked her thumb and finger carefully. "Toreth, I don't want to be stupid about this, but if he " "I'm not bringing him in. I want to know where he is, that's all. Nothing's going to come out." "Yes, of course. I'm sorry." "Are you? Consider yourself spanked." He put the coffee down and picked up a sandwich doing everything one-handed was growing tiresome. "Where are we up to with Almond?" "Um . . . the ident system coughed up a full name Jack Almond. I've pulled his security file for you. Chevril's sent some of his team out looking for him says he's got a few spare he can use without having to put a request in to Tillotson for any from the pool. There's an address in the system, but Sedanioni called in to say that it's empty, and looks to have been that way for a while. She's talking to the neighbours, just in case, and then starting on a list of places Harper suggested." "Great." Toreth swapped back to coffee and considered options. Not a lot he could do until Almond was found, except . . . "Call Warrick and ask him to meet me at my flat, if he can. If not, let me know. I'm going there now, anyway I need a shower." Not wanting to waste time, he took a taxi home, although the sun was shining again and the day promised to be beautiful. Maybe it was a good omen for things to come. ~~~ Back in the flat, the first thing Toreth did was find the painkillers. Then, after showering and changing, he tidied up a little. Normally he didn't bother but it seemed like the least he could do, since he was about to ask Warrick for a rather more significant favour than finding Jon Kemp's address. By the time Warrick arrived, the place looked almost respectable; judging by his raised eyebrows, he clearly noticed. But after sniffing the air, his only comment was, "Coffee?"

"Yeah the nice stuff you left behind. What do you think of the new door?" "Very impressive." "I'm fucked if I ever forget the code. The old one opened if you kicked the right place. Have you got access?" Warrick shook his head, smiling. "I only sent them round to fit it. I didn't ask them for the code." Of course, he wouldn't have, but the compulsion to check had been . . . compulsive. To his relief, Toreth could remember the instructions given by the security consultant, so didn't embarrass himself by setting off the alarm while trying to open the authorisation program. Leaving Warrick to introduce himself to the system, Toreth went to fetch the coffee. He'd already washed the mugs, to save himself from Warrick's usual pained expression. Toreth poured some milk into a mismatched jug that had come with the flat, and even found a packet of biscuits at the back of a cupboard. He didn't remember buying them, but they seemed edible enough so he piled a handful on a plate and set them on the coffee table. He surveyed the results. Pretty hospitable, if he did say so himself. Once they were settled on the sofa, Warrick asked, "Well?" "It's Kemp. Gil Kemp. I went looking for a bit of leverage, something to keep him at bay, and I found something a lot better than that. He's running an operation to bypass population control laws, probably on a large scale." He enjoyed surprising Warrick it happened so rarely. Warrick stared at him, mug halfway to his mouth, before he blinked and put the mug down on the table. "Kemp? Are you sure?" "Yes." "Why on Earth would he?" "Money, is my guess. At least the sample of one I have so far is being squeezed for everything he can afford. If it's idealism, it's very lucrative." "Good God." Warrick narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "I suppose . . . it might make a certain amount of sense." "Oh?" "Yes. I've, ah, been doing some checking into his finances myself. Like you, I considered the desirability of leverage. I have the SimTech legal department hunting for loopholes in the sponsorship contract, to shut down our deal with his corporation. I thought they might need some help they're very good, but distressingly honest, for lawyers." Toreth frowned. "Why?" "Probably something to do with our hiring policies. I ought to speak to Personnel." Warrick's face didn't show even a flicker of the evasion the answer certainly was. "Not that why are you cancelling the sponsorship?" Warrick picked up his mug again, leaned back on the sofa, and took a sip of coffee. "After due consideration, I decided to take what happened to you personally. I don't appreciate having my . . . having you assaulted and threatened. It annoyed me. SimTech doesn't need his money or any money that badly." Warrick's lawyers weren't the only ones whose honesty was disturbing. Toreth decided to drop it, and also not to mention that he'd asked ordered Warrick to leave Kemp alone.

"So what did you find out?" Toreth asked. "Primarily that there is something of a repetition of history in progress. Gil Kemp fell out with his own father, James Kemp. It was a long time ago now, but the conclusion was that they parted company extremely acrimoniously, and he went to start training as a medic." "Jesus. Some fucking bedside manner he'd have." Warrick nodded. "Quite. However, he never qualified. In some way no one I spoke to was clear about, he became involved in the running of a small private hospital. The enterprise was extremely successful and the hospital expanded. That became the foundation of the current Kemp Incorporated. He and his father were never reconciled, but I understand that by the time Kemp senior died, Gil Kemp had forced him to surrender control of several of his companies and the rest was left to him in the will." Toreth raised his eyebrows. "How old was James Kemp when he died?" "Probably not old enough. Lots of talk of corporate sabotage at the time, or so I was told, but no one was ever charged." Warrick half smiled. "You know how it goes. I doubt anyone pressed the investigation James Kemp was, by all accounts, as charming as his son and grandson. But if you want to suggest that Gil Kemp was involved, I'd advise very good lawyers before you even let the thought cross your mind." "Happy fucking family. So you think the illegal conception money might have been the basis of it all?" "It's more than possible. What have you found out about it?" Toreth outlined the progress of the investigation so far. He finished with a problem. "I can't find Jon Kemp, though, which is good and bad. It'd be helpful if he'd confirm what I got from Harper, but this whole thing could get complicated if my visit to his flat comes out. If we find enough evidence to move on Kemp, we won't need Jonny-boy, anyway." "Ah, now there I can help. He's in a high-level private re-education centre. Booked in first thing on Monday morning." It was Toreth's turn to stare. "A what?" "Well, it's not how they describe themselves in the brochure, but that's what they are. Expensive, exclusive, but they're still going to work his mind over so thoroughly that by the time they've finished he probably won't even remember who you are, never mind what he did to you. Or to anyone else." "So Kemp's written him off?" "So it would seem. You must've been the last straw. Kemp's probably hoping to make sure he doesn't cause any more embarrassment in the future." Or any more than he would cause by merely existing. Kemp's corporation would never accept his son as a successor now, not after a visit to any kind of re-education centre, however carefully euphemised. "How did you find out? Have you got his personal comm?" Warrick shook his head, slightly sheepish. "Nothing so impressive, I'm afraid. I heard it at a business lunch yesterday, from one of the other sponsors. As you can imagine, it's news that's making the rounds in bastard corporate wanker circles." It dawned on Toreth that Warrick was never going to let that comment go. Ignoring him seemed like the only hope of nipping it in the bud. "Right, well, that makes it easier. Concentrate on Kemp.

Have you got his security file?" "He has expensive friends. It's the blandest piece of rubbish I've seen since I read Marcus Toth's." "Christ, I'd forgotten all about that." Toreth laughed. "Seems like years ago." Warrick grinned in response. "It was. But I remember Marcus very well. However, the point is that it's probably safe to assume the old file held some interesting tidbits, if he went to so much trouble to have it hidden. There may be copies in the system somewhere, although you are no doubt better placed than I to find them." "Once we're moving in on Kemp, I'll get Sara onto it I don't want him to hear that we're coming. If you happened to come across a copy . . . " Warrick nodded. "Anything else?" "The second problem is money. If he's still running the scheme there have to be fucking huge sums of euros washing around. Whether they go into Kemp Incorporated or straight to him, there must be a trail somewhere. Once he's arrested I can get Corporate Fraud digging, but it would help if I could tell them where to look. He'll shut everything down fast, if he gets half a chance." "As I said, I've been looking into his finances, so that will give me somewhere to start. I can't promise anything, but I'll do my best." "Thanks." Warrick's instant, unquestioning cooperation was a wonderful relief after the tiring politics of trying to get things done at I&I. "I wouldn't ask if " "I'm happy to help. If I wasn't, I would say so." "Just be careful." Warrick smiled again. "Do you know, that's exactly what Dilly said once she'd given up all hope of making me promise not to do anything stupid." Well, Dillian wouldn't be very happy if she ever found out about this. Breakfast in Warrick's flat seemed like weeks ago now, rather than . . . how many days? Only three, which was still far too fucking long. He put his drink down. "Let's think about it later." Warrick caught the change in mood at once. "Don't you need me to get started on Kemp's files?" "Yes, but half an hour won't make any difference." On the way into the bedroom, Toreth paused, looking at the chains on the wall. He hadn't taken them down because . . . because he would have known why he was doing it. While he hesitated, Warrick brushed past him and went over to them. Wrapping the chains round his hands he let them take his weight, hanging still, head bowed. Toreth watched him, and although he didn't want to play that game right now, his pulse picked up speed. An automatic response to the curved back and strained breathing caught him up, rubbing away the pain-filled hours in handcuffs. The recent memories had a light hold, compared to the months no, years of enjoying this. Watching Warrick. Wanting him. Wanting him so fucking much, sometimes it With a sigh, Warrick stood up and crossed the room again, examining the pressure marks from the links imprinted on his palms. When he looked up, his eyes were bright. "Beautiful," he said after a moment. Toreth wasn't sure whether he meant the chains, the marks, or, rather less plausibly, himself. Before he could ask, Warrick smiled and said, "But not today."

"You don't have to . . . " What? Worry about it? Worry about me? Consider my fucking feelings? Warrick shook his head. "That's not it. I'm thinking about too many other things. Thinking kills it. Some other time." Was there anything Kemp hadn't managed to spoil? Glittering arrest prospect or not, right now he felt tired of the whole bloody mess. "Christ. How did this all turn into such a fuckup?" "Forget it. We'll fix it." Brisk and dismissive, and this time Toreth didn't couldn't protest the plural. "Now, are we going to stand here all morning, or are you going to fuck me?" Put like that, it wasn't a difficult choice. ~~~ Back at I&I, there was no news, so Toreth dealt with the rest of his cases things which had piled up over the last couple of days. It was afternoon by the time Sedanioni finally called in to say that they had found Jack Almond. While she brought him in, Toreth considered whether to ask Justice for a priority waiver. Better not to waste the time. To start with, he'd see what he could get from a level one. As far as Almond was concerned, Chris and his family were dead, and as long as Toreth didn't actually lie to confirm that the misapprehension would be very useful indeed. In the interrogation room, Almond watched the recording from Chris's flat, and Toreth watched him. As time went on, the confidence drained out of Almond, leaving him pale and sweating. The footage from inside showed the method of attack clearly a hole through the door, the gas canister falling into the hall, hissing, then a long pause before the liquid splashed in after it. It was beautifully complimented by the camera view in the hallway, where Almond's face was eminently clear for most of the time, and he was obviously the one giving the orders. As the flames licked up, and the safety systems failed to engage, Toreth froze the picture on the screen. "The Justice Sentencing System takes a dim view of people gassing flats they know contain seven-year-old kids and then pouring flammables in afterwards. It looks very, very premeditated." "I didn't mean to kill them," Almond said mechanically. "It was supposed to be a warning." Toreth laughed. "Really? So who was going to get them out of bed? Who was going to wake them up?" He leaned across the desk. "Who disabled the fucking fire suppressant system?" The man shook his head. "Oh, wait, no need for you to tell me. I have something here about that, too." The pictures from the security station camera tap were not quite as clear, but Almond's face was visible for several seconds, as was which system he was tampering with. "Lucky we caught that someone seems to have wiped the official security logs. We talked to the guard, but he'd been called away to a false alarm in one of the flats. Didn't you trust him enough to pay him off? Can't say I blame you, because he was bloody useless when we spoke to him." "I didn't . . . " Almond sighed. "All right. What do you want?" "Much better. I want to know where the orders came from." Almond's eyes flicked back to the tableau of flame, but he didn't say anything. "With the evidence I've got, I can apply for a damage waiver without any problem. You will tell me, in the end. You know that you know what's going to happen. Do we really have to go through it?"

Toreth held his breath, waiting for the reply. Arson without bodies wouldn't get him the kind of waiver he needed to break Almond quickly, and every delay increased the risk of Kemp getting away. Finally, Almond nodded. "Gil Kemp sent us." He looked up, the decision to surrender restoring some of his composure. "Before I say anything else, I want protection. I want a guarantee of a light sentence. And I want it all in writing and signed by my Justice rep." "It's yours." ~~~ It took him an hour to get the authorisation through. Back in the interrogation room, he took Almond quickly over the details of his mission to Chris's flat. Nothing much, and it was all Almond's word against Kemp's worthless, really. In any case, it was only a lead-in for his real interest. Something to hold over Almond if he changed his mind. "And now I want to know about Gil Kemp's involvement with the laundering of illegal conceptions." It was one of the moments of his job that Toreth really enjoyed something to look back on in his retirement. Almond stared at him, his mouth open, pure disbelief suffusing his face. Then he rallied and said, "I don't know anything about " "Shut up. Check the wording on your precious guarantee. You answer any questions I have, to the best of your ability, or the whole thing is void. I know you're involved." He smiled. "I have a witness." "You " He stared again, then said, "Harper isn't dead?" "Very much alive and, like you, he's realised that his only fucking chance is to come very clean indeed. Neither of you means anything to me. If this doesn't turn into a serious case, I'm going to throw both of you to Justice, and for all I care they can bury you deep. You know what kind of sentences they hand down for conspiracy to evade population control laws. Kemp won't do anything for you, not once he hears how you tried to sell him out. I'm offering you the same deal I gave Harper immunity and privileged informant status." If Almond had seemed cooperative before, it was nothing compared to his eagerness to help now. "What do you want to know?" "I need names. As high up as you know, and most importantly I want people who can confirm that Kemp's involved. People who've spoken to him about it, who've told him how things are going. People who've taken orders from him." "The people I deal with are Doctor Corella Foley she runs the hospital end of things and Rajvir Rungren. He works for the DoP. No one else Kemp likes to keep everyone separate. They'll be able to give you more." "Has Kemp ever spoken to them about the scam, in person? Think about that very carefully." Almond gave it at least the appearance of thought, before he nodded. "Do you introduce the clients to the medics personally?" He shook his head. "I don't meet any of them that's all handled by agents who don't know my name or Mr Kemp's." "So why Harper?" "Mr Kemp asked me to deal with him." Because he already knew Kemp was involved, so it was safer to keep him away from the agents. Toreth wondered why they hadn't just killed Chris he bet the same thought had crossed Almond's

mind. "Have you got any details of clients, though?" Toreth asked. "Names and addresses?" He nodded. "Some of them people who still owe money. I don't know about the old names, but it's still hundreds of arrangements." "What about the money?" Almond shook his head. "It goes into a few accounts, and that's the last I see of it." Not much, but something at least it might help Warrick with his attempts to track the profits. "Give me the numbers." That secured, he went outside and called Parsons in to finish getting the information from Almond. The names of the rest of Kemp's breeding customers would be helpful for the case, but not vital, not when there was bigger game in prospect now. Justice could sweep up the debris later, and with hundreds of names, at least, the DoP medical division would be putting in for a lot of overtime. ~~~ With Almond's enthusiastic confession as evidence, Justice were disconcertingly cooperative about the arrest warrants and damage waivers. Although Toreth had kept Kemp's name out of the picture so far, someone over there had clearly scented a big case in the pipeline. He wondered if they would be so keen once they realised exactly how high the stakes were. The best thing about ostensibly respectable criminals was that it was easy to find them. By seven o'clock that evening, Chevril had brought in both Foley and Rungren. Toreth assessed their catch on the holding cell monitors. Both had come without making too much of a fuss, so if they worked quickly, they could get the information they needed before the arrests became common knowledge. These two could give him Kemp they had the status to be believed, and probably the documentary evidence to prove it. There would be no deals here, though. They were both major players in the scam, and they would go down with Kemp. He flipped Chevril for the prisoners and lost, so he ended up with Rungren. When they'd been brought in, Foley had been all but confessing on the spot, and Chev always preferred to take the easy route. As it was, Toreth had barely finished explaining the damage waiver to his prisoner when Chevril called him out to say that Foley had handed over Kemp's name, without any prompting, along with a list of other names on the medical end of the operation. "Get their files, and run the pictures past Harper, see if he can give us a hit on the medics he dealt with," Toreth said to Chevril. "That'll be enough to push the waivers up a level or two." Chevril didn't look much happier. "And what about Kemp?" "Let me worry about him." "I wish I could." Chevril was fretting over nothing, Toreth thought as he walked down the corridor to the assigned interrogation room. One more independent confirming statement and they could pull Kemp in, and there would be nothing his lawyers could do to stop them, no matter how expensive. With any luck, Rungren wouldn't prove much harder to break than Foley. ~~~ After two hours, Toreth stopped to consider his approach. The prisoner sat in the interrogation chair, only a short step from incoherence, his dark head hanging forwards, and still he wouldn't give

up the names. Toreth had a very good instinct for this sort of thing, and he knew it would take an inconveniently long time to break this one. Rungren knew full well the consequences of confessing and like many of the inexperienced prisoners that passed through I&I, he still held on to the delusion that not talking was a serious option. If Kemp had time to wipe out all his connections to the operation before they could issue an arrest warrant or worse, had time to run it would be infuriating. With the rest of the organisation there for the taking, he and Chev would still have a case, and a good one, but for once that wasn't what Toreth wanted. He wanted the bastard to feel the gun against his back and know there was no way out. To know this was the end. Dismissing the thought, Toreth decided to move on to a different drug family. He knew he was pushing too hard, because he desperately needed the result, but it was worth the small risk. The needle slipped easily into an already impressively punctured vein. As Toreth dropped the needle into the clinical recycling, he heard a choking gasp. A quick glance confirmed his worst fears. "Oh, fuck he's fitting." Toreth hit the medical comm frequency. "Team to D503. Priority." Then he automatically went into the emergency procedures, training carrying him past the brief panic. The guards helped him get the convulsing body onto the gurney. The three of them held Rungren down and by the time the medical team arrived to take charge, the fits had nearly stopped. As the medics began to work, Toreth sat down at the table, feeling more than a little shaky, his wrist aching fiercely from the effort to restrain Rungren. This wasn't the kind of prisoner whose loss could be chalked up to bad luck and let go with a quick investigation by another senior. Section-head-level Administration employees didn't die without a good reason, and Internal Investigations could come down on him like a tonne of bricks. There would be a full-blown enquiry and the DoP would push it every step of the way. Worse, if Rungren died without confirming his guilt, the link into the DoP would be cut off. There'd been nothing in the prisoner's medical file to suggest the possibility of an adverse reaction to a perfectly ordinary drug. Damn Central Medical Services and their fucking awful record keeping, but he'd be the one who'd get the blame. One of the medics approached and Toreth looked up with his best professional face firmly in place. "Well?" The man shook his head. "Fifty-fifty is the best I can give you, and I doubt he'll be talking if he does pull through." Damn, damn and double damn. "Is he conscious?" he asked, hoping desperately. "For now. Not for very long." The medic's eyes narrowed. "If we don't take him down soon, he'll die for sure." "I'll take responsibility." Toreth moved over to the table and started selecting more drugs. The man followed him over. "And he'll die a hell of a lot faster if you put that shit into him." "I'll take responsibility," Toreth repeated clearly. "That'll be on record. Now get out and let me work." "All right. It's your funeral." The medics cleared the room, keen to disassociate themselves from

the looming failure. After a minute or two, the mix of stimulants and more exotic drugs did their work, and Rungren focused weakly on his face. "Listen to me." Toreth spoke quietly. "Can you hear me? You're dying." His eyes widened. Yes, he could hear. "You don't want to die, I know. But if you won't help me, there's no point my doing anything for you. Give me the names, and I'll get help for you." He shook his head, but Toreth could taste the fear coming from the prisoner in waves. If he only had time, he'd give it up. "We've already got names from someone else in the scam. All I need from you is confirmation of the people you took orders from and who else in the department knew about it. It's much too late for silence to do you any good." He spared a glance for the monitors around the gurney. Fuck, this was cutting things fine. "Give me the names." He touched the prisoner's hand lightly, adding the emphasis of physical contact to his words. "Give me the names and you can live." Finally, confused and alone and so very afraid, Rungren did. Kemp was the first one. More prompting persuaded him to go through the list a second time, omitting a few of the names and giving a few more. A third run through was all Toreth got before the monitors flatlined, but that matched well with the first two. Toreth sat down in the chair again, feeling almost as shaky as before. Then he smiled. Oh, yes. Success. Fucking success. The prisoner's death meant less now unfortunate, and there'd be an enquiry, but the DoP would bury it now the corruption there was confirmed. They'd be eager to help and get it all over with as quickly as possible. Without a glance at the motionless body he had to thank for this happy prospect, Toreth went off, whistling, to submit a warrant for Kemp's arrest. ~~~ Fifteen minutes later, he was still in Tillotson's office, and no longer feeling like whistling. "I should have been kept informed." Tillotson was twitching with anger, intensifying his already startling resemblance to a ferret. "I'm sorry. There wasn't time." "Don't give me that. You have a duty to inform me of a new investigation in progress." "The report was submitted." Toreth tried for innocent surprise. "On Tuesday, I think." Tillotson looked down at his screen for a moment. "Yes . . . well. For a suspect as important and politically sensitive as Gil Kemp, I should have been informed in person." 'Memo me', as Sara would say. "I'm very sorry, sir I've been busy. And now I need that warrant." "No." "I've got three independent interrogations giving Kemp's name. That's enough." "One of which is from a senior and now extremely dead DoP official." Tillotson's nose twitched again.

"All inside the waiver. The drug reaction wasn't my fault. The interrogations are signed off and ready to submit to Justice." "It's not good enough. Sudden accusations out of thin air. You're trying to tell me that Gil Kemp has been at the centre of this conspiracy for years decades and no one has noticed before now?" Toreth struggled for patience. "We have the names of a network of people, medical and DoP. It all ties in." "Then pull them in and question them. Show me some more evidence." "If we do that, Kemp will have time to cut loose. By tomorrow morning, he'll have found out about the arrests we've made so far, if he hasn't already. He could even try to run for it. If he gets out of the Administration, we'll never bring him back, not with the kind of protection he'll be able to buy." Tillotson leaned back in his chair. "Well, from the perspective of enforcing the law, does that really matter?" When was the last time you gave a fuck about that? "Sir?" "If Kemp does evade prosecution, it won't make that much difference to the outcome for us. The operation will be destroyed, we'll have the rest of those involved." All without running the risk of arresting someone with powerful friends. "Except that you can bet there'll be no money to be found when Corporate Fraud finally start digging. The section won't get its cut of confiscated funds." For a moment, he thought he'd got Tillotson. The visible struggle between fear and budgetary greed made an interesting spectacle. Eventually, though, the section head said, "No. You're reading too much into what you have. Show me something to back up the size of the operation, or the timescale you're suggesting, and I'll consider it." Someone knocked on the door, loudly enough to make the point that the matter was urgent. "Yes?" Tillotson called irritably. Sara entered immediately, clutching a hand screen. Toreth tried to read her expression and failed. She had her admin mask firmly in place, which meant the news was either very good, or very bad indeed. "What do you want?" Tillotson asked. "I'm terribly sorry to interrupt, sir." She turned to Toreth. "Para, I have the file you asked me to find and I thought you'd want to see it now." Toreth stared at her blankly. Taking a step sideways, so that he blocked Tillotson's view of her, Sara mouthed, "Kemp's file. From Warrick." Thank fuck. He took the screen and scanned it quickly she'd left it set to the relevant page. Despite the urgency, he read it three times, to make quite sure, then passed it to Tillotson. "There you are there's the history you wanted. Kemp was questioned six times over suspected illegal births at the hospitals he ran, but never with enough evidence to interrogate." "I see . . . " Tillotson read the entries, clearly hoping for a reason to disregard them. "The most recent was thirty years ago." "History's in the past. That's one of its defining features." Tillotson looked up sharply. "Why is there nothing since?" "Because after that he got rich enough to stop the skeletons rattling. If there were any suspicions,

I expect that people were too gutless to follow them up." That earned him another blistering glare, which he ignored. "Will you authorise the warrant, sir?" Tillotson looked down at the file again, then nodded. "You'd better be right about it, that's all. If it's a setup, if it's corporate dirty tricks and we've been pushed into carrying out someone's private vendetta for them, we're going to end up with a lot of explaining to do. No I'll be doing the explaining. You'll be unemployed, if you're lucky." ~~~ Before Toreth set off for Kemp's house, he went outside the I&I building and called Warrick on his personal comm. "Thanks for the file. You saved my fucking neck." "My pleasure. I was filling in time while I did the other searches. It's harder to lose a file than people think. Archives are wonderful things." "Do you have anything for the other thing?" "A little. Starting from the accounts you gave me, the trail looks to stop with . . . the man in question personally, not his corporation. Something else that you'll like there may well be other streams of euros flowing into the same system, from elsewhere in the Administration. All apparently originating in places where the corporation has interests in medical centres." All his New Years and birthdays come at once. "Are you sure?" "Some of it's guesswork. I have beginnings and an end, but I can't yet confirm some of the steps in middle. Give me a little more time, and I will." "No, that's good enough." Perfect, in fact. "Send it all to Sara. It'll be logged as anonymous information and passed on to Corporate Fraud. They'll do all the confirming necessary. And " "Yes?" How to make sure Warrick knew this was serious? "Stop looking right now. I mean it. However clever you think you can be, I don't want to risk you . . . it could blow the whole case if you get caught. Stop looking, and make damn sure Corporate Fraud aren't going to find any trace of you in there." "Of course. I understand." Toreth hoped that he did. ~~~ For once in his life, Toreth lost a bet with himself over Justice bureaucracy. They called Tillotson back three times to confirm that he really wanted to arrest Gil Kemp that Gil Kemp, as in Kemp Incorporated? but after that they processed the warrant and sent it back without another murmur. Tillotson brought it along to him in person, coming into his office and glancing round as though he'd always been vaguely curious as to how the peasents lived. The last time Toreth could remember him being there was during the Selman case. "Here you are." Tillotson transferred the warrant to Toreth's hand screen, then stood looking at the screen for a moment before he shook his head. "I'm trusting you over this, Toreth, so don't disappoint me. I pulled a lot of strings to get it done quickly. If you go down over it, I go with you." Then he left, before Toreth could think of anything to say. Following Tillotson out of the office, Toreth found Sara staring after the section head. "What the hell was he doing here?" she asked.

"Wishing me luck." She looked round. "You mean . . . ?" "Yes. It's on. Call Chev and tell him to get moving." ~~~ Chevril took most of their temporarily joint investigation teams to start making arrests of names from the hospital and the DoP. Toreth didn't care about them tomorrow he would, but just now only Kemp mattered. By the time Toreth was ready to go, there were fifteen people in the group. Most were systems techs, there to confiscate computer equipment in the house and start the search for evidence. He also took along a couple of investigators and four I&I security guards, more for the look of the thing than because he seriously expected any trouble. He included a rep from Justice, because he wanted to make very sure that things went smoothly and there were no loopholes in the arrest for Kemp to squirm through later. The rep who arrived in response to his request was so young that Toreth wondered if she had in fact finished her training. She introduced herself as Marielle Chin. A sacrificial lamb, he decided, in case the arrest went wrong once Justice realised the case was good, she'd be replaced by someone more senior, to take the kudos. Toreth didn't bother to tell her that let her have her moment. At least she was keen to help, and sufficiently overawed by the prospect of the big-name arrest that she wouldn't be a nuisance. The guards at the gate of Kemp's mansion actually argued with them on the way in. They'd probably never had I&I there before, or even thought it would be possible. Once they had been convinced, Toreth took one along with him, to point the way to Kemp's room. Inside the building, Toreth barely noticed the decor, although he could see Chin beside him, staring, open-mouthed. Obviously, she hadn't been along on many high-level corporate arrests. Not that there were that many. Corporate fucking privilege. Sometimes he could understand why the resisters whined about it so much. Kemp was still asleep when they knocked on his bedroom door. When he opened it and saw Toreth, his first reaction was blank amazement. Then his face flushed with anger. "What do you want?" That was something Toreth hadn't thought of, or rather had forgotten. If Kemp said anything about their past history, now, in front of the Justice rep, it could be very awkward indeed. Even a complete neophyte would notice some things. He moved Chin aside and offered the electronic copy of the warrant to Kemp Toreth's name was at the top of the screen, which covered at least one potential danger. Kemp took it and glanced at it, and the flush deepened. "Arrested. Para-investigator Toreth, whatever you " "Read the warrant in full, please." Kemp glanced at the group, then did as he was told. Toreth could tell when the man reached the initial charges, because he went quite still. He glanced up at Toreth once, murder in his eyes, then returned to the screen. He read it through once, then again more slowly. Finally he said, "I shall need to dress." Tempting as it was to drag him out of the house in his pyjamas, there were professional considerations. Everything needed to be very much by the book. Toreth sent a guard into the bedroom

with Kemp, to make sure he didn't use the comm, and went to wait in the hall. By the time Kemp came downstairs, immaculately dressed, he had regained some of his composure, although he still looked angry. Stopping at the foot of the sweeping staircase he beckoned to Toreth, separating him out from the rest of the group. When Toreth came over, Kemp asked, "What do you want?" Meaning, what do I need to offer to make you go away? "I explained that already. You are under arrest. You're welcome to inspect the authorised copy of the warrant again, if you wish." The fury returned to Kemp's face. "You're going to be very sorry you did this." Toreth carried on as if he hadn't spoken. "The charges will be explained fully once you have been processed into custody. Broadly, you will answer questions on " "I don't have to talk to you about anything," Kemp said. The absolute confidence in his voice was breathtaking, and strongly reminiscent of Jonny. Toreth smiled, very slightly. "I'm afraid that you do. And you will, I can promise you that. Eventually." Kemp started another protest, but it died on his lips as the full meaning of Toreth's words sank in. Like father, like son, the arrogance fled and his face paled to a sickly grey a colour not so very far from that of tidal mud. On the third try, Kemp managed to speak. "I demand to speak to my lawyers." Too, too perfect. "You can ask your Justice rep over there to arrange it, in the morning. Representative Chin. I'm sure she will be delighted to help." Toreth turned to the watching guards. "Cuff him, take him to the car." Toreth stepped back and looked on impassively, somehow keeping a grip on the huge fucking grin he could feel struggling to escape. Deplorably unprofessional as it was, he couldn't help hoping that Kemp would resist in interrogation. For a long, long time. ~~~ It was nearly three in the morning again by the time they finished the paperwork. With all the forms submitted and the prisoners locked down, the frantic pace of the last couple of days had finally come to an end. It was a relief and anticlimax in one. Now it was simply a question of extracting confessions and passing the prisoners on to Justice. Then sitting back to enjoy the plaudits while Corporate Fraud did the hard work of chasing euros across Europe. With success secured, Chevril seemed to have finally decided that they'd done the right thing, and had developed a frankly unnerving cheerfulness. Their teams were tired, but equally happy. There were even unconfirmed rumours that Tillotson had been seen down in interrogation, gathering reflected glory. Toreth had his doubts, but he supposed it was possible. If Chevril had stopped complaining, he'd believe anything. As the others dispersed, Toreth found himself at a sudden loose end. Nothing to do until the morning, which meant . . . home and sleep. Sara was the last to leave, hovering in the doorway for an unnecessarily protracted goodbye. She had quite obviously been worrying about him. That annoyed him, but not as much as the fact that she must have been able to tell that something was wrong. He didn't want to go home. Tired as he was, he didn't want to sleep. But there was no need, nor excuse, to do anything else. He made it as far as the shiny new door to his flat before he changed his mind. Without letting

himself think it through, he caught a taxi to Warrick's. Outside, he hesitated over the comm. There was no reason, this time, to wake Warrick up at such an unsociable hour. It would be far more considerate simply to let himself in and go to sleep. Inside, without switching on the light, he reset the security by touch and went down the darkened hall to the bedroom. As quietly as he could, he stripped and slipped into bed beside Warrick. By the time he'd settled down, the room was still silent except for Warrick's breathing and Toreth found himself wondering whether he really wanted him not to wake up. It had to be better, surely, for Warrick to realise he was here now, than for him to find out when Toreth woke him up in a couple of hours with his stupid, pathetic, bloody dream and Warrick rolled over, bumped into him, and muttered something unintelligible. After a few seconds he lifted his head and said, "Toreth?" "Good guess." "Mm. Everything went all right?" "Fine. I'll tell you about it in the morning." "Oh, good." He lay down again, his cheek against Toreth's shoulder, and sighed. "I'll look forward to it." That seemed to be that. It was less than half a minute before Warrick's breathing slowed back into sleep. Toreth wondered if Warrick would even remember the conversation in the morning. It didn't matter he felt better, now that his presence had registered. There was only the prospect of the nightmares to come to keep him awake. Somehow, now he was here, Toreth found that he didn't care. He was still vaguely wondering about that when he slipped into a dreamless sleep.

Wait For It
Day One Day Two Day Six Day Seven

Day One
Toreth licked his way down Warrick's side, down to his hip, then back up, keeping half an eye on the sliver of sunlight creeping across the wall. When it touched the head of the bed, it would be time to get up and go to the gym. Their Saturday morning routine. They'd missed the usual Friday night bondage fuck, because Warrick had been at some incredibly important SimTech dinner meeting. Toreth had spent the evening reading pharmaceutical journals he'd been putting off for weeks, and enjoying the idea of Warrick at a table full of clients. Warrick trying to concentrate on business, but occasionally distracted by the idea of him. Warrick smart and formal and in absolute control versus Warrick kneeling in chains, naked and flawlessly submissive. Warrick moaned and grabbed Toreth's hair, pushing his mouth towards his nipple. Toreth licked, teasing, and grinned. He pressed the flat of his hand on Warrick's cock, feeling the hardness, judging the flex of his hips and the startled, urgent intake of breath above him. Fridays were still their main night, even though they played on other nights, too. For one thing, it allowed the bruises time to calm down by Monday. Warrick had a definite edge right now an eagerness that he wouldn't usually have on a Saturday. Probably meant Warrick had come home from the dinner and spent a while thinking about him, but not done anything about it. Toreth read prisoners in interrogation, he read casual fucks, but it felt odd, if he stopped to think about it, that he knew Warrick's reactions in bed so well he could tell whether or not he'd had a wank the night before. He didn't give it much thought now, because the idea triggered another one. Toreth shook his head free of Warrick's hand, then put his own hand on Warrick's chest, pressing until Warrick lay still. "Stay there," Toreth said. "I'll be back." He twisted around, finding the bedside table and scrabbling through the cupboard, hunting by touch. Plastic and glass rattled, and then a rain of soft thumps signalled the departure of most of the contents onto the floor. "Fuck." Toreth rolled over and peered over the edge of the bed, wondering if anything had spilled on the pale carpet. Bottles everywhere, fortunately closed, but none were the one he wanted. He edged further over, then further still, feeling the blood rush to his head. Finally he found what he wanted unscented massage oil, which had rolled under the bed. When he hauled himself back up, Warrick was grinning broadly. "Nice view," he said. Toreth went to kneel astride Warrick's thighs. "Glad you enjoyed it. See what you think of this." He dribbled oil over Warrick's cock and his own, then took Warrick's hands and oiled them, too. Then he looked up and lost track of the plan, distracted by Warrick's dark eyes. Warrick was watching him with a combination of curiosity and hungry excitement that temporarily cleared Toreth's mind of all plans. Finally, he focused on Warrick's parted lips, and that at least prompted movement. He tightened the lid on the oil, then leaned down, took his weight on his elbows and kissed Warrick. Then he kept kissing him until he realised that not only had he forgotten the plan, he'd forgotten to breathe as well.

He lifted his head, feeling a little dizzy. Warrick shifted below him, rubbing rhythmically, prompting a reflex response in Toreth's hips. "Mmh," Warrick said. "So far, I like it." "What? Oh, yeah. I mean, no, that's not it." He lifted his hips a little and guided one of Warrick's hands down. "Put your hands round both fuck yes." All his senses focused down to the individual prints of Warrick's fingers, to the hard length of Warrick's cock held tight against his own. Quick learner, he thought vaguely as he dipped down for another kiss. Then Warrick stroked his hands down around their cocks and they thrust up together, simultaneously breaking the kiss to gasp for air. "Mmh," Warrick said. "Do you think . . . more oil?" It wasn't necessary, but it certainly wouldn't hurt. "Okay." The cool flood of oil ended the conversation for a good fifteen minutes a very good fifteen minutes. Then Warrick, who had been breathing hard but otherwise keeping unusually quiet, suddenly yelped, his hands tightening round them. Toreth felt the rush of warmth as he came, gasping, eyes wide. Warrick relaxed and his hands stilled, and Toreth managed to hold still, too. "Oh," Warrick said, sounding surprised. When Toreth, unable to help himself, thrust again, Warrick hissed and added, "Stop a moment. Too sensitive." "Do something." Toreth didn't really like sounding that desperate but he couldn't help it. "Sooner the better." "Kiss me," Warrick said, and as Toreth did he felt Warrick change his grip, releasing his own cock and wrapping his hands tightly round Toreth's and oh, fuck that was good. He thrust hard and fast, revelling in the heat and Warrick's hands shifting, squeezing just exactly, perfectly right, because he knew what Toreth wanted without having to ask because he knew him, he knew Then he lost the thought, arching back, his eyes squeezing tight closed as he came feeling, not thinking, for endless delicious seconds. Awareness expanded slowly to include his other senses. Taste first, a faint tang of blood where he'd somehow bitten his cheek. Then the sound of panting breaths, then light, sunlight on the wall. He lowered his head and relaxed his shoulders a little. Oh, yes. Even the evidence analysis system at its fussiest would have to call this a statistically significant result. He guessed Warrick had a similar opinion of the experiment. He was looking up through halflidded eyes, his fingers laced together on his chest. "Good?" Toreth asked. "Makes a mess." Warrick lifted his hands then folded them again, keeping them away from the bed. "Yeah, but it's all on us. Saves the sheets." Warrick's smile widened. "Actually, I was going to change them today, anyway." "Big fucking surprise." Toreth gave in to the complaints of his neck and rested his forehead on the pillow, turning to breathe against Warrick's neck, drinking in the tang of his hot skin. Usually it turned him on unbearably. In his current haze it stirred different feelings, warming and relaxing him, urging sleep. Pity he couldn't stay even taking his weight on his elbows he must be crushing Warrick. He'd move,

just as soon as he found the energy. Somehow the brief rest stretched out. After a few minutes, Warrick shifted, his hair tickling Toreth's face. "What inspired that, then?" Warrick asked. "Honestly?" Toreth lifted his head and rubbed the side of his nose with the heel of his hand. After a moment, Warrick nodded. "Well, I did it with a fuck on, um, Monday night. His idea. He was dead keen. It's not my favourite thing I've done it before a couple of times." "And because you didn't enjoy it with him, you thought you'd do it with me?" Warrick sounded curious rather than pissed off. And also a little breathless. "Yeah, well " Toreth slid down beside him to take the weight off, careless of the state of the sheets. "I wondered if it would feel the same." "And?" "It was a fuck of a lot more fun with you. Weird, huh?" "Sex very often is. I thought it was . . . very involving." Warrick's hand smoothed absently over Toreth's chest. "Actually, I was concentrating so much on the technique and your reactions that I didn't notice how close I was, which made a very pleasant change. One problem with working in the sim is that, outside the game, I'm always very aware of what's going on." Toreth propped himself up on his side, feeling warm, well-fucked and generous. "What would you like to do with the rest of the weekend? Anything you fancy. How about a scene tomorrow, since we missed yesterday?" Warrick smiled, eyes bright. "That sounds like an even better idea than your last one. Do you have anything in mind?" "Plenty. I've had some incredibly dull meetings lately. But is there anything you'd like?" "I'm sure I'll love anything you have planned." Toreth felt enjoyably flattered by the confidence. "Okay. No requests at all?" After a moment, Warrick glanced across the room towards the cabinet. Toreth shook his head. "Try again." "You said anything I fancied." Warrick's voice held an edge of pleading so arousing it almost hurt. "It's been a month." "It's been three weeks." Warrick looked away. Do it anyway, said the part of Toreth's mind that didn't care about long-term nerve damage, or Dillian, or Justice. Do him in the cabinet because it's mind-blowing and he'll beg for it. It was the part of his mind that seemed to be wired directly into his cock. As its previous brilliant ideas had included fucking Carnac and long before that and immediately prior to Toreth's hasty transfer to General Criminal fucking the wife of the head of the Political Crimes section, he had learned to resist some of its suggestions. Probably not enough of them, but still . . . "Ah, fuck." He took Warrick's oily right wrist in his hand, rubbing his thumb firmly over the pulse point. There were no visible bruises but Warrick's fingers twitched, his arm pulling away. Toreth let him go. "Six weeks. That's the rule. You know why."

"Yes." Warrick closed his eyes for a moment, then said, "Yes, I do know why. Sorry. Use the manacles instead, then. The first pair you bought." He should have guessed Warrick's favourite toy after the cabinet. "Don't you ever get bored with them?" "Never. In fact, it's better every time." Toreth moved against him, enjoying the slide of thoroughly oiled skin, and kissed Warrick's jaw. "Yeah?" "Mm. It's a cumulative effect. Every time there's another memory for them to bring back." Warrick settled back, looking at the ceiling, eyes narrowed. "Last time you chained me, I was standing by the wall. The time before that, you made me kneel and ask for them. Over and over. Oh, and before that, it was my hands behind my back, and at the end you fucked my mouth we hadn't done that for more than a month." He swallowed, and Toreth nipped his throat. "Mmh. That time was . . . " Silence. "It was what?" Toreth breathed into his ear. "I'm not sure if you'd want to hear it." Twined on the bed, soaked in the heat of skin and the smell of sweat and sex, nothing could spoil the moment. "Tell me." "It was perfect. There was just you and what you wanted from me. I like it when you hurt me God, so much but sometimes it's even better if I can get there without it. Purer. I remember I was so lost in it . . . " Toreth remembered it too: Warrick's wet, open lips and the moan he had made as Toreth pulled back. Toreth had been panting, one hand on the wall for support, still buzzing from his orgasm. Most clearly, he remembered Warrick's eyes, dark, glazed with desire, stunned with the intensity of the encounter. Then he'd knelt and taken hold of Warrick's cock, and whispered, "Move. Do it." Letting Warrick fuck his hand, struggling in the confines of the chains. Toreth had buried his face in Warrick's neck, holding him close while he sank his teeth into Warrick's shoulder and listened to him gasp and whimper and finally scream. Coming back to the present, Toreth realised that Warrick lay still, his breathing quiet and distant. Toreth lifted his head and looked down at him. Warrick was frowning thoughtfully. "Mmh," Warrick said. "Well?" "I'm thinking about what I want. I think . . . " Warrick smiled suddenly. "Go home today don't stay the night. Come back on Sunday, but don't let me know the exact time." Toreth grinned. He liked the sound of this already. "And when I come round?" Warrick was breathing quickly now, and his cock twitched once, then again, before it accepted the laws of nature and gave up. "When you come round, bring the gear." "What, exactly? The manacles, and what else?" "The no. Surprise me." Because the edge of uncertainty was part of the game. "Okay. And then?" Warrick said nothing. Toreth ran his thumb over Warrick's lips, then kissed him.

"And then," he repeated, breathing the question into Warrick's ear. "Ah make me wait. Make me wait for it." "How long?" He expected, As long as you want, but instead Warrick closed his eyes again and said, "As long as you can stand it." Toreth smiled slowly. He liked a challenge.

Day Two
On Sunday morning, Warrick risked a foray out for fresh food; it was highly unlikely that Toreth would turn up so early. Then he made a barley broth which would benefit from cooling and reheating to bring out the flavour. Something hot and savoury for later on in the evening, after a hopefully exhausting session. In the afternoon, he tried to stick to tasks that could easily be interrupted. This meant no intensive coding, not that he could have concentrated on it. It left him, for once, with nothing at all to do. In fact, he spent ten minutes trying to remember the last time that had happened and failed. Not that he was bored anticipation was taking care of that but it felt peculiar. In the end he decided to listen to music. He had a ridiculously long list of unlistened-to presents and purchases that had accumulated over the past months. It was nice to have a free afternoon, he thought as he lay on the sofa and closed his eyes. Hopefully not free for too much longer, but enjoyable in itself. Dinner time came and brought with it the first stirrings of dismay. Was Toreth planning to take 'as long as you can stand it' far too literally? Warrick couldn't call and ask without destroying the setup. On the other hand, it would be just like Toreth to wait until Warrick was convinced he was staying away, then show up. Or he hoped it was. Eventually, he had a bowlful of the broth with fresh bread, and put the rest in the fridge. Midnight. One o'clock. Two. Finally, Warrick conceded that Toreth wasn't coming, and went to bed, virtually vibrating with sexual tension.

Day Six
The project estimate on the screen in front of Warrick was for the cold weather training programs, but every time he read the word 'snow', he thought of Toreth on skis, lips reddened by the wind, squinting into the snow-glare. Under all the layers he'd be hot, freshly sweaty from the exercise. Against that, the estimate stood no chance. With a vividness that matched the sim, Warrick could picture stripping Toreth, peeling back the layers to reach the smooth, salty skin. He'd steam in the cold air and complain like hell, of course, but that would be in the real world. In his mind, Warrick could have him however he liked. Tasting him, kneeling in front of him in the crunching snow, taking Toreth's cock in his mouth to taste a subtly different saltiness . . . He shook his head, finally managing to dislodge the image. Changing to another estimate wouldn't help; he'd already tried that. After four days with no word at all from Toreth, everything reminded him of Toreth in general and sex in particular. He shifted in the chair and sternly informed his body that it would simply have to wait. It had had three years to get used to sex with Toreth shouldn't it have at least little contempt bred by the familiarity? The answer seemed to be no. It might, he decided, improve his patience if he had some idea of when the hell he'd see Toreth again. Toreth's personal comm still wasn't taking Warrick's calls. His home comm was set for messages. Warrick stared thoughtfully at the blank screen. He'd assumed the absence was due to the game they'd started, but it was always possible there was a more sinister explanation. In the past Warrick had missed the warning signs of Toreth's intermittent retreats. If this was one, it would be better to uncover the source of the problem before things got out of hand. He set the comm to sound only, because his face would certainly give too much away to her sharp eyes. "General Criminal, Para-investigator Toreth's admin speaking." "It's Warrick. How are you?" "Oh hello," Sara said cheerfully. "I'm great. Never better, really. I wondered when you'd call." She certainly didn't sound as if Toreth was in a bad mood. "How's Toreth?" "Fine. Out of the building on a case. I'm afraid I can't tell you what it is, but we're all on overtime right now which should tell you something, considering how tight they are about authorising it." She was far too good an admin for him to tell whether or not it was a lie. "He left a message for you," she added. "He hasn't forgotten, but it'll probably be Sunday now, or maybe next Friday. Does that make sense?" Damn. Damn, damn, damn. "Did he mention anything at all about tomorrow?" "You mean your hang on." There was a long pause. "Sorry, B-C wanted me. Regular Friday, right? He said to let you know he'll be too busy and to say sorry."

Warrick said goodbye, cancelled the connection, kicked a perfectly innocent waste bin across the floor and sat back in his chair, breathing heavily. Sunday. Sunday, if he were lucky, Friday if he wasn't. Three whole days at best; a week would probably kill him. He turned his attention back to the screen and stared at it for a minute without reading a single word. Not possible, he decided, and called up the programme for the sim bookings. What he needed was a nice relaxing hour or so in the sim, buried in someone's trial, where he could forget about Toreth. Trials were always full, but what was the point of being a director if he couldn't kick people out of his own creation? To his surprise, a trial currently in progress still required volunteers. When he read the protocol, the reason became clear. It was run by Wenzel Aldren, one of the senior physiologists, who always had trouble filling his slots. This particular test was part of a series investigating the latest sim sickness suppressant systems. Or, in other words, you lay in the sim until Wenzel succeeded in making you feel so sick you had to disconnect. Even the most dedicated volunteers balked at that. ~~~ As Warrick reached the sim suite, a young man he recognised but couldn't put a name to stumbled out into the corridor. One of the new students, Warrick thought, and looking distinctly pale. The student leaned on the door that had closed behind him and stood for a few seconds, breathing deeply. Then he looked up and saw Warrick. "You're not going in there?" he asked. "Actually, yes." "Then you're bloody mad. Last time I volunteer for that bastard." The man blinked at him, frowning as if trying to identify him, then seemed to give up. "Good luck." It still surprised Warrick every time it happened, although it had been a while since SimTech grew too large for him to remember immediately everyone who worked there, and for everyone who worked there to know him. The student must be new, but even so, it was both disturbing and a pleasing sign of the growth of the corporation. Less than a year to the start of production, if everything went well. The idea, as usual, set off faint butterflies in his stomach, flapping with an equal degree of excitement and apprehension. Inside the room, the unoccupied couch showed signs of a hasty departure. Wenzel lay in the other couch. When Warrick announced his presence over the sim comm, there was a brief pause, then Wenzel slid his arm out of the wrist strap and lifted his visor. He looked predictably delighted to see Warrick predictable because he always looked pleased to see anyone. His broad, friendly face belied his ruthlessness in pushing the limits of his subjects' endurance. "I got through my quota of volunteers already," he said, then grinned. "Weak stomachs, no sim experience. You're just what I need." And vice versa. "I like to keep in touch with the practical work." Wenzel nodded. "But I've only just put out a message for emergency help. Did you spot the empty slots already? Can't slip anything past you." "That's what being a director's about. What do you need?" No need to mention that he was only

here in search of distraction from acute sexual fixation. "I'm stress-testing the latest motion-induced nausea antagonist algorithms." That should do it nicely. ~~~ In the sim, the entrance room opened onto a simple outdoor scene, with a clear blue sky over a lawn. Wenzel's sim body stood behind a large virtual screen. "Just stand in the middle of the grass. We're doing average ten second switches from free-fall simulation to full gravity from a random direction. You'll be held in place during the switches, but " his smile broadened, " I've thrown in changes in the room's perceived orientation, out of phase with the gravity changes." If this didn't quash the intrusive fantasies, nothing would. "No wonder that student looked green round the gills." Wenzel appeared delighted. "Whether the new or old algorithms are in place is randomised too, I'm afraid, so I can't tell you whether it'll be horrendous or just plain awful. Let me know when you can't take any more the longer you can last, the better." Warrick smiled, competitive urges roused. "What's the best so far?" "Twelve minutes." Wenzel checked the screen. "That was Stephen Laine." One of the more experienced room coders who led the low gravity training sim team. Well, that gave him a target. "I'm ready." At first, it wasn't too bad. He'd spent so long in the sim under such varied conditions that his body had a certain tolerance for the abuse of physical reality. In fact, he recalled as the sky snapped to below his feet, he'd spent a day at a theme park on a SimTech outing last year and been distinctly underwhelmed by the rides. After what he thought was a few minutes, the constant lurching began to take its toll. It was the room inversion, he decided, concentrating on analysing the experimental design. Nothing distressed the inner ear like apparent sudden changes in the surroundings with no corresponding change in gravity. Not, however, as badly as he would expect. The sim had certainly made progress since the days when standing up from a chair made half the users ill. Hopefully that meant the new anti-nausea systems were feeding just the right signals into just the right places to counter the feelings. Simsickness was still the biggest object blocking the smooth road to production. They had an array of pharmaceutical remedies tested and approved, but a sim-based alternative would be far more saleable. Wenzel had been optimistic the last time Warrick had spoken to him that the new system would do the trick. "Is it " His stomach lurched as the gravity snapped on at forty-five degrees to visual vertical. Two seconds after that, the room turned ninety degrees. "It is all right if I close my eyes?" "Rather you didn't." He blanked his mind, reaching for calm. This was all an illusion. His body lay still on a couch, and there was absolutely no reason at all for him to want to vomit. All psychosomatic. To feel really ill, he'd have to tense his stomach muscles and the sim would be making sure he didn't. His inner ear would just have to cope. Persuasion and slow breathing kept him going for longer than he'd expected. Either the test

protocol wasn't as bad as Wenzel thought, or the new algorithms were very good indeed. Then the sickness intensified sharply, as though some kind of barrier had been breached. "Now," he gasped, eyes closing involuntarily. "Stop, please." The words and the urgent tone suddenly and vividly reminded him of Toreth, driving a spike of arousal through the nausea. So much for the distraction plan. The world had stopped flipping and Warrick opened his eyes. Wenzel still stood by the screen, smiling, studying the result. Warrick waited, taking back control of his body sufficiently to stop his virtual legs shaking. He wondered how he would feel outside the sim. Like hell, he suspected. While he was in the sim, however bad he felt the direct nerve controls would stop him from actually vomitting. Once out, he was on his own. "How did I do?" he asked Wenzel. "Fifteen minutes." He sounded impressed. "Which will stand as a record because the protocol has a fifteen minute max." "Were the new algorithms running?" "Don't know. I can't tell until I break the codes after the analysis." Warrick nodded approvingly. All nicely controlled. "If they were running," Wenzel continued, "they'd have cut out as the programme stopped. Did it feel different right at the end?" "I won't spoil your blinding by telling you. Let me know the results." Wenzel nodded, then looked down at the screen. "I will say I like the look of the test so far. Two very clear clusters of results. I think we've cracked it, or at least taken a big step in the right direction. I have another victim waiting, so if you could . . . " When he lifted the visor and the sim winked out, Warrick discovered a junior programmer waiting nervously by the door Goldie Cheesman. He tried to smile encouragingly at her, but unfortunately it took a whole minute before he could manage to stagger off the couch and back to his office.

Day Seven
The wooden wall of the sauna pressed smoothly against his back, the air rich with wet heat and eucalyptus. Nothing touched his front yet, but through half-closed eyes he could see Toreth standing only half a meter away. Standing and simply looking at him. "What?" Warrick asked. "Incredible." Toreth moved suddenly, bracing his hands on the wall on either side of Warrick's head. "You look fucking incredible." Then slowly, so slowly, he dipped his head down. So very slowly that when his mouth touched Warrick's The timer beeped and Warrick opened his eyes. His lips tingled slightly. On the screen, the letters slowly came into focus, words joining up until it all made sense again and the last of the fantasy had cleared from his mind. Over the years it had become a rule to allow himself the occasional five minutes' indulgence at work, and no more. Long enough to allow an examination of a scenario, but not long enough to drive himself completely insane with frustration. At least, not often. From time to time he hit upon a particularly compelling situation; a few times he'd even called Toreth to describe the idea before the edge wore off. Each time Toreth had laughed and told him that thinking about it wasn't his job. Then months later, when Warrick had forgotten about it, he'd find himself in the middle of the scenario. Always better than he'd imagined, too, improved and polished by Toreth's attention to detail and genius for interpersonal cruelty. This week might have set something of a record for twisting suggested scenarios into something new and unbearably absorbing. He made himself a cup of chamomile tea and was trying to think calming thoughts when the comm chimed his direct personal line. By the time he'd set the cup down, his palms were damp and his breathing unsteady. Toreth? He hoped the disappointment didn't show on his face when Cele appeared on the screen. She was at her studio, a medium-large canvas out of focus in the background. "Keir! Sorry to bother you at work." She didn't sound at all sorry. "I've just finished a piece." Concentrate, he told himself sternly. "For anyone I know?" "Actually, no. It's not a commission to be honest, I just couldn't resist the subject even though I have my time booked for what feels like the rest of my life. Anyway, I thought you might want to see it. Hang on." She moved out of the way, and the comm refocused on the painting. Faded blue shutters hung folded back against a whitewashed exterior wall, framing an open window. A male nude sat sideways on the deep window sill, pinkish early-morning sunlight glowing on his golden hair and warming the colour of the worn stone flags at the foot of the canvas. The man leaned against the edge of the window frame, one leg bent up, foot resting on the sill, the other leg out

of sight in the room. Forearm resting on his knee, his hand dangled, relaxed and casual. His face was turned away from the viewer, looking back into the shadowed room behind him, but Warrick didn't need to see it. The smooth, clean lines and easy physical confidence were unmistakable, and so very much what he didn't need to see right now that he almost laughed. "Toreth," he said. "Ha! I told him you'd know who it was." Cele sounded delighted. "I did it from photographs, because he won't sit long enough to get anywhere, not even for unlimited alcohol and the dirtiest jokes I know. He made a flying visit Wednesday afternoon to let me recheck the pose and put in the finishing touches." "He didn't say anything about it." Toreth had been modelling at the studio on Wednesday? So much for being tied to I&I. Although if he'd only been at Cele's for a few minutes . . . "Hardly worth while there wasn't much to mention. He spent more time getting in and out of his clothes than he did on the job. I hope he's got more stamina than that in bed." Cele reappeared in the screen. "What do you think?" He kept his face deadpan. "Oh, definitely a lot more." Cele chuckled. "About the picture." "It's beautiful. Subject and execution." With Toreth's body out of sight again, Warrick realised he wanted the painting, or rather, how badly he wanted it. Cele had said it wasn't a commission, so ownership was possible. He'd just have to make sure that she agreed to a high enough price this time. "What are you going to do with it?" "It's promised to a gallery for a show called 'Summer in Autumn'. Made me feel less guilty about the self-indulgence. After that I'm not sure. The exhibition finishes around New Year, I think." She grinned. "I wonder if you know anyone who might like it as a present?" "I think I know someone who'd like to buy it." Cele shook her head firmly. "Uh-uh. It's not for sale." He contemplated arguing, but after all these years, he told himself, he ought to have learned to accept generosity gracefully. It was hardly Cele's fault that her gifts had become so valuable. "Then, yes, I know someone who'd love it." The picture would look beautiful in Warrick's living room, and he wondered if Cele had picked the faded blue of the shutters for that reason. Toreth would be delighted by the chance to look at his favourite subject. "How about a drink tonight?" Cele asked. "I feel like celebrating." "Shall I come round to the studio?" "No. I'm sick of the sight of the place, and you'd only put your fingers on the painting before it's properly dry. We could have dinner if you're not busy. Oh, except that I know Friday's usually " she winked, " you-know-what with you-know-who." "Not tonight." Warrick tried to keep his voice casual. "He's busy with a case." "You don't say?" Cele smirked, and Warrick wondered if his frustration was that obvious. "Shall I call Dilly as well, see if she's free? Put one cat in the bag at once, eh?" "I'm afraid she's in Kiel." "Oh? Nobody ever tells me anything. Or maybe I forgot. Why's she there?"

"Talking to deep-water engineering people, I think. Last-minute rush. They want to offer her a few weeks of troubleshooting for some project that's having problems." "Sounds gripping. Just us, then. Eight o'clock suit you? I had a recommendation for a new place at the Varsity Complex." ~~~ As he climbed out of the SimTech car, Warrick mused that the Varsity bars, hotels, shops and all the usual trimmings of a leisure complex wasn't the best place to visit in his current mood. He and Toreth had spent some very enjoyable evenings there. On the other hand, since Toreth was otherwise engaged, he should take whatever distraction was available, and Cele was invariably excellent company. Cele had chosen the bar to meet up in, but she hadn't arrived when Warrick reached it. Not surprising, given her usual timekeeping. He checked the name of the bar again, just to be sure, then bought them both a drink and sat down at a vacant small table for two. He scanned the bar idly. A little too loud and dark for his tastes, and surprisingly busy for the relatively early hour. Lots of corporates in working suits who obviously hadn't made it home yet. Many of them looked settled in, making groups and couples on the low chairs around the edges of the room. He was, he realised, virtually the only man there alone. He caught the occasional glance in his direction, amusement and pity mingling. Of course: a single man plus two drinks equalled stood up. He checked his watch. Cele was already ten minutes late. He waited until he couldn't bear the feeling of self-consciousness, then he picked up both drinks and moved back to the bar. At least there, he was one of a crowd. He squeezed past a blonde woman in a tight black dress and took an empty stool at the very end of the bar, beside a smartly-suited man talking business to a much younger woman. She was making a half-hearted attempt to feign interest, which seemed to be good enough for her companion, who sounded to be something to do with software marketing. Warrick listened to the conversation with half his attention, which was all it took to bore him, too. Should he call Cele? No doubt she'd be on her way. Beyond the couple, the woman in the black dress was hunting through a tiny, overflowing handbag, muttering under her breath. Someone called Ian would be in trouble if she ever found her comm. He should call. If Cele was going to be a while, at least he could get rid of the second drink. He should have known better than to buy it, Warrick thought as he searched his inside jacket pocket for his own comm. The day Cele was on time Over the noise of the bar, a woman said angrily, "Watch what you're doing!" Warrick turned, but the woman in the black dress wasn't talking to him. She had her back to him, her shoulders set angrily as she looked up at a blond man. Toreth. Instinctively, Warrick looked away, leaning on the bar, hand against his face. Occupied with a case was now definitely a lie. He glanced sideways, using the dull salesman as cover. The woman had stepped back from the bar, where one of the staff was mopping up a spilled drink. Toreth smiled at her apologetically, going from disinterest to full charm in an instant. "Terribly sorry about that. Please let me get you another." "Oh. No, it's okay." Now she sounded flustered. She ducked her head slightly and her hand came up, hovered uncertainly, then tucked a few strands of her short-bobbed hair behind her ear. "No harm

done." "Glad to hear it." Toreth's smile warmed a few degrees. "I've seen you before, haven't I?" "It's the first time I've been here." "Oh? Somewhere else then." His confidence didn't waver. "I'm sure I remember you. You've cut your hair it used to be much longer. It looks good like that." Her posture relaxed. "Thanks." Toreth stepped back a little and looked her up and down. A flush crept round her neck. "Did I spill anything on you?" he asked. "I " The woman ran her hand over the front of her dress. "Yes, a bit." "My name's Marc. I'll give you my number. Get in touch when you've had it cleaned, and I'll pay for it." Warrick studied Toreth more closely as he transferred his details. Not really interested in her, he decided. Maybe she was too obviously willing. He felt oddly triumphant when Toreth's smile cooled and he turned away to hand his credit card to the barman. As he waited, Warrick saw the woman's shoulders tense once or twice. Then, after Toreth picked up two drinks and walked away, she muttered, "Why the hell didn't you say something?" The question so perfectly mirrored Warrick's own thoughts that he almost said, "I don't know." His next thought was that he'd somehow impossibly been mistaken. It couldn't have been Toreth. But when he turned to watch the man cross the room, there was no more doubt than there had been when he saw the picture. Every movement was Toreth, his body unmistakable. Should he follow him? Warrick had almost decided yes, when he saw Toreth stop next to a corner booth occupied by a dark-haired man and place the drinks on the table. Toreth squeezed onto the bench and immediately took his comm earpiece out of his pocket. Warrick watched, trying not to stare too openly; the other man was a little taller than Toreth and almost as heavily built, and Warrick didn't like the idea of inadvertently starting a fight. After a brief conversation Toreth put the earpiece away, then returned to his companion. The last of Warrick's shock vanished, flushed away by anger. Bastard. Out on the prowl and lying about it, which was the irritating part. Irrationally irritating, at that. Warrick knew perfectly well that Toreth slept around. Toreth knew that he knew and also that he didn't like to hear about it. So 'I'm out', or, 'I don't feel like coming round tonight' adequately covered the whole situation. Or, indeed, 'I'm busy at work'. They'd fixed on this long ago as the best compromise that didn't involve a visit to a re-education centre for a fundamental reconstruction of Toreth's libido. Tonight, however, the lie infuriated Warrick and, while he surreptitiously studied the pair, he tried to work out why. One casual partner more or less was nothing, and although it always annoyed him to meet them, it didn't usually rankle this badly. It was the previous Saturday that made the difference, he realised suddenly. They had set a game in progress; they had made an agreement that Toreth would wait, and Toreth had broken it. After a minute or two, Warrick shook his head. He had no intention of waiting here until Toreth took his conquest elsewhere. That was, if he didn't simply conclude business here in the toilets. He should go home and try to forget about the experience. Unless oh, God. Cele was due any minute. Putting up with Toreth's idiosyncrasies was one thing, having his behaviour witnessed by a friend was

another. Warrick paused, hand in his pocket. Cele. Cele had arranged the meeting. Cele, who had seen Toreth recently. Not that he imagined for a moment that Cele would knowingly participate in a scheme to humiliate him, but Toreth certainly wouldn't be above setting her up too, if the idea amused him. Or . . . or this was the game, still, and Toreth had no intention of leaving with the stranger. A pick-up scenario, which was something that Cele would help arrange with great enthusiasm. Then Toreth turned his head and looked across the bar, straight at him. He held Warrick's startled gaze for a few seconds, then smiled vaguely, as if to a stranger who'd made eye contact, before he looked away. Warrick was still trying to decide what he believed, when his comm chimed. "It's me," Cele said when he answered it. "Is there a problem?" "Yes. I'm afraid I can't make it. Something's come up. Are you there already?" Before he could answer, she carried on. "Of course you are. Mr Punctual. Now you see the advantages of being late. If you were me, you'd still be at home and you'd have saved yourself a trip." Added to Toreth's call a few minutes ago, this went beyond the realms of coincidence. However, asking Cele would ruin the game. "Don't worry about it. We'll get together some other time." As he pocketed the comm, a group vacated a small table, and Warrick moved quickly to claim it. This gave a better view: Toreth's face clearly visible, but the other man's back towards Warrick. Now he could watch as obviously as he liked. It shouldn't take long to decide what kind of game Toreth was playing, and whether Warrick wanted to take part. Toreth's reactions were perfect, and highly promising. It apparently took him a few minutes to notice Warrick watching, and then a few minutes more of casual glances in Warrick's direction to decide what to do about it. Then he spent another couple in close conversation with his well-built companion before they both stood up. The man clapped Toreth on the shoulder and left the bar without a single glance in Warrick's direction. Toreth watched him go, then picked up his drink and strolled over. Warrick watched him approach, wondering what to say. Better to let Toreth have the opening line. Toreth leaned on the fluted black pillar by the table, and his white shirt tightened over his stomach. He looked down at Warrick, direct and utterly self-possessed, and said, "I saw you looking at me. Did you want something?" Warrick paused to catch his breath, then said, "You reminded me of someone." "Yeah? Who?" "I'm not sure." He edged round the semicircle of bench. "Join me, and maybe it'll come back." Toreth sat down, then held his hand out, awkward in the close space. "I'm Marc." "Keir Warrick." There was a short pause, then he said, "Can I ask you a question?" "Go ahead." "I was at the bar when you went to buy a drink." Toreth nodded. "I noticed you."

Noticed, not saw. "The woman you spoke to had you really seen her before?" "No." "So how did you know she'd had her hair cut?" "Easy. Did you see her duck her head, and the way her hand came up? She was used to having long hair, to having to push it out of the way. That kind of habit doesn't last longer than a few weeks once the props change." He smiled slowly, eyes fixed on Warrick. "You can tell a lot from body language. What people want, what they're going to do . . . everything they don't want you to know." It gave Warrick a delightful feeling of deja vu to sit in a bar and be seduced by Toreth. Or rather, not quite Toreth. There was no one thing that Warrick could point to and say was different, but as they made wary-but-interested strangers' conversation, it was surprisingly easy to remember to call him Marc. After an utterly fictitious and frighteningly plausible description of his job with a private security consultancy firm, Toreth asked, "You married?" "No," Warrick said, then couldn't resist adding, "I have a partner. A male partner." Toreth's eyes narrowed briefly, then he said, "What's he like?" Warrick considered a string of flattering epithets before he settled on "Jealous." This time, Toreth's expression didn't flicker. "Yeah? So you'd never ?" "Be unfaithful?" The ghost of Girardin hovered nearby. Warrick shook his head firmly. "Never." Toreth smiled, approving and anticipatory. "Let me get you another drink, Keir." ~~~ Warrick had meant to spin the evening out as long as he could what he'd really wanted was to provoke Toreth into breaking his assumed role. For some reason, though, the impulse quickly faded. Perhaps it was the days of uncertainty. Perhaps it was the wonderful knowledge that he didn't have to wait until Sunday after all. Perhaps it was the sight of Toreth beside him, casual and relaxed and inexplicably different. Whatever it was, only half an hour passed before they'd finished the drinks and Toreth stood up. "Would you like to go somewhere a bit quieter?" he asked. "Love to." Warrick stood up, too quickly, and the blood rushed to his head, leaving him dizzy. "Okay?" Toreth asked. The feeling passed. "Yes, fine." There was no discussion of where the quieter place might be. Toreth simply led the way to the main hotel lobby. The lift up started with a slight jolt, and Warrick lost his balance. Toreth seemed steady enough. He merely looked at Warrick sidelong and smiled. He was humming, which seemed oddly more tuneful than normal. A side-effect of being Marc, perhaps. As they stepped out of the lift door, the dizziness came again, and this time it didn't go away. He stumbled, and only Toreth's arm around his waist stopped him from a headlong fall. "Thanks," Warrick mumbled. "Can't seem to . . . sorry." They started down the corridor, and Marc Toreth didn't let go of him. Warrick shook his head, trying to clear his vision. The colours and angles were all subtly wrong, out of true. There was something strange happening. Something very, very strange, but somehow he didn't care, or couldn't be bothered to worry, and wasn't it Toreth with him? Everything would be all right.

They halted, and then a door clicked opened and closed and only then did he realise he had his eyes shut and he forced them open. Hotel room. A light brightened, then dimmed, and that made the world swim again. He clung to Marc, welcoming the anchor of his effortless strength. He lowered his heavy head, letting it rest on Marc's shoulder, giving in to the temptation to mouth the taut muscles through his shirt. "Right, Keir." Marc took him by the chin, gently tilting his head back. Kiss, Warrick thought vaguely, and started to gather his strength to protest, because Toreth wouldn't want him to . . . no, this was Toreth and why the hell did everything feel so "Let's get you to bed," Marc said, and Warrick nodded gratefully. Sleep. Always better in the morning. Jen used to say that to them, kissing them goodnight. Then, somehow, he was lying on the bed on his side, naked, head resting on his outflung arm. He tried to lift his head and couldn't, and the wrongness of that finally broke through and roused the first thrill of fear. Marc stood by the bed, trousers already gone, stripping off his hypnotically white shirt, looking down at him intently. "What . . . " Warrick licked his numb lips, his tongue thick and clumsy. "What is it? What did you do?" Marc crouched down and smiled coldly. "Free tip for the future, if you ever get a chance to use it: you should be more careful about accepting drinks from strangers." Shit. There'd been something in the drink, of course there had been how could he have been so stupid? Marc touched his face again, a whisper-soft brush across his cheek, then ran his hand down, over his chest, tracing a line from breastbone to navel to . . . Then the bed shifted and dipped, and Warrick wondered what was happening until he realised he'd closed his eyes again. Let them stay like that, he decided. This time, the hand that took his chin wasn't gentle and when he tried to shake it off, it closed round his throat instead, finger and thumb curling up over his jaw. Before Warrick could protest, Marc's mouth sealed over his, forcing a kiss on him. Marc bore down, covering him with solid heat, pressing him into the bed with frightening strength, and God, he was naked and hard. They were both hard. And Warrick couldn't fight. Couldn't fight because his body wouldn't listen, wouldn't move. It could only feel. Helpless. Oh, God, so helpless, chained without chains, and hyperaware of every touch. Marc's free hand left trails of fire on his skin, the touch burning long after his fingers had left. He felt every point of contact, every flex and press of the body grinding inexorably against him. Hot skin touched him everywhere, overwhelming his spinning senses. So good wonderful dangerous and terrifying and he revelled in it and tried to fight because he couldn't remember who it was or where they were or whether this was wrong. The kiss ended, and when Marc's mouth returned, it brushed over his cheek, round to his ear. Soft, teasing mouth, but the grip on Warrick's throat didn't relent. "Keep still," Marc whispered, "and quiet, and just maybe I'll let you live." That was it that was enough. Warrick bucked up, gasping, choking back the cry as he came.

Keep still. Keep quiet. Quiet he could manage still was hopeless, no chance of that as he shivered and panted, clinging to the muscled back until his hands were suddenly empty. When had Marc moved? When he forced his eyes open, he found Marc kneeling over him. "I know you can hear me." Marc's eyes narrowed and he moved to lay his fingers over Warrick's right nipple. Not quite a pinch. "Can't you?" When Warrick said nothing, Marc tightened his fingers. "Can't you, Keir?" He pinched again, harder, until Warrick managed to croak, "Yes." "Good. Because I want you to know that we're not finished yet." Marc rolled him over, arranging him on the bed, spreading his legs. Opening him. Half his mind screamed stop, half begged for Marc to touch him, and neither impulse mattered because Warrick could do nothing but be done to. Do nothing but be taken. Do nothing but accept the cock pressing into him, the slow, deep strokes the hand pulling his head round the mouth taking whatever Marc wanted. He lost track of time, forgot that he supposed to fight. It felt too good and whoever the hell it was Toreth, Marc all he wanted was to stay here forever and be theirs. The slow pace tortured him. He was hard again, aching, tensing his muscles against the weird paralysis which magnified the tiny movements he managed. Nerves fired back pleasure with every minute rub of skin, every touch of the sheets. He squirmed on the bed all the movement he could make but more than he expected and Marc gasped and stilled. Warrick moved again, lifting his hips, flexing around the cock pinning him to the bed, and this time Marc groaned. "Jesus Christ, Warrick." For a moment it was Toreth above him, then his voice changed. "I warned you to do what you're told, Keir. Keep still." The rough voice brought back the memory of the game they'd played to get here. Warrick managed to marshal his lips and tongue to produce an approximation of "Shan't, you bastard." Then he set about resisting in earnest. ~~~ Toreth's arms shook with the strain of not surrendering to the urge to thrust. He bit his lip and thought about yearly budget appraisals with Tillotson until the arousal dampened down. The drug had begun to wear off, and Warrick's struggles had become stronger and seriously exciting. Warrick still, helpless and utterly in his power had been arousing enough. Warrick swearing and fighting him and failing was, was Toreth slowed again, the fuck reaching the point where if he slowed much more they'd simply be lying on the bed. It would be easier to keep control if Warrick would stop moving, but he hadn't and Toreth couldn't manage another coherent threat. Warrick twisted under him, and over his own harsh breathing Toreth heard him whispering, "No. Marc, please, no." Shit. This was impossible. Toreth looked away from Warrick, from the sweat curling the hair at the nape of his neck, from the tendons tightening as he turned his head . . . He slid into Warrick, pressing as close as he could, then began to rock firmly against him, pressing hopefully Warrick's cock down into the soft bedcover.

Warrick made a startled noise, muffled by the pillow, and Toreth tilted his head back and smiled. He concentrated on his breathing, keeping it deep but steady. Better. Like this, he had a chance of keeping control for a while longer. Or at least he would if Warrick would shut the fuck up. His helpless, pleading whimpers and moans sparked electricity down Toreth's spine. No longer struggling, Warrick moved with him, hands clenching desperately in the pillow, thrusting up against him and down into the bed, too good to bear. 'Toreth, I don't doubt the accuracy of your assessments, but there is a cross-departmental limit of three percent for team raises, which ' Fuck, it wasn't working. "Stop," Toreth panted. One at a time, he grabbed Warrick's wrists and dug his fingers into the tendons, forcing Warrick to let go of the pillow, and Warrick moaned. Toreth pulled Warrick's hands to the side and pinned them. "Stop it, keep still, keep " Warrick's head came up, his back arching, and he came. If he screamed, Toreth didn't hear him because every last scrap of self-control was blown away by Warrick's body tightening round him. As long as you can stand it harder, faster, this was as long as you can stand it perfect, yes, so good, ah, God as long as you can ah, God, Warrick as long as so close, soon, soon Toreth bit the nape of Warrick's neck, because it was the only way he could keep quiet, stop himself from telling Warrick how good it was, how much he'd wanted it and then he was coming so hard that his eyes teared. ~~~ When Warrick woke, the clock by the bed said ten to ten, which didn't seem late enough. He rolled over, vaguely surprised when his body obeyed him. Toreth had gone. The sheets were a mess. He felt sick and light-headed, which had to be the aftermath of whatever drug Toreth had slipped him. His wrists ached and he also felt to have a prize collection of bruises and bites on his neck and shoulders. He felt wonderful. Warrick smiled and settled back into the pillow to relive the choice moments of the evening, imprinting them in his memory while they were fresh. A few minutes later, Warrick noticed that his face ached too. He was still smiling. He pressed his lips together, wiping the expression away, then rubbed his cheeks and sat up. The room swam briefly, then settled down. When he stood up, keeping a cautious hand on the bed head, his balance had returned. His clothes lay in a pile on the floor, and it took him a moment to find his hand screen. Warrick called the security system at his flat, which told him Toreth hadn't gone there. Then, feeling only slightly guilty, he did the same to the system at Toreth's flat. Toreth had freely given him access to the system, and he knew Warrick well enough to guess what he could do with it. Toreth was there, which brought the smile back again. Only twenty minutes there by taxi, and he could pick up something for them to eat on the way over. Downstairs at reception, he discovered that Toreth had left him to pay the bill. Of course. ~~~ Warrick closed the flat door and went straight through to the living room.

Toreth was lounging on the sofa, screen on but muted. He watched Warrick set the box on the coffee table, then raised his eyebrows as Warrick came round the table. "Didn't Sara tell you I was busy tonight? I thought " Warrick placed his hand firmly in the centre of Toreth's chest and pushed him back against the sofa. Then he kissed him until he felt he'd conveyed sufficient appreciation of the evening's entertainment, and until Toreth's heartbeat had picked up speed under his palm. He broke the kiss and stood up. Toreth wiped his mouth, and smirked. "You brought pizza?" he asked. "Great, because I have beer." Toreth reached up, grabbed Warrick's belt, and pulled him down to sit on the sofa. Then he leaned down over the side of the sofa, produced two cold beer bottles, already opened, and set them on the table. "I thought you'd be round when you woke up, and the flush-out time on that stuff is pretty tightly defined. How do you feel?" "I was a little dizzy when I woke up, and queasy, but it went away by the time I left the hotel." "Good. Some people get a bitch of a headache from it." Toreth opened the pizza box and helped himself to a slice. He bit off the point of the triangle, then gasped, sucking air in through pursed lips. "Hot. Fucking hot." He grabbed a beer. "Pepperoni and garlic," he said when he'd dealt with the mouthful. "Just what I wanted. How did you guess?" "I'm naturally lucky." After three years, it was hardly a staggering feat of deduction. Warrick picked up the remaining beer, set the bottle to his lips, then lowered it. He lifted it and raised his eyebrows. Toreth laughed. "Nothing but beer, promise. Want to swap?" Warrick shook his head and risked a swallow. He might as well take Toreth's word for it. For one thing, all the offer really meant was that if Toreth had dosed the beer, then he'd also taken an antidote to it himself. Setting the bottle on the table, Warrick took a slice from the heated box and, out of habit, wrapped it neatly in a napkin. At least this was Toreth's flat, where crumbs on the floor were merely part of the ecology. "Who was the man in the bar?" Warrick asked after they'd eaten in silence for a while. "Christofi. Political Crimes senior. Believe it or not, we were talking about work. He wanted to talk somewhere outside I&I and I thought he'd add a bit of colour." "He certainly did that I nearly walked out." "Really?" Toreth looked delighted. "Then you'd never have known what you'd missed." "And that would have been a great pity," Warrick said fervently. "Enjoy it?" Toreth asked. "It was perfect." "Not quite. It was supposed to happen this weekend, on Sunday." "So why did you do it tonight?" "Guess." Warrick considered. The line was obvious, but Toreth would prefer him not to get it. "Because it's game night?"

Toreth shook his head, helping himself to more pizza. "Try again." "Because it's the day Cele finished the picture?" Another shake. "Because bars are too quiet on Sundays?" "Good point, but no." Toreth paused, the second slice of pizza sagging dangerously, the topping threatening to slide onto his lap. He looked at Warrick sidelong, then grinned again. "Because this was as long as I could stand it."

Caged
The cool metal of the collar fastened around Warrick's throat, and he felt the tremor of excitement, uncontrollable, run through him as he waited for the click of the lock. Instead, the collar lifted away and Toreth said, "I'm bored." Toreth had a wide variety of boredoms. Many of them translated into something along the lines of 'I don't want to do that' or 'This is too intimate' or 'I need attention'. This sounded, for once, like genuine boredom, which meant Warrick had a small chance to talk him out of it. "What about me?" Warrick asked. "What about you?" The bed shifted as Toreth moved away. "I'll fuck you later, how about that?" "I would like to be fucked now." "Jesus, you're insatiable, you know that? How old are you?" "What?" "How old are you?" He sounded to be over by the window now. "It's simple enough take this year, subtract the year you were born in, adjust for the month. You're supposed to be good at that kind of thing." "I'm thirty-six. Although I fail to see what that has to do with anything." "Because at thirty-six you should be able to wait for a few hours for a fucking." "The only reason I can't wait is because you make me want it so much." There was a brief silence, then Toreth laughed. "Oh, no. You're not getting me like that." "I thought it was worth a try. Very well. You can untie me." Footsteps, and then the blindfold came off, leaving him blinking at the light. Toreth released him, lingering over the straps as if he hadn't entirely convinced himself it was a good idea. Warrick sat up, rubbed his wrists where the leather had chafed, and looked down at himself. "I can't help but feel it's a pity to waste all that hard work." "Okay, fine." Toreth slammed him backwards onto the bed, pinned him down, and sucked him off with a ruthless efficiency that wasn't as good as a morning of carefully orchestrated bondage, but still left him gasping for breath. By the time he sat up for the second time, Toreth was already dressed. "Right, that was my good deed for the day," he said. "Come on." Warrick got off the bed and started trying to track down his own clothes among the detritus on Toreth's bedroom floor. "Where are we going?" "No idea. Where would you like to go?" He refrained, with some effort, from pointing out that he'd been perfectly happy where he was. "Well, if I'm passing a Sunday on my own, my usual choices, outside the sim, are galleries " "Went to one once." "Museums " "No."

"Concerts, if there are any on." "Definitely not." Warrick finished buttoning his shirt. "You're doing this to annoy me, aren't you?" "No, I'm doing it because I'm bored." He grinned. "Anything else is a bonus." "You have the shortest attention span of any man I've ever met. Or woman, come to that. How do you manage at work?" Toreth looked surprised, not surprisingly given that work was a closed topic. "I'm not asking for details, it was merely a general question about concentration." "Work's different." He shrugged. "I concentrate all the bloody time at work. And I do a lot of boring crap conscientiously, because it's important that it gets done properly. When I'm not at work, I do things for fun." "And fucking isn't fun?" "Of course fucking's fun, usually, but not today." Warrick finally located his second sock. "Something I did?" he asked, keeping his tone neutral. "No. Nothing. You're . . . it was fine. I'm bored, that's all. I'm . . . I don't bloody know. I just fancied a change." He walked over to the doorway, a little too quickly, hesitated there, then turned. "Aren't you ready yet?" That was as much as it took for Toreth to start getting uncomfortable. If Warrick pressed any more, the good mood would evaporate completely, and beyond that Toreth would leave. Luckily, Warrick knew the signs well enough by now that unpleasantness was usually avoided. "Yes, ready." Suddenly, he knew where to go. "I don't have the car; I'll call a taxi." "Where are we going?" "It's a surprise." He was always flattered when Toreth was willing to accept something like that without question. ~~~ "The Zoo?" Toreth asked as they got out of the taxi. "Why not? It's a beautiful day. Besides, you've already rejected everything else in New London." A slight exaggeration, but Toreth didn't pick it up. "Don't you like zoos?" "No idea never been to one." "Then it'll be a new experience." Not Toreth's favourite thing actually, but he tried to make it sound like a bonus. "I like it a great deal." "Yeah? You never said." "The topic never arose. This way." The sun shone brightly and the Zoo was clearly going to be busy, a crowd already forming outside the ornate gates. Primarily families, enjoying an inexpensive day out. Citizens making the most of the Administration-funded facility. Warrick paused, caught by the memory of standing there himself, with Dilly, Tar and Aunt Jen, when the gates had seemed a lot taller. The zoo had been one of Jen's favourite holiday diversions, when the children were at home and her sister was at work. A promise of a trip there was worth at least a week of good behaviour. Then, once they were inside, he'd fight with Dilly over what they went

to see first, and Jen would make them take turns to Toreth coughed. "Are we going in, or not?" Bypassing the main queues, Warrick scanned his ID at a smaller gate, and they were let through. "How come you get in free?" Toreth asked. "Funny family story that I won't bore you with. The punch line is that Dilly and I bought each other life membership one New Year, without knowing what the other was buying." "Doesn't sound very funny." "And that is precisely why I didn't tell you the rest." Beyond the gates was a large paved area a place for meetings and departures. Warrick stopped by the tall, fluted post bearing signs with white letters on black metal, pointing down the radiating paths to the various sections. "What would you like to do first?" he asked. It was an unfair question, in a way, since Toreth couldn't really be expected to know. To Warrick's astonishment, he said, "Do they have flamingos?" "Er, yes. They're over this way, I think." He wondered all the way whether to ask, deciding in the end that Toreth would tell him if he wanted him to know. As it was, Toreth didn't say anything at all as they walked. However, he was whistling. Usually a good sign, if hard on the ears. They reached the flamingo pool, next to a picnic and play area. Toreth picked his way through the already swarming children with the particular expression of concentrated distaste he always wore in their presence. When he reached the edge, he stopped and leaned on the low wall, looking at the birds. Ignoring the noise, they had formed a tight group in the centre of the shallow water, the majority asleep, balanced on one leg with their heads under their wings. Their pink plumage looked faded something to do with diet, Warrick recalled. "They're smaller than I was expecting," Toreth said as Warrick came up beside him. Warrick couldn't tell if that pleased him or not. "Oh?" "Yeah." After a moment he straightened up and brushed his hands off. "Okay. What do you want to see?" Given Toreth's earlier declaration of boredom, Warrick decided to avoid the more scientific areas, like the research and breeding centres, and concentrate on less demanding entertainment. He picked the Reptile House, more or less at random, and they set off. On the way, Warrick looked mostly at Toreth, and Toreth split his attention between captives and spectators. At least he appeared to be enjoying something so far the Zoo was as good for people-watching as for watching any other kind of animal. After they'd toured round the Reptile House, where Toreth pronounced himself disappointed by the general torpor of the inhabitants, Toreth used his turn to choose their next goal to suggest a drink. They sat at a small cafe, drinking coffee and watching other visitors passing. Before long, Toreth slipped into a near-constant stream of assessments of his chances of picking up one or another of them. Warrick considered being offended, but decided it was harmless enough when there was no chance of Toreth actually setting off in pursuit although he tried not to express disbelief at any individual claim, just to be on the safe side. However, when Toreth had offered a dead cert on a man in his late twenties escorting a woman and two children, he finally gave in and asked, "How the hell can you tell?"

"Practise." Toreth sipped his coffee. "Lots of practise." "No, seriously. What is it about him, in particular, that made you pick him out?" Toreth looked at him sharply, and the flash of jealousy made Warrick smile. "I'm not interested in him. Just in the theory." "Okay. Come on, we need to get round in front of him again." They finished the coffees, took a short cut across a triangle of grass, and then waited by the tapirs for the family to reappear. Before they did, Toreth picked out another couple. "Now, look at these two here he's never going to be interested. Straight as they come. Watch this. Watch him." Toreth cut across their path at a diagonal, looking the opposite way, a little distracted, and almost-but-not-quite collided with the woman. There was a moment of confusion, smiled apologies, and Toreth carried on. Warrick watched obediently, not entirely sure what he was supposed to be seeing. When he reached the far side of the wide path, Toreth stopped and leaned on the wall. Warrick was about to join him, but Toreth gestured for him to stay put. He realised why a moment later when he spotted the dead cert and his wife approaching. Toreth repeated the manoeuvre with them, ending up next to him again. "Well?" Toreth asked. "No, sorry." "You didn't see any difference?" Toreth sounded genuinely surprised. "Not really." "Never mind. I'll find someone else, and you can try again." "You could simply tell me." "No, this is more fun we're supposed to be looking at wildlife, aren't we? But it's a bit quiet here. Come on." Warrick followed along as Toreth searched for a more suitable hunting spot. It was, he reflected, an odd way to spend a Sunday taking pickup tips from your something-like-a-partner. After the next demonstration had proved equally fruitless, Toreth took pity on him and said, "You're probably looking at the wrong part. Watch them as I'm walking away." Two more pairs of couples, and then he saw it. As Toreth made his charming apologies and departed, the dead certs watched him, the others watched their wives. It was almost disappointingly easy. "Is that it?" he said, when Toreth strolled back up to him. Toreth laughed at his expression. "Yes, that's it. Basically it, anyway. It's all in how they look at other people. Mind you, that's the perfect setup to demonstrate it under normal circumstances, it's harder to spot. But how long would it have taken you to notice on your own?" "Probably never," he admitted. "Actually, it would've never even occurred to me to look." "Good. Doesn't always work, anyway. And it only works exactly like that if the other half is around." "So how do you tell if they aren't?" Toreth laughed again. "As if I'm going to tell you. There you go, then, demo over. It's your turn

to pick somewhere try to choose something that moves, this time." As the day progressed, the Zoo filled up, and navigating the crowded paths became more of a chore. Finally, they retreated to the refreshments complex, built on the top of an artificial hill. There Warrick chose one of the more upmarket of the restaurants, and they had a very late lunch. Afterwards, they took their beers out onto the terrace and sat in surprisingly comfortable wrought iron chairs, watching the crowds milling around below them. In their enclosures, the animals seemed to be mostly asleep and unmoving in the heat. From up here, the blended voices of the visitors made an almost musical background. Children's voices, in the main. To Warrick the Zoo had always been a childhood place, a family place, although he'd never say something like that to Toreth. "What do you think of it, then?" Warrick asked. Toreth shrugged. "It's okay. I wouldn't mind coming back, anyway. Especially when there aren't so many kids. Far too many, and far too bloody loud." Thinking about the same thing, coming to such different conclusions. "I like kids." "I know you do, Uncle Keir." Toreth stretched out in his chair and closed his eyes against the sun. "And you're welcome to the nasty little fuckers." Since Toreth couldn't see him, Warrick allowed himself a smile. Toreth's reaction to children always amused him. There were so many topics that Warrick wouldn't normally dare raise with him, most of them to do with their relationship. Any suggestion that they would be together in the long term was risky. Offers of affection that weren't tied to fucking, expressing any kind of disapproval over his compulsive infidelity, even bringing food round to Toreth's flat too frequently any of these and more could trigger a retreat. Then there were the standalone topics, such as Toreth's family, which were absolutely unmentionable. Children, however, simply irritated him. Never, as far as Warrick could remember, had Toreth ever reacted badly to his expressing an approval of them. He found it funny because the topic was, classically, a panic-inducing one for the commitment-phobic. His best guess was that it had never occurred to Toreth that 'I like children' might in any way be connected to 'I would like to have children of my own', with all the concomitant relationship implications. It had never seemed like a good idea to suggest the link to him. He'd discussed the idea once with, of all people, Sara. She'd brought it up, the excuse being that her own mother was beginning to mention grandchildren excessively; in reality, she'd been fishing. She'd seemed to approve of his generally positive views on the subject, then worked briskly round to whether he, in the specific, wanted any. He'd closed that avenue off with bland nothings, with which she hadn't bothered to hide her annoyance. Then, casual conversational distraction, he'd asked her what she thought Toreth would be like with children. Sara had given it long and serious thought, and then said, "I think he'd probably eat them." He'd laughed, and that had been it. Because, really, it was so true that there was nothing else to say. Keeping Toreth around involved sacrifces, and this was one of them and by no means the largest. It was very pleasant, sitting in the sun and doing nothing. Not something Warrick did often, with or without Toreth, and he decided they ought to do it again. Not necessarily the Zoo, but they didn't spend much time together simply . . . being somewhere together. It was something that would be better not discussed, but just quietly arranged. Maybe he'd even risk suggesting a holiday that wasn't disguised as a conference trip. A few days somewhere warm, with

a beach; given his dislike of being underwater in the sim, Toreth probably wouldn't dive, but he might be induced to snorkel . . . Warrick closed his eyes, imagining Toreth's body, powdery with dried salt. Blond hair bleached a shade lighter by the sun. Blue eyes squinting against the dazzle from the sea, softening the hardness of his face. Tanning skin, with perhaps a touch of sunburn along his shoulders just a little something to stroke soothing lotion over. He smiled at the picture, and his body's approving reaction to it. Maybe insatiable wasn't such a bad description, at that. Better make it somewhere secluded enough for nude swimming. Fine, hot sand, which of course would be far more inconvenient than it was in the sim, but still A squeak of metal on stone caught his attention and, sure enough, when he looked round, he found that Toreth was watching him. "What're you smirking about?" Toreth asked. Warrick sat up. "Guess." He kept the scrutiny up for a few seconds longer, then grinned. "Well, of course what else?" They finished their beers, then had another round. After those had also gone down Toreth looked at his watch. "Shall we go?" "Why not? Except that . . . " Warrick hesitated. When he'd thought of the Zoo, he'd had something specific in mind, but he wasn't sure he wanted to risk it spoiling the day. "I wanted to show you something before we do. She was new here the last time I came with Dilly, a few weeks ago, and I'm thinking of modelling one for the sim." "What is it?" "Just come and see. It won't take long," he added. Toreth shrugged amiably. "If you like." The enclosure had been newly renovated and the small path up to it started just beyond the flamingo pool. On that basis, it might be expected to be busy, but at the start of the path stood a board displaying, 'NO CHILDREN', reinforced by a chronically bored attendant. He nodded them through and then returned to a comm conversation with what sounded to be a profoundly unhappy girlfriend. They walked in silence between artificial rocks planted up with ferns. Then the path opened out, and Warrick hung back to let Toreth go first. The cage wasn't small. Some of the space was an illusion created by painted walls and artfully arranged plants and stone, but there was plenty of open space, tall wooden frames with platforms, and a rugged fake cliff. Thick glass separated the enclosure from the viewing area, with a polite notice on the screen beside the glass requesting visitors to stay back behind a makeshift tape barrier. 'Visitors' currently meant only them, for which Warrick was grateful. Other people would have spoiled the moment. "There," he said, although there was no need. The solitary occupant was in plain view. The panther paced across the front of the cage immediately behind the glass. Not the whole width barely a third of it, in fact. She had worn a path in the grass, turning each time at precisely the same spot, moving with a tightly contained energy that he found painful to watch. Prowling that was the word traditionally linked to big cats. She should have prowled, but she didn't. Warrick had spent a long time in front of the cage when he'd been here with Dillian, trying to work out why the word felt so wrong, and eventually decided that prowling implies an interest in the

world around. The panther showed no awareness of anything beyond her endless turn and return. Unlike many of the other cages, there was no sense of being watched back. It was possible to map many things onto the flat, yellow eyes restlessness, rage, boredom, despair, madness, a desperate determination never to surrender to stillness and death but nothing that touched the viewer, nothing that connected to anything outside the animal's own mind. She was in beautiful condition, coat glossy, muscles flowing under her skin as she moved and turned, moved and turned. That only made it worse, that such a healthy specimen could be so sick. The simile was obvious, and had occurred to him almost immediately he'd first seen her. He'd been thinking it over for a while when Dilly had turned to him and said in a low voice, "You know who it reminds me of, don't you?" The remark had surprised him. These days Dilly never mentioned Toreth unless it was absolutely required. There had been no question as to who she meant, though. He'd nodded, and they'd left it at that. Just as he'd done with Dilly, they stood and watched the panther in silence for a long time. "Why's it doing that?" Toreth asked eventually. "She came from somewhere where she was kept in a very small cage, with insufficient stimulation. The repetitive behaviour is called stereotyping. A stress-reducing response, or so I understand." "So why is it still doing it?" "Probably because she hasn't noticed yet that things have changed." "God, no wonder they're extinct in the wild if they were all that stupid." "It's not a question of intelligence. It was all she'd ever experienced, according to the exhibit entry." He offered his hand screen to Toreth, but he was still watching the panther. "She arrived at the other place as a young cub, and after that she was always kept alone in the same cage." Without meaning to, he switched into his lecture voice. "Normal brain and central nervous system development depends on the proper kinds of environmental stimulation. When a stimulus is present, the developing nervous system reacts to it, learns from it and is shaped by it. There was nothing she wanted in the world around her, and no unpredictable events that required a reaction, so eventually she ceased to respond to it." "Yeah, sounds vaguely familiar. I think it came up in a psychology course." Toreth glanced round. "How come you know so much about it?" "I read a little of the field for some of the early sim work. We were interested in the possible side effects of feeding artificial stimuli into the brain." When he stopped, Toreth prompted, "And?" "And nothing. The consensus of available research was that any stimulus was equally well received, and that any small abnormalities created were quickly corrected by re-exposure to the normal world. Our initial results supported that and we dropped the project. A pity, because it's an interesting subject, but we had commercial considerations. I think one of the university groups at the AERC still works on it." "So why aren't the new stimuli correcting that?" Toreth ducked under the tape and walked right up to the glass, following the panther along the cage. "Her stereotyping is very deeply ingrained. Our work was with adults the nervous system is

developed by then, and changes are largely limited to relatively minor remodelling. The damage was done to her during early development, and was then heavily reinforced for a number of years." "So it's going to be like this forever?" The panther turned and Toreth turned with her, perfectly in time and barely less graceful. "They hope not. They've had other animals arrive in a similar condition, and most of them can be coaxed out of it eventually. Helped to learn new behaviours. It's likely to take a long time, though. Months at least. Perhaps years before she's anything like normal." "Why's it staying just there?" "I don't know for certain. Possibly she paced at the front of the old cage, where she could see the most, and so she's doing the same here. If you look, the track is where the light from out here is strongest. I don't imagine there's much choice involved in the activity it's a reflex, that's all. A compulsion, rather." Toreth stopped pacing and crouched down, palm pressed against the glass. The panther moved away from him, unheeding. "Poor fucking thing." It was virtually the only time Warrick could remember him expressing sympathy for anything, animal or human. Still crouched, Toreth turned away from the glass towards him, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. "Warrick, why did you want me to see it?" "I thought you might be interested, that's all." "No." He stood up. "No, that wasn't it, was it?" "Yes, it was. Partly." He didn't carry on, waiting for Toreth to ask. "Come here," Toreth said after a moment. Warrick joined him beyond the barrier, without hesitation. Toreth took his arm, turned him to face the glass just a few inches away. The panther paced by, gaze fixed inwards, blind to the freedom around her. Toreth moved to stand behind him, hands on his shoulders. The position triggered some reflexes of Warrick's own. "What do you think about it?" Toreth asked. Under Toreth's hands, Warrick's skin tingled, sensitised by the current of danger in Toreth's voice. "I think . . . that she's very beautiful. One of the most beautiful things I've ever seen." In the thick glass he caught Toreth's reflection from over his shoulder, but couldn't read his expression. "You feel sorry for it, don't you?" Toreth asked. "Yes." "More fool you. I'll tell you something if you went in there with it, I bet it'd stop stereotyping pretty fucking sharpish." His hands slid up, circling Warrick's neck loosely. "It'd tear your fucking throat out." Warrick forced his shoulders to relax. "Yes, I expect it would." "That'd teach you not to feel sorry for things that don't fucking need it." "Briefly, yes. Not a lesson you could really learn from, though." Toreth didn't laugh. "No, it wouldn't be."

"You called her a poor fucking thing," Warrick said after a moment. "So I was wrong. There you go I don't say that very often, so enjoy it." The hands released him, and the reflection dimmed as Toreth stepped back. He thought that was it, but Toreth spoke again. "You brought me here because you wanted a comparison, didn't you? To see us next to each other?" The question caught Warrick as much by surprise as Dillian's had. Even though Toreth had obviously guessed, Warrick had never imagined that he'd say anything directly about it. "Yes," he admitted. "Well? What's the conclusion?" Shadows moved in the glass as Toreth pointed to the enclosure. "That thing is that what you see, when you look at me?" Warrick hesitated as the panther passed him once more, trapped in the strange comfort of her invisible cage. He considered lying, but that would be more dangerous than the truth if Toreth had the slightest doubt. He turned to look at Toreth, meeting his expectant gaze. "Occasionally, yes." Toreth smiled, as predatory as anything they'd seen during the day, but without the reassurance of a barrier between them. He reached out slowly, giving Warrick plenty of time to react, pulled him forwards, and kissed him hard. One hand pressed between Warrick's shoulders, the other slid up his chest to rest lightly, casually, around his throat. Fear sharpened the arousal until he was panting into Toreth's mouth. He heard female voices coming up the path towards them but for once he didn't care that they were doing this in public. A sudden silence followed by a nervous giggle indicated that they'd been seen. Toreth held the kiss for a few more seconds, slowly tightening his grip around Warrick's throat, then released him and stepped back. "Then more fool you, again." Toreth ducked smoothly under the tape and walked away without another word, back towards the flamingos. Ignoring the women, Warrick went to sit on one of the benches scooped out the artificial rock at the back of the viewing area. He waited until his heart had stopped pounding not until some time after the group had moved on and then took the exit path away from the panther. It felt as if something had changed, or ought to have changed, but when he glanced back he saw the panther pacing away from him as if nothing had happened. Which, for her, was true. To his surprise, Toreth had stopped at the flamingo pool to wait for him; he was sitting on the wall and watching the birds. When Warrick came up, he glanced round and smiled briefly, the aura of danger gone. Warrick sat on the wall beside him and said, "I'm sorry." Open-ended enough that Toreth could accept it or ignore it, as he chose. "It doesn't matter." Toreth shrugged. "If you're going to drag me all the way here to compare me to some bloody animal, at least it was something flattering. Better than a fucking tapir." "Actually, I like the tapirs." "How about the flamingos?" Toreth asked, then carried on without waiting for an answer, his voice distant and dispassionate. "We went on holiday once. Somewhere sunny. It was . . . okay, actually, as far as I remember. Or at least it wasn't unbearably fucking awful. I usually counted down

the days until we went home, because at least there it wasn't like being trapped in a fucking cage with them twenty-four hours a day." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Anyway, the hotel had flamingos in the grounds. Only time I'd seen any. I liked them I got up early every morning to go have a look at them. I suppose it's the kind of thing you do when you're however old I was." Toreth gestured vaguely at the birds. "I thought they were bigger than that, but then I thought: you always do, don't you?" Warrick stared at him, stuck for a reply. A several-sentence reference to Toreth's family was quite unprecedented. The only responses that came to mind were flippant or sympathetic, neither of which would be well received. Toreth looked at him briefly, reading his reaction, then stood up and turned away. "Come on. Let's go I'm bored."

Unaccustomed As I Am . . .
Toreth leaned back in the low seat and sipped his drink, looking round the club with a proprietorial air. So far, things were going very well. He'd organised Sara's ten-year service party personally, as per section tradition, so it had better go well. Or rather, he'd overseen the organisation. In consultation with the General Criminal admins, he'd decided on the entertainment for later and then he'd delegated the venue, the food and all the other dull parts of the evening to Chevril's admin, Kel. Tillotson had, very sportingly, come up with a donation from some budget somewhere and Kel had managed to book the club for the evening at a discount. The reputation attached to the I&I name could come in handy. Consequently, the tickets had been cheap and there was a gratifyingly large crowd. The majority of people from their section had turned out, and quite a few from elsewhere. Sara, naturally, was having the time of her life. Her only complaint, repeated several times, was how old it made her feel. She had a point. The idea that she'd been working for him for ten years made Toreth feel pretty fucking old, too. He remembered her arriving . . . well, no, actually he didn't. But he remembered that he'd had a completely useless admin, and then suddenly a very good one. Junior paras, when they had them at all, were generally given the most junior admins, but even fresh out of training she'd been ten times better than whatever-his-name-was had been. Plenty of people had tried to poach her over the years, and he was very glad that she'd stayed. His job would be hell without her. Ten years. That meant he'd been twenty-five at the time. Four years before he'd become a senior, and seven years before he'd met Warrick. Measured out like that, it seemed to have gone past frighteningly quickly. He finished his drink and shook the glass, rattling the ice. Had he really known Warrick for three years? God, now that made him feel old. Not to mention disconcertingly like . . . half of something. It was still strange, reading an invitation and knowing that there was an 'and guest'. There hadn't been an invitation for this, of course, so he hadn't thought of it before now. No big deal, anyway. Thinking about Warrick, he automatically checked to see where he was. There were very few occasions on which Warrick could be persuaded to have anything at all to do with I&I. However, this time he'd agreed with only a token show of reluctance. He'd even bought Sara a present. Toreth hadn't seen it yet, but an inordinate amount of giggling had accompanied her opening it, so Warrick's sense of humour had obviously had an outing. Despite Warrick's ready agreement, Toreth had a lingering feeling of unease. Partly it was the fact that Warrick had spent a fair proportion of the evening looking as if there was a faint but unpleasant smell in the vicinity, which at any moment would turn out to be something nasty stuck to his shoe. Partly it was the effort of keeping an eye on who was talking to Warrick and, more importantly, what they were saying to him. At the moment he had been cornered by Chevril, who fell under the heading of 'dull but safe'. He talked primarily about money, not work, and he wasn't going to start any fishing expeditions into their sex life. Toreth wasn't sure how many of the fuck stories he'd passed on to Sara had made it any further but, with one thing and another, he did know there were various versions floating around the section. It was only to be expected when Warrick was a) rich, b) attractive, and c) interestingly kinked. Warrick, however, wouldn't see it like that. If he heard anything, he would have in Dillian's

phrase fifteen different kinds of fits. Not in public, obviously, but the moment they left and probably for a tediously long time afterwards. Earlier Toreth had spent an agonising half hour while, at Sara's instigation, Warrick had outlined the sim to a group of curious admins. Most of the questions had revolved around sex, in one way or another, although that was fine as long as it didn't get personal. There had been a couple of nasty moments when the conversation had veered towards I&I applications for the sim. To his surprise, Warrick had merely deflected the enquires with polite (and as far as Toreth knew, untruthful) claims of commercial confidentiality. He must have looked nervous at the time, because after the group had split up (with an assortment of optimistic requests for sim time), Warrick had smiled serenely at him and said, "Some of us do know how to behave in public." At the moment, judging by the snippets he could overhear and Warrick's glazed expression Chevril was well into his favourite theme of 'why my life would be perfect if I only had a job with a rich corporation'. It would be less annoying if the man would actually go out and find another job, but he preferred to complain about it instead. Still, he was a good para. Takes all sorts. If it looked as if Warrick was about to start chewing his own arm off to get out of the trap, he'd rescue him. Anyway, it was getting close to the time to make the presentation to Sara and give his speech, to which he was looking forwards tremendously. Sara had spent the entire week trying to wheedle out of him exactly what he was going to say, and looking increasingly panic-stricken by the whole idea. As well she might. He'd had a word with her multitude of friends in the division and reaped a variety of entertaining anecdotes, including some he'd forgotten and a few he hadn't even known about. Everyone had been very helpful. He'd mentioned that to Sara, once or twice. In fact, he'd transferred the notes for the speech onto paper, just for the pleasure of watching her face as he took them out of his jacket pocket and paged through them a couple of times during the evening. He checked the notes one more time. Looking up, he discovered that Warrick had made his escape from Chevril. Hell, where was he? Nowhere to be seen. Toreth told himself he was worrying unnecessarily. What could go wrong, really? The music had quietened, so while he kept scanning the room, he tuned into Chevril's conversation. He'd turned his attention to Sedanioni, one of his investigation team and therefore obliged to give her boss a minimum level of courteous attention. "Fraser from level six left last year. I saw him a few weeks ago. Do you have any idea what he's earning now? Go on, guess. All right, I'll tell you . . . " "Drink?" Warrick's voice, right behind him, startled him. "What? Oh, thanks." Warrick passed him a glass over his shoulder. Toreth leaned back and looked up at him. "Having fun?" he asked, without much hope of getting a positive reply. To his surprise, Warrick smiled. "I'm having a tolerable evening, yes. I'm keen to hear your speech, at least." "Oh, good." Toreth grinned and tucked the papers away again. "Sara isn't."

"I know. I saw her at the bar and she said that if " "The problem, of course," Sedanioni said to Chevril, pointedly and slightly too loudly, "is that some people don't know what they really want." Chevril, naturally, failed to notice the hint. Or he noticed it and ignored it, because he carried on as if she hadn't spoken. Warrick crouched down and rested his arms on the back of Toreth's seat. "I know what I want," he murmured, his voice low and amused. "I want you." "Yeah, I've noticed." Toreth kept his reply equally soft. Warrick stroked the back of Toreth's neck with a discreet finger. "I want you to fuck me," he continued. "I want you to chain me up with your lovely presents. I want you to hurt me. I want your mouth against my ear, promising me things I can hardly bear to hear because I want them so very badly." The light caress was firing every nerve in his body. Warrick slipped his arm over Toreth's shoulder, not an overly intimate gesture to an observer, but his touch burned across Toreth's chest even through the layers of cloth. His voice whispered on, while around them everyone else continued their conversations, oblivious. "I want to give myself up completely and let you take control. I want to kneel for you, bound and blindfolded, while you fuck my mouth. I want your hand in my hair, forcing me down. I want to taste your come. I want your fingers inside me. I want your cock inside me. I want you to hold me, to hold me down, so that all I can feel is you, all I can hear is my voice begging for you, for more, for everything. I want to lose myself so totally that when you finally let me come, I don't even hear myself scream." Brief pause. "That's what I want." He stood up and moved away. Toreth sat frozen in shock, dry-mouthed and nearly shaking with lust. It took him a whole minute to realise that it was time for him to make his speech, and that Warrick had lifted his notes.

Helen
The indoor section of the cafe was almost deserted. Everyone sat outside at the plaza tables, enjoying the unexpectedly warm October Saturday. When Warrick emerged from the cafe carrying the tray, he saw Toreth waving from a small table in the centre. As he worked his way across the closely packed space, he hoped Toreth had simply been lucky to find a vacant table. He wasn't above using his I&I ID to clear seats when he felt like it. He sat down beside Toreth and emptied the tray. "So, what do you think of open-air theatre?" While he watched Toreth pretending to consider the answer, Warrick tasted a teaspoonful of the nutmeg-dusted froth on his coffee. Bitter, but a pleasant combination. "Not bad," Toreth said finally. "It's been a long week, I needed some extra sleep." "You didn't enjoy it?" "Well . . . " Toreth broke a corner off his cheese scone and ate it. "This is nothing like as good as yours." "Thank you." Warrick waited, then prompted, "Well?" "'A History of the Reconstruction of New London in Drama and Song'? They could've picked something more exciting. Like anything. And bits of it were complete bollocks, anyway I've read some of the old files." "You can hardly blame them for sticking to publicly available information for a public performance." "Yeah, fair point." Toreth licked his thumb and finger. "I suppose it was okay, if you want to find out how many things rhyme with debris." So he'd been at least that awake. "They're a talented group. Dillian was at university with one of the founders they both read engineering." "Yeah? Figures." His eyes crinkled, half smile, half reaction to the sun emerging from behind a cloud. "You could've told me we were only there to help make up the numbers. I'd have brought a blanket." Warrick decided to up the game. "Don't worry, I shall know not to ask you next time." Cornered, Toreth shrugged. "I've had worse afternoons. Didn't you say they do evening performances in bars? That wouldn't be so bad. Something to drink . . . " His hand dropped below the table and Warrick felt a touch on his knee, then fingertips walking slowly up his thigh. "Nice dark seats at the back." About to protest, Warrick stopped, his attention caught by a woman emerging from the constant flow of pedestrians on the broad path that ran across the centre of the park. Her clothes were respectable, if not new appropriate for middle age but carelessly worn, the colours mismatched, the cardigan misbuttoned. Striding towards the outdoor cafe, apparently looking directly towards them, she seemed out of place amidst the drifting afternoon crowd. Did he know her? Toreth's hand stopped moving. "What?" "That woman, over there."

As she reached the edge of the plaza, Warrick decided he didn't recognise her. At the same moment, however, the contact on Warrick's leg vanished and Toreth muttered, "Of all the fucking people . . . " She pushed past a crowded table, ignoring an angry protest as a drink spilled. Halfway across the obstacle course, though, her approach faltered. She ground to a halt a couple of metres from the table and hesitated, darting glances at Warrick before her gaze settled on Toreth. "I didn't . . . " Her voice was soft, breathy and almost childish. "I Did you lose my number, Val?" "Helen, go away." Deliberate boredom, a tone Warrick recognised well. She smiled rapturously. "Of course you did. I knew you had. Look. Val, please look." She rolled back the soft beige wool sleeves. The neatly patched elbows caught Warrick attention for a moment, then he simply stared, horrified. Her bare arms were crossed with scars, dozens of them, new over old, cuts and burns; she must have taken some trouble to ensure the injuries healed leaving such visible marks. No chance of his reaction upsetting her all her attention was on Toreth. She edged closer. "I didn't forget. I hurt myself for you, Val. See?" After a few seconds Warrick looked at him too, his eyes unwilling to leave the awful mutilation. Toreth appeared profoundly unimpressed, and annoyed. "Helen, be a good girl and fuck off, or I'm calling Justice." Then, to Warrick, he added, "Don't worry; she's not dangerous. She's just a pain in the neck because she won't fucking " he turned back to her, " go away." Cringing, the woman held her ground, her arms still extended like a security pass, hands clasped, knuckles white. "Don't be angry, Val," she whispered. "I looked for you, I promise." "You're breaching the banning order, remember? Do you remember?" Toreth asked the question without any apparent expectation of an answer, because he was already pulling out his comm earpiece. "Banning order?" Warrick asked. "Yeah. There's a permanent anti-nuisance injunction that's supposed to keep the demented bitch away from me." Out of the corner of his eye Warrick saw her flinch again at the words. "And much as I hate to give Justice the satisfaction of asking for their help . . . " "Val, why are you angry with me? I don't understand. Tell me what I did wrong." The soft, miserable voice and the sight of the woman, so obviously disturbed, stirred pity. Warrick touched Toreth's wrist. "What happens then?" Toreth jerked his hand away, frowning irritably. "Detention. With any luck they'll lock her up and lose the fucking code this time." "Isn't there anyone else you can call?" "What, you want me to find her a bloody psychiatrist?" Toreth hesitated, then shrugged quickly. "Maybe. There used to be a husband. Helen, are you still married?" She frowned thoughtfully, then brought her hands up in front of her face, spreading her fingers. Thin scars netted the backs of her hands, and a wide gold band encircled her ring finger. "Yes. I'm sorry, Val." "No, that's fine." He tapped a shortcut and waited. "Sara? Yes, me. Sorry to bother you at the weekend. No, I'm still in the park with Warrick. Yeah, but we stopped for coffee and cake afterwards.

I know, I know, no need to take the piss. Listen, you've got three guesses who just turned up. No. No. No Psycho Helen." As he said the name he glanced towards Helen, who made a soft sound of longing. Toreth snorted and looked away. "Madder, if anything. Do me a favour, would you link in to I&I, check the file and get in touch with her husband. Tell him that she's here with me and if he doesn't come and take her somewhere else in the next five minutes, I'm contacting Justice and calling in the banning order. Plaza Cafe. No, I'll wait." Toreth sat in silence, watching his fingers tapping the edge of the table. Helen stood fixed to the spot, her whole body yearning towards him. Warrick looked between them, wondering. Eventually Toreth's head lifted slightly. "He is? Thank God. Great, thanks. Yeah, see you Monday." He turned to Warrick. "Her husband's in the park somewhere. He's on his way. And remember you wanted me to call him. It wasn't my idea." Silence again, until curiosity won out. "Toreth, who is she?" Toreth sighed. "I interrogated her, a long time ago. You really don't want to hear the details." "Why doesn't he?" a male voice asked from behind him. Warrick turned round to see a man, about the same age as Helen, looking between them. He wore the same kind of clothes a little out-of-date, a little dilapidated but without Helen's distracted air. "Why don't you tell him what you did to her?" he demanded, his voice harsh with anger. "I did my job." Toreth tapped his watch. "Three minutes to get her the fuck out of here, or I call Justice." His hard, flat voice wasn't quite the game voice, but it was close enough to be unsettling. The man's eyes narrowed. "That's it? That's all you've got to say?" "My interest in you, and her, finished . . . what? Ten years ago?" "Twelve," the man said. "It was twelve years in August. The seventeenth." "Really? Time flies. If you don't want me to start taking an interest again, I suggest you get on with leaving." Toreth cocked his head towards Helen. "Or shall I take her off your hands? Take her in to I&I? With your history and the order I've got forty-eight hours before I even need to talk to a Justice rep and after that I can hand her straight over to them without you ever seeing her." "You " The man nodded sharply. "Come on, Helen. Time to go home. Helen it's me. Helen? Can you hear me? We have to go home now." Finally the woman turned towards him. "Michael?" She frowned, then shook her head. "I have to stay with Val," she said, sounding surprised that there was any doubt. "He doesn't want to see you." "Yes he does." Helen spun back to Toreth. "Tell him, Val. Don't be angry with me." Toreth pushed his chair back, catching the table with his thigh as he stood. Cups rattled, coffee spilling onto the table. "Shut up and fuck off. How can I make it any clearer?" He turned and Helen wailed, recognizing the planned departure before Warrick did. Before Toreth could walk away, she seized his arm. He spun back and struck her hand away, the blow audible over the noise of the park. "Don't fucking touch me!"

She whimpered, pressing her hand to her mouth. At precisely the same moment, Warrick stood and Michael stepped forwards, both stopping when Toreth held his hand up. "The banning order entitles me to use reasonable physical force to protect myself," he said to Michael. "You do know that, don't you?" Michael's lips tightened. "If she tries that again, I'll break her arm. Sound reasonable to you?" "If you dare, I'll break " "No!" Helen stepped between them, facing her husband. "Don't hurt him!" "Don't ?" Michael groaned with frustration. "Helen, please. Come away. Leave him." "No!" She lunged for Toreth again, evading her husband's desperate hands, and Toreth hit her in the face. A single blow with a calculated placment and force that left a sour taste in Warrick's mouth. Helen went down screaming, her hands to her face, blood already seeping between her fingers. Cafe patrons rose, then hesitated as Toreth pulled his I&I ID from his jacket and held it up. Michael, swearing loudly, seemed momentarily torn between going to his wife's aid and attacking her assailant. Toreth looked around at the chaos, shook his head, and simply walked away. By the time he'd reached the edge of the cafe, Michael was already on his knees beside his wife. "Shh. It's going to be all right." "It's your fault," she sobbed. "You made him angry with me. You made him go." "Yes. It's my fault. I know. Shh, now." Warrick stayed where he was, frozen by the contrast between the man's soft, patient voice and the pain and despair on his face. Slowly Helen calmed, letting Michael gather her against him, then finally help her to her feet and into a chair not the one Toreth had sat in, although it was the closest. He picked up a handful of paper napkins and held them to her face. The blood from her nose had already stained her chest, clotting in the fabric of her cardigan. Michael looked up, apparently only then seeing Warrick again. "Still here?" he asked Warrick. He wanted to go, but ingrained politeness forced him to ask, "Is there anything I can do?" For a moment he thought the man might lash out, then he mastered himself. "I need something to clean her up with, and a glass of water." The cafe management provided both, and thankfully listened to Warrick's assurances that everything was under control and there was no need to call Justice. Back at the table, he set the bowl and glass down. While he was away, Helen's sleeves had been rolled down again, hiding the scars. She sat in the chair, arms wrapped round her, staring down at the floor, rocking. Warrick caught a low murmur of words, but couldn't make them out. He didn't try very hard. Without even a glance at Warrick, Michael picked up the glass and offered it to his wife along with two white capsules. "Take them, sweetheart. Please?" She accepted the tablets, although her hands shook and he had to help her with the water. Some of it spilled anyway, adding to the mess.

Then Michael picked the cloth out of the bowl, wrung it out, and handed it to her. "Do you think you can manage, or do you want me to do it?" "I'll do it." She took the cloth, holding her head up. "I'm not a child, Michael." "Of course you aren't." He pulled the bowl to the edge of the table nearest her. "I'm sorry." Nevertheless, he waited until she began the task before he came over to where Warrick watched. "Thanks," Michael said. Then, after a pause he added, "I wouldn't have asked except that if I'd left her alone she'd only have gone after the bastard and got herself arrested or lost." "Don't mention it." "I'm only surprised he didn't call Justice right away. Or " Michael looked at him. "Was that your idea?" Caught out, Warrick nodded before he could stop himself. "Figures." He looked Warrick up and down and asked, "You don't work for I&I, then?" "No. I'm a friend." The word sounded odd, and as unsuitable as most other descriptions of their relationship. "A friend?" Michael laughed, brief and bitter. "I'd never have imagined he'd have one." At the table, Helen was busily cleaning the blood from her face, using a vanity mirror from her handbag. "It's plastic," Michael said. "The mirror. Unbreakable. We can't let her have anything sharp. Her arms aren't the worst of it. That's what I was worried about when she disappeared that she'd find something she could hurt herself with. I didn't think for a moment it would be him." Warrick looked round, but Toreth was long out of sight. "I really have to go." "Helen thinks he raped her," Michael said with no change in his tone. Had he heard right? "Thinks?" He nodded. "And the irony is, he didn't. All he did all he did was order the guards to do it. And stand and watch. And make sure that I saw it all. I remember what he said when it started. 'It's up to you. This goes on for as long as you allow it'. When they stopped . . . they didn't stop until I'd convinced him I'd told him everything I knew." Michael looked round the cafe, a quick glance over the nearby tables. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. "She couldn't tell them herself, because she didn't know anything. I always made sure she never heard anything, never saw anything dangerous. I thought that would be enough to keep her safe." Apparently oblivious to the conversation, Helen rinsed out the cloth and started sponging her blood-soaked cardigan. "I let a few friends use a room, that's all," Michael continued, words spilling out like they'd been trapped for too long. "I only went to one or two of the meetings. I didn't even know all their names, but I gave him every one I did know. I sold them out, and now they're dead, or they were sent for reeducation and God only knows what happened to them. I did it to save her, and I didn't even manage to do that." His voice roughened. "Most of the time she's all right. No. She's never all right, but most of the time she copes. Then she sees someone someone who looks like him. Or she hears a voice in the street, or on the screen, or sometimes in her fucking head, and she loses it all over again." What could he say? Michael looked away, across the cafe, and Warrick saw the hastily averted faces.

"Not that I'm saying there's anything wrong with what they did to her." Warrick couldn't help staring himself at the words, and Michael nodded, his face set grimly. "I&I did what was necessary for the protection of the Administration from criminals and resisters. Exactly like they say in citizenship classes. I'm a good citizen now. Reformed character. You can tell your friend that if he asks. Not that he will he doesn't care." His voice cracked. "How could he do that to her when he didn't even care?" Without waiting for a response, Michael went to crouch beside his wife. An incipient hole in the sole of his right shoe caught Warrick's eye, drawing his attention back to the general shabbiness of the couple's clothes. Nothing surprising there, now. A conviction for political crimes would automatically disqualify an applicant from finding work with even semirespectable corporations. SimTech wouldn't even send a rejection note. It was the only sensible thing to do any kind of association with a convicted resister was an invitation to trouble. Michael took the cloth from Helen and dropped it into the bloody water. The worst of the blood was gone, but the whole cafe was watching and they would attract plenty more stares on the way out of the park. Perhaps Helen wouldn't even notice, but Warrick could barely imagine how Michael must feel. He dismissed a brief impulse to offer to pay for a taxi home for them no doubt Michael would only feel insulted. And any kind of association . . . "Come on, love," Michael said. "Time to go home." "Can't I wait?" she asked wistfully. "Please?" "He won't come back. Tell her," he added without looking round. "He's right. Toreth won't come back." That was certainly true. Helen checked her reflection again before she slowly slid the mirror into her bag. She stood and turned towards Warrick, blinking vaguely, then smiled at him. "It was very nice to meet you. Will you see him again? Soon?" Warrick glanced at Michael, who merely shrugged. Perhaps there was no right thing to say. "I don't know." She nodded gravely. "If you do, give him my love." ~~~ Warrick had visited six bars on the route between the cafe and Toreth's flat before he realised he was approaching the problem from the wrong angle. Toreth was avoiding him, and he'd probably also guess that Warrick knew that. Therefore he'd take care to be in the least likely place. Warrick rang the comm at the entrance to Toreth's block of flats for two minutes, getting no response, then let himself into the building. Upstairs, he knocked on the door of the flat half a dozen times with the same result. Well, Toreth had given him the code, so there was no reason not to use it. Inside he found Toreth sitting on the sofa with a glass in his hand and an open bottle of whiskey on the table in front of him. "Oh, hello," Toreth said, just as if Warrick hadn't touched the comm or door. He downed the contents of his glass and poured another. "Didn't think I'd be seeing you around for a while. If ever. Nice chat with Michael?" The bottle was more than two-thirds empty, and Warrick wondered if it had been full when Toreth started. "Toreth " "If you've come to tell me how much you hate I&I, or interrogations, or me, you can save your

breath and fuck off right now because I don't give a shit what you think about any of those or anything else." "Will you " "She was on a level eight waiver, so was he. The resister group was breaking up, they were the only link in we could lay our hands on." The defensiveness in his voice surprised Warrick. "I just picked the quickest thing to get the information out of them. If the psych profiles had fit, I'd have had them do him. Before they started on her, I explained what a section N interrogation clearance meant. I could probably find the recording somewhere if you'd like to see it." He drank again, only a mouthful this time. "What else would you like me to say? I have nightmares about it? I'm sorry I did it? Well, I don't and I'm not. That's just the way it is. All inside the waiver, per the P&P. My first big case as a junior para I got a commendation for the result." This time Warrick stood and waited. "I haven't run a lot of section Ns. It's not a very reliable technique. I'll tell you what's different with Helen, though. I fucked her." He looked up and grinned. "The funny thing is, her idiot husband thinks she's making it up, but she isn't. I really fucked her. Not in the interrogation afterwards. After the trial. Christ, I was stupid. Anyone who's been through any kind of high-level waiver, never mind a section N, and wants to fuck their interrogator afterwards is guaranteed cracked." Finally Warrick managed to get out a whole sentence. "May I sit down?" "Do whatever the fuck you like." Toreth glanced over as he sat, then shook his head. "I fucked her once, dumped her, and spent months trying to get the deranged bitch to leave me the fuck alone. Everyone knew what I'd done, so it was a case of 'serves you right'. She couldn't get onto Int-Sec grounds, so she waited outside my flat every bloody day. I had to get taxis everywhere. I moved flats twice, and she found me again; I'm sure one of the bastards at work gave her my address." He drained his glass and topped it up again although, to Warrick's relief, to only a third full. "Worst part was, I couldn't do a thing about it. Michael was away learning how to be a good boy. Level one re-education reduced sentence because he co-operated in the end. Spineless tosser. Anyway, there was no one to keep her on a leash. If I'd laid a finger on her, Justice would've had me nailed. Para, ex-Justice interrogator. They'd have loved it. Jesus, it was a nightmare. So fucking embarrassing." "What happened?" "When her husband got out he had her locked up, thank God. She came back once or twice. The last time was . . . " He frowned. "Fuck. That must be eight, nine years ago. Not long after Sara started working for me, anyway. I know 'cause she eventually dragged a banning order out of Justice pestered them until it was easier for them to do it than put up with her calling every day. I sent the order to 'em and moved flats again. And there you have it." He raised his glass. "The story of Psycho Helen. Fuck her, and her fucking idealist traitor husband, because I don't give a fuck about either of them." "Then why did you run off?" Despite Toreth's numerous retreats, subtle and otherwise, it wasn't a question Warrick often asked. Toreth blinked at him, then shrugged, whiskey sloshing dangerously. "Dunno. Getting my retaliation in first?" "So what made you think I'd run?" Anger flared up. "I'm pissed, not stupid I know how you feel about I&I. It's gutless fucking

corporates like you who make . . . " Toreth trailed off, then ran his hand through his hair and sighed. "Look, do you want a drink?" "Thanks." By the time Toreth had retrieved a glass, examined it, taken it into the kitchen and cleaned it and returned, some of the tension had dissipated. Warrick took the generously-filled glass and settled back. Toreth sat beside him. "Carnac asked me once how I could bear knowing what you did for a living," Warrick said. "Yeah?" Toreth waited, then asked, "And? There is an 'and', right?" "And I said I didn't think about it. Which is true. However, I know what your job entails I have enough self-respect not to delude myself entirely. I've read parts of your security file, and some of the Procedures and Protocols as well. I know what happens at I&I. I won't deny that meeting a " no point sugar-coating things, " a victim doesn't improve my weekend, but it's hardly earthshattering." "Victim?" Toreth frowned. "He was a fucking resister, and she knew it. Sanctimonious prick." Warrick wasn't sure which of them he meant. "Does it often happen?" "Being stalked or running into people I've interrogated?" His voice had begun to slur. "Helen's the only fruitcake I've picked up, luckily. Some of the psych specialists have packs of the fuckers Augins reckons his have a rota. Generally, yeah, it happens from time to time. Bound to." "It doesn't bother you, does it?" "'Course not. Shouldn't have done whatever the fuck they did." "And the ones who hadn't done anything? The ones who were innocent?" Something he'd always wanted to ask, although he was sure of Toreth's opinion. "Life's a bitch and shit happens." He grinned suddenly. "Sometimes it's me. That's what keeps all the little corporates safe in their beds. Or whoever's bed. D'you want to fuck?" The all-purpose makeup and apology. How ever would they manage without it? "Do you think you're up to it, to coin a phrase?" Toreth peered thoughtfully at the bottle, then shook his head. "Not a fucking chance. I feel like shit. Don't don't go, though." To produce a request like that the bottle must have been full to begin with. "I didn't plan to." "Good. Thanks. I " Toreth finished the glassful, then leaned back, abruptly pale. "Oh, Christ. Room's spinning. Shouldn't have drunk so much, so fast. Why don't I ever fucking learn? How old'm I? Sara asks me that, you know. She says " Warrick stood up and offered his hand. "Go get rid of it. You'll feel a lot better it can't all be in your bloodstream yet." "Yeah." Toreth let Warrick pull him up off the sofa. "Right as usual." He headed for the door, then stopped and held his hand up as Warrick started to follow. "I c'n manage." "Very well." Resisting the temptation to follow, Warrick tidied up which in Toreth's flat was more a matter of rearranging the mess into more aesthetically pleasing piles and listened to the faint sounds of retching from the bathroom. After five minutes, Toreth reappeared, looking brighter but also visibly unsteady on his feet.

"Jesus, my gag reflex isn't what it used to be." He swayed and put his hand out, connecting with the door then looking somewhat surprised by the success. "'Spect it's all that time with your cock down my throat." "Why don't we go to bed?" Warrick suggested. It was early, but he'd rather get Toreth there while he could still walk. Toreth leaned on the door frame, apparently requiring the support of both hands while he considered the question. It took rather longer than usual. "Yeah," he said at length. "Yeah, why not? Be better in the morning, huh?" ~~~ Something woke Warrick a noise. He lifted his head and recognised it. Snoring. Snorting breaths, catching in a throat relaxed by alcohol. Or possibly by the accumulated effects of too much fellatio. Warrick smiled and ran his hand slowly down Toreth's chest, over his stomach and hip, moulding his fingers over the lines of bone and muscle. Back up again, lightening his touch to a tickle. Toreth murmured an incoherent semi-protest and turned away onto his side. Well, that solved the snoring problem. Warrick slid up behind him, fitting himself against Toreth, trying for the maximum skin contact. No protest this time, although there certainly would have been if Toreth had been awake. This broke their carefully delimited rules of touching, which seemed so ridiculous when he considered all that they'd done together. After all this time, sex was encouraged, foreplay was permitted, but too close an approach to a simple display of affection still triggered something between anger and panic. Would it ever be different? Warrick smiled wryly, feeling Toreth's hair against his lips. The shock of a sober Toreth turning over and saying anything like 'hold me' would probably kill him. He did wonder what lay behind the fear. Sometimes he wondered enough to consider the merits of a more careful study of Toreth's psych file. He'd looked at it just the once, not long after Marian Tanit's death, wanting to know that Toreth was a safe choice for a longer-term liaison. Or rather, just dangerous enough but in control of himself. He'd read no further than the summary, mindful of the risks of knowing too much. If he'd ever let something slip which proved that he'd read the file, Toreth would be furious. Perhaps furious enough to do serious damage and under those circumstances Warrick wouldn't blame him. The psych file remained a temptation, but one he could resist when he considered the possible backlash. Besides, it was an unfair advantage to hold over Toreth, who was already at such a disadvantage emotionally. And that line of thought was taking him somewhere he didn't want to go, but knew he should. Better to get it over with. Deliberately, he called Helen to mind her halting, broken speech, the awful scars, her husband's despair. Toreth's earlier defensiveness hadn't been regret for what he'd done to them. Embarrassment over his professional lapse as a new para-investigator, an inarticulate fear of the practical, personal consequences that Warrick might be driven away and nothing more than that. He tortures people, Warrick thought, forcing himself to focus on the words. Real people, guilty and innocent. Perhaps some people who've said no more against the Administration than I have occasionally, and certainly no more than Tarin has. He orders rapes, he stands and watches, and he doesn't care. He kills whenever the

Administration decides a death would be convenient. He killed when we decided it would be convenient. Politics, justice, individual pain: none of it matters to him, just as Marian said. None of it touches him. I know all that, and I don't care about it enough to give him up. Just enough not to want to hear about it and to blame him for what I feel when he mentions I&I. Still, somehow, not real enough to banish the warmth of the bed. Not as real as the body against him. Marian's death had sickened him and then, only an hour later, he'd welcomed Toreth's aggressive passion in the office. He pressed his face against Toreth's neck, touch and taste and scent, letting the warmth wash through him as it always did. A couple of weeks ago they'd been at Sara's party and for most of the time it had seemed like any other office event. Warrick had spent half the evening anticipating his little trick with the notes, and the next half anticipating the consequences when they got home. He hadn't thought . . . and he'd rarely even had to try not to think. He was getting good at it. I fuck Toreth, not his job, he thought. My defense. What does that make me? Perhaps not very much more of a hypocrite than anyone else who deplores I&I and does nothing about it, or who pretends that what happens there doesn't happen because that's easier than facing up to what the Administration has become. But still, a little more.

Shopping, No Fucking
The shop wasn't large, but its stock was comprehensive and for the most part expensive. As they entered, it occurred to Warrick that he really couldn't imagine a more unlikely setting in which to find Toreth. Toreth apparently agreed, because he looked round and shook his head. "Sara once said I'd end up like this, you know." "Really?" "Yeah. Can't remember what we were talking about, but she said, 'You'll be buying curtains with him before long'. Or something like that. Mind you, that was a while ago now, and she probably only said it because she thought it would wind me up." Warrick was willing to bet the windup had succeeded. He also took it as a sign of progress that Toreth sounded more amused than horrified by the memory. "She's a very perceptive woman," Warrick said. "As I've mentioned before, I've always thought that she's wasted as an admin." "I know. People keep telling her to take the investigator late entry course, but, lucky for me, she won't. Mind you, the way she was whipping those fucking pool investigators into shape last week, she really ought to be a para." He thought, very briefly, of Sara in an interrogation room. "I think she'd make a better investigator. And not, of course, that there's anything wrong with being an admin it's a job that requires intelligence and dedication." "Good breasts and a nice arse. God, I never thought there could be so many different kinds of crap for making curtains." Toreth looked round the shop and then at his watch. Something of a record, even by his standards, but only to be expected. The surprise was that he'd come along at all. "Bored already? You didn't have to come." "Yes, I did. It's got to be absolutely perfect. If it's not, you'd only have to get them done again. Besides, I'm the one who does all the standing around without a blindfold, so it's got to be something I like." He looked around the shop again, then squared his shoulders. "Let's get on with it." They spent a while looking through swatches, then Toreth asked, "Why are there two prices on everything?" "The top one is fabric alone, the lower is the price for made-up curtains. That includes the lining and so on. It's all in square metres." "You live and learn. Jesus f " Toreth stopped and lowered his voice. "Jesus fucking Christ, have you seen the price of this stuff?" "Curtains are largely a decorative anachronism, so they lend themselves to expense." Warrick examined the tag. "Ah, no wonder it's pricey it's natural cotton velvet. Beautiful. Feel it." Toreth obediently ran his hands over the fabric, then smiled. "Mmm . . . not bad. Not bad at all. But I still think that's a fuck of a lot of euros for something you don't need." "Nobody needs an antique wardrobe with chains, either, and you didn't object to spending what was no doubt a ridiculous amount of money on that."

"That's different." Toreth's voice lowered again, but in a quite different tone. "And it's also bollocks. You do need it you know you do." He saw the calculation in Toreth's eyes as he gauged the very deliberate effect of the words. Warrick kept his voice as even as he could. "That's wanting, not needing. Very like curtains, in fact." "Really?" Toreth drew the word out. "Just wanting, is it? Shall we stop using it, then? Sell it?" He shook his head, suddenly breathless. The cabinet was one of only two things in his life to which he'd ever felt in danger of becoming addicted. And, like the other thing, that only made it more dangerous and so more desirable. The other thing smiled. "God, I can see you in it now. Could you get off like that without it? Without the chains?" Without the absolute surrender. "No. And not without you. You more than any of it." "Of course." The smile broadened. "And I'm free, if you don't count the dinners." He turned his attention back to the fabric. "Well, you're paying for it. This is nice. Green's wrong, though." Warrick sucked in a quick breath, trying to drive the pictures from his brain. "They'll dye it to order any colour you want." "Mm." Toreth stroked the velvet again. "How much do we need?" Warrick took out his hand screen and paged down until he found the dimensions. "This is for completely enclosing the cabinet and enough floor space around it to " He stopped, suddenly aware of where they were. "Do whatever we want to do," Toreth said, unexpectedly tactful. They'd spent a long time in Warrick's bedroom, measuring and discussing, and pausing halfway through to fuck because the subject of the discussion made it inevitable. Finally they'd settled on a space large enough to let them move freely but small enough to create the effect they both wanted: somewhere enclosed, confining. Constraining. A larger version of the cabinet. It would cut the space off from the rest of his bedroom and make it somewhere different. Somewhere special. Somewhere A touch on his back pulled him out of the reverie as Toreth looked over his shoulder at the proposed designs. "You know, if they're going to go against the wall, we could put some bolts behind them. They'll be hidden most of the time and then when you pull the curtains round they'll be exposed." "Mm." He considered the idea, trying to think of it as a sim room design problem. Having Toreth standing right behind him, touching far too much and not enough, didn't help. "Not bad. But . . . " "You don't like the idea of gear at the flat. I know. I could bring the chains round from my place when we need them. Or you could keep them in the cabinet." "No." Toreth had suggested that before and he'd refused before, but this time Toreth asked, "Why not?" "The cabinet isn't somewhere to keep things. Not even chains. I appreciate it would make the game easier for you, but " "Forget it. Easy doesn't matter." Toreth slid his hands down his arms, circled his wrists and squeezed gently. Then not quite so gently. Warrick shivered he couldn't help it. And this wasn't Fran's shop. "Please, don't," he said, which was rather like trying to put out a fire by pouring brandy over it. "I thought you might need reminding that I don't need chains. Or anything."

He wished he knew what it was about Toreth's voice that could do this to him. It wasn't just the words, although they were exciting enough. It was something in the pitch, the timbre. Did it have the same effect on other people? With an effort, he said, "We came here to buy some curtains, so let's buy them." Toreth let go at once. "Okay." The easy acquiescence made him suspicious, but there was nothing he could do about it. They shopped for a while, or rather Warrick shopped and Toreth rejected his suggestions out of hand. Eventually, somewhat to Warrick's relief, Toreth wandered away somewhere on his own. Warrick continued browsing, almost forgetting his missing companion, until he recognised footsteps behind him. "Yes?" "I found something. Two somethings." Something slipped over his shoulder and he put his hand up automatically to catch hold of it. It was a long curtain tie-back, real silk and a rich red, dark and bright at the same time, like sunlight through wine. "Lovely colour," he said, turning it over in his hands and trying not to think of what else they could do with it. "Yes." Toreth took back the length of silk, walked away a few paces, then stopped when Warrick failed to follow him. "Come on." "Where?" "To see the second thing." All of the shop's walls were hung with curtains, in different styles and fabrics. Toreth walked along until he came to a heavy dark blue drape, then looked around. He lifted the curtain slightly and simply walked behind it, into what ought to have been solid wall. After a moment, his hand reappeared, extended palm up. Warrick look round too, but saw no one observing them. He took Toreth's hand and allowed him to draw him forwards. The space behind was far too small to be considered a room. More of a cupboard, or a niche, housing ducts and piping running from the floor to the ceiling. It was barely large enough for two people, leaving a little space for manoeuvring. The only light was what filtered through and round the thick concealing curtain. Toreth still had hold of his hand. He turned them so that Warrick stood with his back to the pipes, then took his wrists and wrapped the silk rope around them. It felt quite different to leather or steel, or velvet manacle linings, or even ordinary rope. The soft length slid over his skin as Toreth carefully tied the knots, the tasselled ends stroking his palms. He closed his eyes just for a moment enjoying the feeling. And then, before he could react, Toreth lifted his hands above his head and secured the ends of the rope around the largest pipe. He tugged, not too hard because he didn't want to risk damaging the pipe. "Toreth!" he whispered. "Yes?" "What are " On further consideration, the 'what' was fairly obvious. "Stop it."

"No. Not a chance." Toreth closed the few centimetres between them, hands on his body, mouth against his mouth, dizzying him. "I'm going to fuck you. Now. Right here. I know you want it." No arguing with that. And even if he tried to deny it, his body was telling the truth. He closed his eyes again as Toreth's hand moulded around his cock, rubbing through fabric. Almost as arousing, he could feel Toreth's erection, hard against his hip as he pressed against him. Wanting and being wanted and the silk cord around his wrists . . . "Tell me you want it," Toreth whispered against his throat. "Tell me you need it." His lips parted, silently shaping the words. Tempting as the idea was, though and, God, how tempting he couldn't do it. "Plastic duck." Toreth stepped back at once. "Really?" "Really." Toreth sighed, reaching to untie the ropes. "Spoilsport. You're no fucking fun at all." Not entirely joking Toreth hated to be thwarted, even as he always respected a serious no. Once his hands were free, Warrick used them to pull Toreth close while he kissed him. "Don't sulk. Let's buy the curtains, go to your flat, and you can tie me to anything you like, for as long as you like. And do whatever you like to me." Toreth laughed, keeping his voice low. "How very generous. I bet you'll hate every minute of it." Warrick checked round the edge of the curtain to ensure that the coast was clear, and they slipped out, back into the shop. "To return to the matter in hand," Warrick said, "the question is, what colour? And what fabric?" "Velvet. The stuff we were looking at first. And this colour." Toreth held up the silk tie-back. "Looks good against your skin." "Are you sure?" "Very." "I'll go order them." Toreth handed the silk rope to him. "Buy this, while you're at it. And another three to go with it." As he turned away, Toreth stopped him, lifting his hand to touch his throat where he'd kissed it only a couple of minutes earlier. "Better make it another four."

Losing It
The SimTech security guard let Toreth go up in the lift unaccompanied, which didn't always happen. Maybe, Toreth thought, his dinner jacket and glossy evening-dress shoes had added a veneer of respectability. As well as the dinner jacket he was wearing, he had another with him, picked up from Warrick's flat on his way here. Warrick had been caught in the office, working out some life-ordeath technical problem, making it impossible for him to get home. As he stepped out of the lift, Toreth checked his watch. Ten minutes early not bad. Should put Warrick in a good mood for the evening. The office door was ajar, so Toreth simply pushed it open. Warrick sat at his desk, intent on the left-hand screen. He didn't react to the intrusion. "How's it going?" Toreth asked. Warrick looked up, frowning slightly as though he'd been expecting someone else. "Fine." Then his expression cleared. "Ah, you remembered the suit. Thanks." "Sara left me a memo." He laid it over the desk, and the shoes in the attached bag thunked against the wood. A solid, heavy and robust desk, and there had been a few times in the past when Toreth had been grateful for Warrick's taste in furniture. "I hadn't realised it was so late." Warrick hesitated, then stood up and unzipped the front of the suit protector. "Look, I still have a couple of calls I have to make. I can do it while I change. Would you mind waiting outside?" Toreth grinned. "Sure." The admins were long gone, so Toreth sat in one of their chairs and put his feet up on the desk, still smiling. Maybe Warrick had calls, maybe he didn't. Either way, what Warrick had really meant was that if Toreth stayed in the room while he stripped then they'd probably end up being late. Ten minutes early wasn't that early. He'd been waiting for only a couple of minutes when a woman he didn't recognise came into the office. He didn't think that he'd seen her at SimTech before. She was dark-skinned beautiful Indian colouring, with skin like dusted chocolate and petite. Nice, actually. Probably expecting Warrick's admin, she stopped when she saw him there instead, so Toreth continued his inspection. Her clothes were hard to place on a brief glance smart and not cheap, but a little too casual for general corporate standards. Maybe a SimTech programmer after all. After a few seconds of silence they both spoke together. "Have you " "Can I " She laughed, and he gestured graciously. "Go on, after you." "Have you seen Doctor Warrick?" Her voice was surprisingly low for her tiny frame. Toreth pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. "In his office." He waited until she was level with his chair before he added, "Changing into his DJ, so you might want to wait."

She stopped and, as he'd hoped, leaned her hip against the edge of the desk. Up close, he guessed her to be in her mid-thirties. He also noticed that she was wearing a visitor's badge like his own. Good. Fucking SimTech staff required a tediously high level of discretion these days. Toreth uncrossed his ankles, swung his feet off the desk and sat up in the chair. Was that a flicker of appraisal in her expression? Maybe even appreciation. "You don't work here, then?" he asked. "No. I work for a corporation called P-Leisure. Minority-market product development." She rotated her shoulders, her neck and spine popping. "Ouch. I've been in the sim with Doctor Warrick all afternoon. He was putting the sim through its paces for me, showing me some new applications." P-Leisure. He ran his eye over her again, this time with a view not to how attractive he found her still very, but less than ten seconds ago but how Warrick might see her. Was this who Warrick had been expecting when Toreth opened his office door? "Did you want to speak to him, or are you just saying goodbye?" Toreth asked. "Actually, I've already done that. I was on my way out, but the lift won't respond to my pass." She looked at her watch. "Damn it." "I'll call security, shall I? Get someone to escort you out." "That would be very kind, thanks." Toreth pressed a button on the admin's comm. They waited in silence, because Toreth couldn't think of anything more to say to her. Or rather, he could think of plenty. Did you fuck him in there? What did you do? Did he enjoy it? Have you done it before? Will you do it again? Do you want him, outside the sim? Is that why you're here? Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic. It didn't matter what the woman looked like, or what she'd been doing at SimTech, because Warrick was so married to his precious corporation that he'd never do anything so unprofessional as letting sim-fucking bleed over into the real world. Just like he didn't that first time, going from a guided tour of the sim to an evening with a stranger at the Renaissance Centre. That was a stupid comparison, Toreth told himself firmly, the admonition doing nothing to quell the unease. It didn't take the guard long to arrive. Lucky, because however pathetic it was, the urge to ask the first question was becoming unbearable. Did you fuck him? He had bite his lip to stop himself blurting it out. As the woman left, thanking him again, Toreth lifted his left hand in farewell. His right was clenched under the edge of the desk, tight enough that his nails dug into his palm. The bitch waved cheerfully back. "I'll tell Warrick you were here," Toreth called. He wouldn't, of course. ~~~ As the car started off, Warrick yawned, obviously catching himself by surprise. "Hard day?" Toreth asked. Still yawning, Warrick shook his head. "A long day," he said when he could. "And rather tiring,

but not especially hard." "Oh?" "No. I spent most of the afternoon in the sim, which is always enjoyable, even if most of what I was doing was a demonstration." Of fuck tech? "Anything interesting?" Warrick shrugged. "An overview of the system for a new sponsor liaison. Nothing that you haven't seen, I don't think." Not very reassuring, given what Toreth and Warrick had done together in there. He didn't like the word 'liaison' either. It reminded him of Carnac. Warrick settled back into the comfortably upholstered seat, tilted his head back on the head rest, and closed his eyes. Toreth watched him narrowly, unable to stop himself wondering. 'He was putting the sim through its paces for me, showing me some new applications'. He fucks in the sim all the time, Toreth told himself. It's work, that's all. It's just his fucking job. It doesn't mean anything. I handcuff people all day, but that doesn't make them regular fucks. It didn't help much. The car stopped to allow pedestrians to cross. A couple stood on the kerb, ignoring the people jostling past them. Mother and teenaged daughter, he guessed. The younger woman still a girl, really was nearly in tears, gesturing furiously as she tried to make some point. Her mother looked to be close to losing her temper, shaking her head from time to time, offering a short phrase or two that only seemed to exacerbate the confrontation. Finally, the car moved away, leaving them behind. Toreth wondered, vaguely, what they'd been arguing about. He leaned his elbow on the windowsill and watched the world slowly passing as the car crawled through the tangle of evening traffic. The street lights were out-competed here by festive decorations. They had moved out of the university area into one of the shopping districts, and pedestrians crowded the pavement. Most of them looked preoccupied and harassed. Shopping for New Year presents, maybe; there were certainly plenty of people burdened with multiple bags. Toreth hadn't decided what to do for New Year, and there were only a couple of weeks left before he'd have to make up his mind. Warrick had hinted obliquely that he'd be welcome at Kate's actually, he'd told Toreth that Tarin was planning to spend New Year with his semi-estranged wife. Toreth guessed that the unrequested information was the prelude to an invitation. He might even say yes. At least at Kate's there'd be no annoyingly fuckable random women for Warrick to take an interest in. The real problem with the sim was lack of forensics. Warrick could've spent all afternoon screwing the Indian woman and there would be nothing to give it away no lipstick, no stray hair, no scent on his skin. Toreth sometimes still came in the real world when fucking in the sim, but Warrick never did. All Toreth had was the perfectly casual admission that Warrick had been in the sim today. Of course, there was no reason why it shouldn't be casual; Warrick didn't know that Toreth had met his visitor. As Warrick didn't consider what he did in the sim to be real sex, it probably wouldn't matter if Toreth had told him. There was no realistic way of assessing the threat no concrete evidence that there was a threat at all. Perhaps there was nothing to worry about, and Warrick had spent the afternoon showing the woman his new collection of clouds and other weather effects.

Still. P-Leisure. Grimacing, Toreth turned his attention back to Warrick. He hadn't moved, his eyes still closed, and the dim, uneven, artificial lights through the car windows left his face shadowed and unreadable. Normally, Warrick in a dinner jacket brightened any day. This evening, though, the immaculate suit, which Toreth had so carefully not creased on the journey to SimTech, made him look oddly remote almost unreal, or at least suddenly very corporate. His crisp collar stood out against the black jacket, matching the crescents of white cuffs where his hands were folded in his lap. Toreth moved seats, over to beside Warrick, who opened his eyes and smiled. The illusion of untouchability vanished, leaving Toreth with a ridiculous sense of relief. "I thought it was quiet in here," Warrick said. "I was thinking." "Oh?" Toreth shook his head. "Work stuff. Nothing important." He cast around for a distraction, for something sufficiently detailed and requiring enough concentration to drive out the memory of the woman and speculations about the sim. "I thought you could tell me who's going to be there this evening, so I'll have a tiny chance of remembering who the fuck any of them are." ~~~ It always surprised Toreth that places this big could be found so close to the centre of New London. It shouldn't he'd seen satellite images and there were plenty of green splotches on them. Some were parks for the ordinary citizens, providing a breath of open air in the overcrowded city. Many were houses like this one, corporate retreats for people who could afford a level of privacy which mere mortals in compact blocks of flats could only dream about. The impregnable gate and long driveway alone must have occupied a fortune in real estate. Conspicuous wealth at its most conspicuous, with plenty of lighting to show off the gardens and the monstrous house. Toreth wondered if the place was an original survivor from the old city, or if it had just been built in an old style. Yellow brick ugly as hell in Toreth's opinion and a whitebalustraded roof. Most of the windows were brightly lit, although the scenes within were obscured by one-way scatter-filter security glass. It made the house look like a half-completed sim room, where the details hadn't yet been filled in. The double front doors stood at the top of a flight of a dozen steps. As they approached, one door opened with a faint, eerie hiss. It might look like old-fashioned wood, but the door clearly concealed very modern security. Just inside, a woman waited to take their coats and very politely check their ID. Toreth judged her to be ten percent cloakroom attendant, ninety percent corporate muscle; it took him only a few seconds to find the lines of the holster under her jacket. Corporate socialising at its finest. He was about to mention something to Warrick when he heard a familiar voice. "Doctor Warrick!" Caprice Teffera obviously remembered Toreth from the SimTech investigation but, as he'd expected, she was immaculately polite and greeted both him and Warrick with every appearance of pleasure. She escorted them through to the main reception room. Toreth tried his hardest not to stare, but he simply couldn't believe the ballroom could be part of a private house. Four normal stories high, the room had a balcony holding real live musicians. A single one of the vast chandeliers would've virtually filled Toreth's living room, and their light

reflected from an intricately patterned wooden floor with a glass-like polish. What wall surface he could make out under the swathes of New Year decoration seemed to be covered in printed silk. Jesus. Places like this really emphasised that Warrick was a minor corporate. Would Warrick eventually own an equally stupendous house, when the sim was in use across the Administration and beyond? Toreth couldn't imagine it. Or at least couldn't imagine being a part of it, or see himself walking into somewhere like this and feeling at home. He wished suddenly that he was spending the evening at his own shabby flat instead, with Warrick safely there with him. Chained to the bed, maybe. Toreth smiled at the image and tried to push aside the unease. The room was already crowded, voices competing with the music. Caprice ushered them into the room, then paused to introduce Warrick to a couple of people he apparently didn't know, but whom Caprice seemed to think he would like to. Perfect hostess, and more helpful than she'd been in the middle of a murder investigation. The first introduction of the evening always made Toreth uncomfortable. Not a major trauma, just an irritation. "And are you corporate?" "No. I work for Int-Sec, at the Investigation and Interrogation Division." He rarely got an original response, and tonight the tight-skinned, middle-aged woman who had asked the question followed up by saying, "Which part are you?" He gave her his best fake-sincere corporate smile and said, "Both. I'm a senior parainvestigator." Of course, that generated a tiny hiccup of silence in the conversation, and Warrick stiffened very slightly, and Toreth thought, well, why the fuck did you ask me to come with you, then? Business as usual. After that, Toreth found a drink and finished it, and then found another one. That blunted the edge of irritation. It wasn't Warrick's fault, after all, if I&I didn't enjoy a sparkling reputation in corporate circles. It wasn't I&I's fault either. All the corporates had to do to avoid I&I's attention was stop killing each other and defrauding the Administration. And that would happen about the time Caprice and Marc Teffera opened their overgrown house to indigents. They circulated from group to group. Some of the guests Toreth had met before. He found it hard to remember names a combination of his innate dislike of corporates as a species and not really giving a fuck but he recognised faces. At SimTech events, he could usually pick out the major sponsors, and even remember one or two facts about them onto which he could pin a conversation. Here there were more total strangers. Half an irritation, because it meant paying attention to introductions, and half a good thing, because he didn't have to remember if he'd spoken to them during a previous event, or fucked them after one. Eventually, Toreth relaxed sufficiently for boredom to set in. The initial conversations were usually the dullest part of these evenings, all business, with everyone jockeying for status and fishing for information. Later on, after the alcohol had been flowing for a few hours, even corporates would unbend into something almost human. After a while, using the excuse of needing a piss, he left Warrick talking to a safely unattractive couple and went for a wander. It gave him a chance to scope out the layout of the house and spot likely dark corners and empty rooms. In the car on the way here, Warrick had said strictly no fucking this evening. Toreth took it as a

challenge rather than an order. Tonight, assuming he could get Warrick to break his resolution, there would be no problem finding a venue. The Tefferas' vast house was like an extension of the LiveCorp headquarters, although there was no hint of the mass-media porn on which the Teffera fortune rested. The rooms were different in detail, but identical in overall impression: tasteful decor with a smooth and bleakly impersonal blending of styles. Unobjectionable colours, tasteful art, unmarked rugs, unused-looking furniture the place must keep an army of expensive consultants supplied with designer drugs and designer clothes. Toreth found it hard to believe anyone lived there at all. A figure stepped out of a doorway on the periphery of Toreth's vision, and he turned a little too quickly, training readying him for trouble. Another security officer, male this time, stood a few metres away, his hand hovering ready to drop to the concealed weapon. Toreth kept still, his own hands carefully in view. "Can I help you, sir?" the guard asked. "Yes. I'm lost. Where's the nearest toilet?" The guard relaxed, if not completely. "This way, sir. I'll take you there." Which he did, then escorted Toreth back to the main event, and very discreetly made sure that he was a legitimate guest before he let Toreth out of his sight. Sharp and professional, Toreth thought as the man left. However, it left him with the feeling that he ought to be wearing a collar and nametag something to identify his corporate owner. When he returned to the high-ceilinged reception room, Toreth spotted Warrick at once. He was deep in conversation, not with the couple with whom Toreth had left him, but with a single man. They stood together by the cavernous fireplace, against a backdrop of New Year decorations. Warrick was listening intently to the stranger, his head slightly tilted, nodding agreement from time to time. Whatever they were talking about, he looked thoroughly engrossed. In Toreth's experience, that tended to mean something technical, but even so the scene made the hair on Toreth's neck prickle and his stomach tighten. Maybe it was that there was no one standing close by them, which meant they could be talking about anything. Maybe it was the fact that the man was, if not especially handsome, at least perfectly fuckable. Fit, certainly, blond and tall, and notably young for the party crowd. Whatever it was, it kicked off the familiar twinge of unease familiar enough that Toreth could often pretend it wasn't even there. Not tonight, though, not after the nasty shock at SimTech. It seemed to have primed his system, so that the slightest possibility of a sexual interest threw another log on the growing fire. He took a deep breath and walked over to join them. Toreth was so absorbed in a closer examination of the man better looking than he'd thought from across the room, with the crotch of his trousers outlining a respectably suggestive bulge that he almost missed his name when Warrick introduced them. Gavin Tordoff. Toreth smiled and filed the information away, just in case he felt a need to check into the bastard's background on Monday. It turned out that he and Warrick were enmeshed in computer-speak about ultra-large-scale data processing; the conversation lost Toreth after thirty seconds. Despite the mundane topic, there was still something about the man that set off irrational alarm sirens in Toreth's mind. There was nothing

that he could put his finger on: no obvious flirting, no unwelcoming glances directed towards Toreth. However, there was something, and it was dismantling his self-control faster than Sara could take apart an arrogant junior. His fist was itching for solid contact when he caught sight of the reflection of the three of them in the mirror over the fireplace, and realised how alike he and Tordoff were. Not just in height and colouring, but in build, bearing even the bone structure of their faces, although Toreth could confidently say he was the better looking of the two. The realisation took the edge off the anger. Was that all it was? That the man was so plausibly someone Warrick might find attractive? 'Fuckable' was a sliding scale when it came to worrying wondering about Warrick's opinions of others. At the high end, the danger end, were the Gavin fucking Tordoffs. Toreth had good reason to think that Warrick liked tall, well-built blonds the kind of solid evidence on which he'd submit an Investigation in Progress without any expectation of it setting Tillotson's nose twitching. If that had been it, things wouldn't be so bad. However, Girardin had been neither tall, nor blond, nor especially muscular. To add to the problem, he'd had a beard, which was something Toreth found off-putting. Warrick clearly didn't, though. Girardin's existence meant that a whole other segment of the population stirred up feelings Toreth hated having as much as he hated admitting to them. It was a bad, bad idea to start thinking about Girardin. Toreth downed half his drink, the champagne bubbles making his eyes water, and forced his attention back to the conversation, concentrating on following the computer-speak. Five minutes later, the man excused himself to join another group. Once he was a few metres away, Toreth said in an undertone, "He was fit." Warrick's eyebrows lifted. "Was he? I didn't really notice, I'm afraid we were talking tech." Next moment, of course, Warrick turned to look after Tordoff, and Toreth wanted to kick himself. When Warrick looked back, Toreth could see from his expression that he knew, and wanting to kick himself transmuted into a deeper need to kick someone else. But Warrick smiled disarmingly, and laid his hand briefly on Toreth's forearm. "Not bad," he said, "but I already have a better one." Before Toreth could reply, he heard Marc Teffera calling Warrick's name. Warrick smiled again and walked off to answer the summons, leaving Toreth blinking after him. Follow or not? Toreth wondered when the surprise had dissipated. In the end, Toreth let him go and went in search of food instead. He'd skipped lunch, and during the conversation with Tordoff the rumblings from his stomach had started to get noticeably loud. In Toreth's view, buffets were one of the main perks of these bullshit corporate events. Most of the other guests were still at the schmoozing stage, so he had the room almost to himself. The huge table was covered with a blindingly white cloth and decorated with holly and unnaturally red orchids nice blend of festive and financial. He buttered half a seed-encrusted roll the nearest thing to proper white bread he could find and ate it while he surveyed the spread. Not one of the dozens of dishes had a hint of reconstituted protein about it. Fresh fruit and vegetables, fresh meat and fish, all beautifully prepared to emphasise the natural ingredients. By the salads, he spotted a thin-spouted bottle of olive oil, and he grinned, thinking about fucking Warrick over the buffet table at the SimTech celebration. No way would Warrick risk that sort

of thing here. He was depleting a seafood platter of its fabulously succulent prawns when he heard a female voice. "Excuse me?" He turned, prawn in his hand, and found a woman standing behind him. She wore plain gold jewellery, an unremarkable black dress, and her blonde hair hung in a simple, short bob. However, if the packaging wasn't especially showy, the body underneath more than made up for it. Athletic, holding herself with easy confidence this one was most definitely Warrick's type. She was hesitating, looking him up and down, then her clear skin flushed pink. "Oh, I'm sorry. I thought you were, ah--" "One of the waiters?" Toreth guessed. The blush was rather fetching, and as he expected, it deepened. "Security, actually." On a closer inspection, he spotted darker roots to her blonde hair. Not that it meant dye for certain, because he'd known other blondes with naturally dark roots. Still, there was only one way to tell for sure. Two, counting asking her, but where was the fun in that? "And why did you feel the need for security?" he asked. "Someone bothering you?" "What? Oh, no." She laughed lightly. "Nothing like that. I handed my coat over when I arrived, and I need my hand screen I left it in the pocket by mistake." "I can have a look for you, if you like." He tried out a smile. "I think I remember which way they took my coat." It must have been a touch too eager, because she tensed slightly, suddenly defensive. "Don't worry. I can manage, thank you." "Okay." He watched her go the back view was almost better than the front. Pity. Still, there were plenty more fish at the party. But first, he'd finish the fish in here. ~~~ In the end the abundance of fresh goodies proved too tempting and he ate too much. At least the good food and another couple of glasses of wine muted the last of the ridiculous worries from earlier. Still, he couldn't help wondering where Warrick was. He'd half expected half hoped that Warrick would have come to find him. Probably too busy drumming up business for SimTech. When he stepped into the main reception room, the sight stopped him cold. Whoever was following him into the room ran into him, jostling Toreth's arm and slopping champagne out of his glass. Toreth ignored the surprised exclamation from behind him, and the small puddle of champagne fizzing at his feet. Across the room, directly opposite the door, the woman from SimTech sat in a window seat. She'd changed from her casual corporate clothes into casual evening wear: a floor-length dress in muted pink silks. Not as showy as some of the outfits on display, but respectably expensive. Beside her sat Warrick. He was listening as closely as he'd listened to Tordoff earlier, but this time he was smiling too. There was no sign of the reserve and slight tension that Toreth often noticed in him at these kinds of events. Not stress, but a firm control and an awareness of everyone and

everything around him. Right now, though, he seemed oblivious to the rest of the room. Just the two of them in the deep-bayed window, looking very fucking cosy. As the surprise started to fade, a prickle of anger replaced it. Moving across the room to where he could watch with less chance of being seen in return, Toreth joined the periphery of a group talking about the problems of importing restricted equipment from outside the Administration. Luckily, they didn't seem to know who he was; if they had done, Toreth suspected that the conversation would have screeched to an abrupt halt. Angling for a view out of the corner of his eye, he settled in to watch. Advice for the chronically jealous, Toreth thought sourly: stay away from bisexuals. Having fifty percent of the planet stumble at Warrick's first hurdle would have made Toreth's life a hell of a lot less tense. Wasn't it bad enough that he had to worry about Girardin look-alikes and younger versions of himself? At least the Indian woman wasn't Warrick's usual type, unlike the woman Toreth had met by the buffet. Warrick's four-year marriage to the well-toned Melissa suggested that blonde, athleticallybuilt women as well as men pushed his buttons. For that reason Cele also worried Toreth slightly, even though she was brunette. She was fit and Warrick had hinted okay, said openly that he thought she was attractive. Despite that, he'd never really considered Warrick's friendship with Cele to be a serious risk. Warrick had known her for years and nothing had ever happened between them. New arrivals were an unknown quantity and so always more of a concern. Surely Warrick's current companion was too dark, too slight, too prettily feminine to be dangerous? Beautiful hair, though, long and threaded through with silk ribbons. Her hair looked even longer because she was so short shorter than Sara. A bit too short for Toreth's taste, because it hit a point when relative height limited the available positions, unless you wanted to fuck and stare at the pillow at the same time. But he wouldn't throw her out of bed, and she'd be perfect for a woman-ontop fuck, where light and lithe were advantages. Toreth finished his drink and picked another off a passing tray. All he'd managed, he finally conceded, was to talk himself into acknowledging that she was perfectly fuckable and there was no reason on Earth Warrick would turn her down. Anyway, her physique wasn't conclusive proof she was safe. Just because she looked like this here didn't mean she'd looked the same in the sim earlier. Had Warrick been showing her the possibilities for playing in (and with) other people's bodies? Toreth shook his head sharply, trying to dislodge the images. It drew a couple of curious glances from the group next to him; he ignored them. Warrick didn't fuck around, Toreth told himself firmly. (Outside work, an unhelpful inner voice pointed out.) Or rather, Warrick had done it exactly once, and there had been reasons, if not very reasonable ones, for that. Now they'd reached a compromise and everything was back on an even keel and working fine. Toreth ran through the usual reassurances, as familiar as the fear that triggered them. He knew his intermittent obsession over Warrick's aberration with Girardin was pathetic, but if he let himself dwell on it for too long it left him so angry he could barely breathe. So stop fucking thinking about it. The resolution lasted about ten seconds, after which he found himself gripping his glass stem

hard enough that he made a conscious effort to relax. Otherwise he'd make a spectacle of himself by severing a few tendons and spraying blood all over the parquet floor. The Indian woman edged a little closer to Warrick, who pointed across the room, approximately towards Toreth. Toreth turned hastily away, wondering if he'd been spotted. However, no summons followed, so he allowed himself to look back. Fuck it, Warrick and the woman were still talking. If Warrick was planning another revenge fuck, then surely Toreth would've noticed something wrong? Just like he'd noticed the first one in advance. But Warrick seemed happy with things recently, didn't he? There'd been a limited number of screaming rows recently. The last big one the only serious one for months had been over that bloody cabinet, nothing to do with Toreth straying outside the limits of their IIP. Don't ask, don't tell, and if Warrick had a problem with that he hadn't said anything. Warrick certainly looked perfectly happy now, talking to the scheming bitch. As Toreth watched, the woman leaned closer and whispered something, and Warrick just fucking glowed. What were they saying? What the fuck were they talking about? Should he go across? There was no reason not to, except that he couldn't help wondering how long they were going to keep talking. He wished he knew how long they'd been there already. Groups might be quite stable at these events, but five or ten minutes was a decent length for a one-on-one conversation. Much longer than that meant people making a deal, or business partners, or another kind of partner . . . Ten minutes had passed before Warrick stood up. The woman stood too, and Warrick bent down and kissed her cheek only, Toreth thought, although he couldn't be certain from this angle. Even after that there was another minute of conversation before Warrick left her there. Too long. Far too fucking long. Toreth put his drink down and set a course to intercept Warrick. "Hello," Toreth said. "Been looking for me?" Warrick looked round not a trace of guilt, for all that meant and smiled. "No. I saw you talking, so I didn't like to interrupt." "Going to try the buffet? The prawns are great, and I think I left a few." "Actually, I'm just on my way to the toilet." "I found that earlier I'll show you." "No need. I've visited the house before, a number of times." Toreth shrugged and fell into step beside him, wondering why the hell Warrick didn't want him along. Assignation with someone else? With the Indian woman? No, he told himself firmly. There was probably nothing in it, and after his fuckup with the blond guy Gavin Tordoff, he repeated to himself, making sure he didn't forget the name the last thing he wanted was Warrick realising he was twitchy over someone else as well. I'll look pathetic. Toreth managed to keep that thought in mind as they walked down the corridors was Warrick looking nervous? preoccupied? and while they waited outside the toilet for the previous occupant to finish.

Then Warrick went in, and Toreth was on his own. Not for long, but long enough to remember every detail of the conversation he'd witnessed. And to move from there on to entirely imaginary pictures of what Warrick might have done in the sim earlier. 'He was putting the sim through its paces for me, showing me some new applications.' It's his job. It's just his job. Even if he spent all afternoon in there fucking her senseless it didn't mean anything because it was his job. Fair enough SimTech was Warrick's job. Not this other thing tonight. Not a cosy little tete-atete in a window seat. Adrenaline was already speeding Toreth's heart when the lock clicked, surprising him out of the reverie. When Warrick opened the door, Toreth pushed him back inside, followed him in and locked the door again. Even the toilets in this place were huge. There was plenty of space for Warrick to step away and put his back to the pale green wall. "Toreth?" Warrick sounded wary, but more amused than angry. "I thought I said no " "What were you talking about?" Warrick looked at him blankly. "When?" "You were talking to that woman just now. The woman from SimTech." His expression cleared. "Tavi? She mentioned she'd seen you earlier in the office. We were talking business, primarily." Right. Which is why you looked like she had her hand down your fucking trousers. "What kind of business?" "Well, I don't really recall, offhand. Corporate liaison with P-Leisure, product development ideas." He shrugged. "Nothing that would interest you, I'm sure." The casual dismissal wound the spring another turn tighter. "Why wouldn't it?" Now Warrick was looking at him as if he'd sprouted an extra head. "Because you've rarely shown any interest in the commercial side of the sim in the past?" You were fucking her in the sim. I know you were, so don't try to deny it. He couldn't bring himself to say it, because Warrick would probably raise his eyebrow and say, 'Well, yes, I was,' in that infuriatingly patient voice he used when he thought Toreth was being unreasonable. And then . . . then didn't bear thinking about. He wanted to hit something the wall, the fashionably asymmetric mirror. Warrick. "You know, sometimes I feel like some piece of rough trade you drag along to these fucking places to freak people out." Warrick laughed. The bastard actually fucking laughed. "You're hardly that. I&I might not be universally loved but it's perfectly respectable. I very much doubt my social standing would be improved if I were here instead with that young programmer you were admiring earlier. Or even with Tavi." And he seemed to find that idea even funnier. Was Warrick winding him up deliberately, or was he just too fucking absorbed in his corporate evening to notice anything was wrong? Toreth suddenly found he couldn't tell and didn't care anyway. "It wasn't just work, was it? What the fuck were you talking about?" The pent-up anger exploded

and he made a grab for Warrick, getting a firm grip on his dinner jacket, barely hearing Warrick's exclamation of surprise. A thin thread of sanity and self-control held him back from punching Warrick in the face and instead he forced him down into a crouch, trapped between the wall and Toreth's legs. Warrick tried to rise but Toreth slammed him back, pinning him there with his knee. The tiled floor was smooth, but it gave him enough purchase to hold Warrick. If he couldn't find the words then he would damn well show him. He fumbled with his zip, cutting off Warrick's protest by twisting his other hand on Warrick's collar. "Open your mouth," he snarled, fighting to keep his voice low. "Open your fucking mouth." "Toreth " Warrick choked out. Toreth shook him by the collar, relishing the controlled violence. "Do it. Or I'll " Fortunately, he didn't need to decide what he'd do, because Warrick obeyed. Toreth struggled one-handed to free his cock, tangled in inconvenient underwear he wished now that he hadn't bothered wearing. God, he was hard, anger and arousal swirling together and feeding off each other. He gripped Warrick's chin, tipping his head back a little as he drove in, not giving him a chance to get used to the brutal invasion. You're mine. I can take you when I want, where I want, because you're fucking mine. You're here on your knees because you need it from me. It felt so good, so perfect. Warrick's tongue moved against him, and he couldn't tell if it was participation or protest. He shifted his hands, twisting his fingers in the hair at the back of Warrick's head, holding him as he took him. Toreth flung his head back and gasped, relishing every stroke. He could hear Warrick's hands scrabbling at the wall, but he didn't want to look down. As long as he didn't see Warrick's hands then he could honestly say that he hadn't ignored a signal to stop. Riding a fine line between the game and something awful, adrenaline firing him higher. He heard Warrick choking, felt his head jerking, the movements meaning nothing compared to the muscles spasming deliciously around his cock. If he's telling me to stop, and I don't . . . He crushed the thought ruthlessly, keeping the rhythm, hard and deep, in time to the litany in his mind. Mine. You're mine. You're mine. You're mine. Now he couldn't resist looking. He saw his own hands, fisted in Warrick's hair, holding him prisoner. He saw his own cock, thrusting fast and deep between the wet lips. He saw Warrick's dark eyes, open wide, but Toreth couldn't read them, couldn't tell if Warrick wanted this or if he had finally, once and forever, fucked things up irrevocably. Then he didn't even care because it was too much all too much, and he was coming hard, his grip tightening in Warrick's hair, crushing Warrick against him. Mine, mine, mine, and he wasn't sure if he was saying it out loud or not. Mine. Then it was over, and Warrick coughed, pushing weakly at his hips. Toreth let him go and pulled back, wincing at a hint of teeth over his tender cock. "Fuck," Toreth breathed, jealousy and anger surrendering temporarily at least to the postorgasmic buzz. "Ah, fuck." Warrick shoved him away sharply, and Toreth almost stumbled. He caught himself with a hand

on the wall, touching the cool glass of the mirror with his fingertips. Blinking, he attempted to bring the world back into focus. Warrick sat with his back against the wall, breathing hard. Not looking happy. Toreth didn't know whether to crouch down and kiss him, or start trying to pull together some half-convincing apology. In the end, he simply held out his hand. Warrick stared at it for a long moment, then shook his head slightly and accepted the offered help. He pulled Warrick up, then forward, wrapping one arm around Warrick's shoulders and dropping the other hand to the front of his trousers, because it was the easiest way to answer the question. Warrick hissed as Toreth touched him, but he pressed towards him, not away. And thank fucking God, Warrick was hard. If it was a fuckup, then it wasn't a bad one; not so bad that Warrick didn't still want him, anyway. Maybe there'd be an argument about it after the party, but that would be no worse than the usual not-in-public crap. He rubbed the heel of his hand hard against Warrick's cock, drawing out a gasp. "Let me," Toreth whispered. "Let me." They stood for a moment, then Warrick stepped firmly away. "Later, I think," he said. He straightened his collar, where Toreth had held it, then smoothed down his jacket front. "How do I look?" Relief loosened his tongue. "Fucking fantastic." "I meant, am I fit to return to civilised company?" He ran his hands through his hair, then wiped the corners of his mouth. "More or less. Hang on a moment." He flicked the stray bits of Warrick's hair back into place, and brushed his thumb over his lips, just to feel the slightly swollen softness. "I think we should go back, before we're missed." Warrick glanced down significantly. "When we're both respectable." "Yeah." Toreth reached to fasten up his own zip, feeling the last knot of anger in his chest finally untie. "Security was a bit keen earlier about tracking down straying guests. I'm surprised they aren't hammering on the door." Then he had to laugh at Warrick's expression of alarm. "Joke." Warrick shook his head. "Not funny." ~~~ Fortunately, there was no one waiting outside, guest or security. They walked back in silence, but instead of returning to the main room or the buffet, Warrick turned left into a small room, full of floor-to-ceiling shelving holding paper books. Toreth spotted them at once the Indian woman Warrick had been speaking to and, oddly, the blonde woman he'd met by the buffet. From the inside of the house, the security glass in the windows seemed clear; the women stood together by one of the long picture windows, looking out at the floodlit garden. The blonde had her arm across the other woman's shoulders, pale against her thick curtain of hair. In return, the shorter woman had her arm around the blonde's waist. Easy, unobtrusive, with the comfortable intimacy of long familiarity, and it made Toreth's heart sink. Shit. He stopped dead. "Warrick " "There's someone I'd like you to meet," Warrick said evenly, and it was only because Toreth

knew him so well that he caught the gleam of steel in Warrick's voice. "I didn't know," Toreth said in an undertone. "How the fuck could I have known?" Now the steel was plainer. "You could have asked me." "Look, Warrick, I'm s " Then he gasped at the sharp pain as Warrick dug his hand into his arm, just above the elbow, hitting a nerve on the first pinch. "It won't take long," Warrick said, tightening his grip until Toreth's hand began to go numb and Toreth surrendered and started walking. "Tavi Suzanne," Warrick called as they neared the couple. They disengaged and turned, and at the same moment Warrick released Toreth's arm. The nerve tingled at the release from pressure, the semi-pain a welcome distraction from the growing embarrassment. "This is Val Toreth," Warrick said. The blonde woman Suzanne, presumably smiled. "And not a waiter after all." Warrick raised an eyebrow, then continued when neither of them explained further. "Toreth, this is Suzanne and Tavi Lennox-Phull." Shared surname, even. "A couple of my oldest friends," Warrick said. "Even though we don't get together as often as we ought to do. We were all at university together. Suzanne and I went to the same college did the same course, even. Now she's deserted the technical world and illustrates children's books. Tavi I think you met earlier. She started working for P-Leisure a couple of months ago, handling partnerships with smaller corporations." "It was quite a surprise when I found myself at SimTech," Tavi said. "It's a small world," Warrick said. "Full of coincidences. Although a surprising number have logical explanations if you can be bothered to look for them." Toreth nodded, trying not to look at Warrick. This was the worst part of the insane, stupid fucking jealousy when he let Warrick see it, and Warrick didn't pretend not to see. Sometimes he was annoyed, sometimes he was patient, sometimes he held it up and pointed it out and generally made Toreth feel as pathetic as he was. Still, on the plus side, it had been a great fuck. Toreth smiled at the women. "Nice to meet you both." "Tavi," Warrick said, "Toreth was wondering what you said to me earlier in the ballroom when I pointed him out to you. But I didn't think he'd believe me if I told him." Tavi laughed. "Another coincidence I was just telling Suze about it before you came in." She looked up at Toreth. "I told Keir that if I hadn't been a lesbian all my life, I might envy him." ~~~ "We need to talk," Warrick said as the door to his flat closed. "You talk if you want to. I'm going for a shower." Toreth started walking down the corridor, away from the imminent row. "You can send me a memo in the morning, let me know what you decided." To his surprise, Warrick didn't follow him.

In the bathroom, he stripped, feeling a dim shadow of the earlier anger. He should have expected a demand for a bloody conversation. Why the hell couldn't Warrick leave it alone? So he'd said no fucking in public. Big deal. The door had been locked. And if he mentioned Tavi and Suzanne . . . Wadding up his DJ and trousers, he threw them onto the towel hamper. He shouldn't have come back here, Toreth decided. The rest of the party had been okay. A bit strained, but Warrick had seemed to feel his ace up the sleeve over his long platonic friendship with Tavi-the-fucking-lesbian had balanced out the scene in the toilet. On the way back to the flat, though, Warrick hadn't said a word. The silence had grown in the car until it felt too dangerous to break. How the hell had Toreth been supposed to know that Tavi didn't fuck men? 'You could have asked me'. Yes, he could have. He could have, and he hadn't, so he'd made an idiot of himself. He could live with that. What he didn't want was a post-mortem of the whole sorry mess. Once in the shower, he turned up the temperature and pressure, trying to wash away the irritation. After a couple of minutes the bathroom door opened and closed. Toreth rinsed shampoo out of his hair, wanting to be ready to tell Warrick to fuck off. After a minute of silence, Warrick opened the shower door and stepped in. Naked, of course, which was instantly disarming. "Toreth " "Fine," Toreth said. "Talk, if you have to." He'd let Warrick have his say, and hope that he could then come up with some apology that would be enough to shut Warrick up. "What happened in the toilet at the Tefferas' " Warrick began. Somehow, he couldn't keep quiet. "You wanted it," Toreth interrupted. "It turned you on, don't fucking deny it." "Toreth, that isn't the point." Toreth turned to face him, crowding him a little, enjoying the height difference, watching as Warrick's gaze swept down and up. "What is the point, then?" "It was " Warrick gasped as Toreth took his cock in his hand. "What was it?" Toreth pressed closer, lowering his head to breathe the words into Warrick's ear. "Tell me what you were thinking about." "Stop that." But Warrick's hands were stroking his back and sides, eager and restless, and he was hardening quickly in Toreth's hand. "I can't I can't very well explain if you're doing that." I know. Toreth ignored the protest, and Warrick took a deep, shivering breath and closed his eyes. "All right, if you insist," Warrick said. Toreth slid his free hand up, resting his thumb under Warrick's ribcage, feeling his voice resonate. "You're right that that it turned me on. But I can't keep risking that sort of thing in public. We'll get caught in the end, and while it might be very funny for you, it certainly won't be for me and and " Toreth smiled, speeding the rhythm. "You loved it. You loved it when I was raping your fucking throat." "I Oh, God." "And you love hearing about it now. Do you want me to tell you how good it felt, taking you like that?"

When Warrick spoke again, his voice was firmer. "Toreth, it was too close to the edge. It was too damn real." The words set his heart hammering. Determinedly, he kept pumping. "You wanted it like that." "Yes, I did. A great deal far too much to stop it. And that's why it was too close. Dilly made me " He moaned softly as Toreth released his cock. Toreth felt as though Dillian's name had switched the shower from hot to cold. He stepped back, letting the water make a curtain between them. "What the fuck does she have to do with anything?" "Dillian asked if what I do with you is safe, and I promised her that it was." Warrick opened his eyes and reached up to angle the shower head down, clearing the air. "I've broken that promise once already, with the cabinet. I can't break it again. I won't." Now he might as well have been standing under a snowmelt waterfall. "The cabinet's not a problem." "Not now. But it was for a while, and it could have been a disaster, except that you prevented me from turning it into one. For which I'm extremely grateful." Warrick was looking straight at him, and his gaze pinned Toreth's helplessly. "I can't control it, not all the time. When it's happening, I can't see what's safe. Or even sane. That's " He brushed the back of his hand across Toreth's ribs. "That's part of what makes it so good, of course. I trust you to take control, you know that. But if I'm not in control, and you're not either . . . " He shrugged. Now he felt sick. "Warrick, I'm sorry." "I'm not asking for an apology. What I need to know is whether or not you were still in control tonight. Whether you could have stopped." "Of course I " "No. Not 'of course'." Now he had his palm against Toreth's chest, pressing slightly for emphasis. "Whatever the answer is, this isn't goodbye, or never again, or anything melodramatic. I just need to be clear about it. And if there is a problem, then we can find a way to work round it." He smiled faintly. "I'm an engineer I like solving problems. Think about it, please." He pretended to consider it for a few moments, then wondered why the hell he was only pretending. Why was he worried? Although it wasn't easy to reach back into the maelstrom of anger and lust, Warrick had had his hands free all the time; he'd had his teeth round Toreth cock, for Christ's sake. If he'd used either of those options with serious intent, Toreth sure as hell would've stopped. And if something else had happened? If he'd twisted the collar too tight, or if Warrick had really choked . . . ? So he thought about it, staring down at the water running over Warrick's fingers, until he was sure of the answer and he let the tension out in a long breath. "Toreth?" He looked up. "Yeah, I think so. I sure as hell didn't want to stop, but if you'd really fought me, or if something had gone wrong . . . yeah. Then I could've." "You only think?" "It's the best I can do. I mean, you didn't fight, did you? Nothing did go wrong. But I think it would've been okay." He didn't let his gaze waver Warrick had to believe this. The consequences if he didn't were too sickening to think about. "Yes, I was angry, but I hadn't lost it. I was still in control."

Warrick smiled warmly. "That's all I needed to know." He gestured round the shower. "Are you done in here?" "Sure." "Then let's go to bed, shall we?" He hadn't lost it tonight, Toreth reassured himself as he towelled himself dry. He knew exactly what that felt like. Losing it was white light and noise, and not knowing what the hell he was doing until he saw the blood. Losing it was Jonny Kemp calling Sara a whore. Losing it was seeing the broken cane in his hands and Gee Evans on the floor moaning and clutching his jaw, and not having the faintest fucking clue how either of them had got like that. Tonight he might have been somewhere near that line, but he hadn't crossed it. And with Warrick, please Christ, he hoped that he never would.

Quis Custodiet . . .
Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Epilogue

Prologue
Accents weren't by themselves an automatic reason for suspicion. However, there was a known correlation. An accent meant someone who had been brought up in a household where English wasn't the first language, probably immigrants or traditionalists. And, perhaps, along with a harmless attachment to an old language there might be a less harmless adherence to other old ideas: nationalism, democracy, unionisation, freedom of speech. Traditionalist, idealist, political criminal these were points on a sliding scale. As the secure connection was audio only, the slight accent to the man's voice was reassuring, even though it could be the result of computer manipulation. Member Three of Hellenic resistance cell beta-one-forty-seven didn't recognise his accent, but nevertheless it gave him a feeling of solidarity. A conviction that he and the stranger he had never even seen were comrades. He sat in a darkened room with two others from his cell, listening to voices over the comm. Large gatherings were far too dangerous, and only for important decisions did they risk many simultaneous small meetings. "Moving too soon jeopardises everything," the stranger said. "There'll never be a better time." The man who replied had a distinct Greek accent the spokesman for the Attican resisters, and the only member of the network who spoke directly to the outsider. Him Member Three knew well, or at least the voice he used over the comm. "We're in danger here every day, but while they think they control us, we have the freedom to act." "Regretfully, sacrifices sometimes have to be made," the man said. "You are one organisation, and we move when the bulk of our forces are ready. Later." "Later will be too late. We can take the city and then the rest of the country will follow us, I know it." "And then they will take it back." Touch of impatience in his voice. What was the accent? "A city, a district, even a country these mean nothing. If you act alone, the Administration will concentrate its forces. You might hold out for a few days, you might survive on the run for a few weeks, but in the end you'll fail." "We're not afraid to die," the Attican spokesman said. "In the long run, to quote Keynes, we are all dead. However, we cannot afford to waste lives. Or opportunities. An open, armed revolt will cause the Administration to crack down across Europe. Sometimes it takes as much courage to wait as it does to attack." "Wait. I must discuss this with the cell leaders." The speaker muted. In the tiny, stuffy basement, Member One turned away and entered a discussion over the second link with the other group leaders. Her voice rang oddly in the room, translated smoothly and instantaneously into measured male tones. Member Three imagined this scene repeated across Greece. How many cells? How many people ready to fight if the word was given? After a minute, he caught himself biting his nails and made himself stop. Gina hated the habit. In one way, the command to wait made sense to Member Three. Primarily because it was what they had always done met, planned, dreamed. But never, actually, done anything. Talking was

safer. Not much safer, within the Administration, but still a hell of a lot less dangerous that taking to the streets. The Service had an extensive array of what they described as non-lethal weapons for the suppression of riots. Some of them even were, because it was considered important to take a good haul of prisoners for questioning. Glance at his watch. They'd been here for fifteen minutes getting close to the mandated limit of twenty. A security restriction designed to keep prying monitoring systems from noticing their clandestine comms. One day, perhaps soon, no security precautions would be enough. And then . . . The cell structure was scrupulously maintained within the resistance organisation. That had proved its value, but it hadn't kept cell beta-one-forty-seven safe, or God only knew how many others. Any or all of them could be arrested at any time. The thought of I&I, of what waited for him in the underground cells there, brought an acid taste of fear. Member Three, despite his subversive activities, didn't like to think of himself as a violent man. For I&I, however, he was willing to make an exception. Legal torturers, passively supported or at least tolerated by the majority of citizens who, sedated by Administration propaganda, bought into the myth that it was necessary. That was one thing their anonymous contact was clear about. When the Administration fell, I&I must be eradicated. He'd said that more than once. All the resisters knew people who had entered the doors of I&I, and rather fewer who had emerged alive and free. Some, like Member Two, had more personal experience. Two was outside somewhere, watching the street, ready to raise the alarm. He didn't talk about his time in I&I hands, not while sober. And when drunk he'd say things that no one wanted to hear. I&I was a rallying symbol, as well as a terrible threat. It embodied all the reasons why the allencompassing Administration had to be resisted. When I&I was no more, that would signal the return of freedom. Repeating that to himself helped get him through the moments of doubt, when he wondered why the hell he came to these meetings when nothing ever happened. He understood Member One's impatience. The tension had become unbearable. Trapped, exposed, the drive to act, to end the suspense in one way or another, affected all of them. Member Three knew what the decision would be before Member One reactivated the speaker on the comm. "Two months," the spokesman said. "That's all I can give you. Then we move. If we don't at least try, then everything we've done up to now will be in vain." Silence. Then their contact said, "Naturally, I can only advise you." They left the room separately. As he walked across campus in the warm spring sunshine, back to his office, Member Three now plain Alexandros Vasdeki again thought about the meeting. 'Sacrifices sometimes have to be made'. 'We can't afford to waste lives'. For some reason, the contradiction nagged at him. Which, Alexandros wondered, meant the most to the man?

Chapter One
Toreth thought it had been almost a perfect Sunday so far. A lie-in and a late breakfast in bed, followed by the massage he was owed from the previous weekend. No fuck yet, but the morning was building nicely towards it. All his basic needs satisfied by lunchtime, and then the rest of the day still to go. He lay flat on his stomach, chin on his hands, eyes closed. Warrick lay half on top of him, pleasantly heavy, cock nuzzling against him, oily hands still working lazily on his arms and shoulders. Not a cuddle, obviously just an intermediate stage between the massage and the imminent fuck. Only one thing stopped it being absolutely perfect tomorrow Toreth had to catch a flight out of New London, headed for an I&I internal review in the Athens station Political Crimes section. It was scheduled to last up to a fortnight, could easily take three weeks and wouldn't entirely surprise him if it took a month, if he actually found anything wrong. It wasn't in itself a bad thing. A few years ago he'd have been fighting for the assignment. Regular office hours, a nice hotel, decent expenses preapproved, a chance to get away from the unseasonably soggy spring weather, and probably plenty of available fucks. None of whom would be Warrick. The idea bothered him. It bothered him that it bothered him. Maybe he could fly home for a weekend in the middle? No without an excuse that would be unbearably pathetic. Maybe he could persuade Warrick to fly out to Athens. "I'm going to miss this," Warrick said, now apparently numbering mind-reading among his many talents. Toreth opened his eyes and turned his head, resting his cheek on his hands. From there he could just see the cabinet, framed in wine-red velvet. "Bollocks. Friday that's what you're going to miss." A pause, then Warrick said, "I hadn't even thought about it." "Liar." "No, I'm not. The statement applied equally to every day." Warrick paused and kissed his shoulder. "Although I will admit that Friday is perhaps a little more equal than the others." "I'll call you." "Mm? That'll be nice." "No, I mean I'll call on Friday. We can talk through it instead. Next best thing." Toreth felt the shiver ripple through the body above him. "Oh, God. Yes. That would be . . . " "Nice?" "Very." Taking advantage of the oil, Toreth slipped out from beneath him and reversed their positions, pinning Warrick to the bed, face down. He didn't put up much resistance. "We could do it now, if you like." Beneath him, Warrick went absolutely still. "A few days early. It wouldn't matter." He ran his hand through Warrick's hair, tilting his head forwards, then bit hard, at the junction of neck and shoulder. Warrick moaned. "I don't . . . I don't want to."

"Now that is a lie." "Yes, it is." He took hold of Warrick's wrists and stretched his arms out, burying his face in Warrick's neck. God, he smelt fabulous. Fuckably fabulous, and if Toreth hadn't been hard already, this would have done it. Moving higher, he brought his mouth up to Warrick's ear, kissing and licking between phrases. "It'll give me something to think about on the flight. You look so fucking good like that. Helpless. Begging for it. When I can do whatever I want . . . hurt you . . . take you however I want . . . fuck you . . . make you come when I want you to . . . touch you when you can't " "Please oh, God." Warrick took a shuddering breath. "Pl plastic duck." Toreth let him go, and knelt up. "Sure?" "No, not at all. But the rule is no more often than every six weeks, and besides " "You've got Very Important Investors coming in tomorrow, so you don't want to be bruised to fuck. Sorry. I forgot." Warrick laughed, shaky and breathless. "So did I, very nearly." Tempting to try to change Warrick's mind he sounded open to persuasion, which was unusual. However, for this one thing, the rules weren't just part of the game. Neither of them wanted to risk what had happened at the beginning of last year happening again. It had been months since Warrick had begged for an early session. A good thing, because saying no to sex didn't come naturally to Toreth. However, he had seen sufficient addictions and created enough deliberately at work to know that abandoning the restriction could lead to unpleasantness. So they had to stick to it, and Toreth had broken another rule by using the six-week limit to tease. Which was okay, because some rules were better for being broken occasionally. However, once was enough. "Right," Toreth said. "Something else, then?" "Oh, very definitely yes, something else." "What?" Warrick rolled onto his back and looked up at him. "Make me an offer." Toreth considered. Something good, because it was the last time for a while. Also something not at all like the suspension fucks, because he didn't want Warrick fantasising about furniture while they were fucking. Not that he had any evidence that Warrick ever did, but he didn't like to dwell on the possibility. "Sixty-nine?" "Mm." Warrick smiled, reaching for him. "Sold." Slight taste of oil, but mostly salt and sweet, unmistakably Warrick. Toreth always started off with the resolution 'perfect timing we'll come together'. He liked the challenge of coordination, but not as much as he liked the feel of Warrick's mouth, sucking him. It was easier with other men. But with Warrick, when he could feel him, smell him, taste him, it was somehow too much. Minutes would pass and he'd keep the intention clearly in mind. Then he'd forget, remind himself, forget, remember again, and then finally forget for the last time, far too busy feeling to think of anything. Not coming together, but it didn't matter. Him first this time, arching back, letting go of Warrick, and it was so good . . . so good.

A minute or so's blissful haze, sliding dangerously towards sleep, before a gentle nudge against his lips reminded him of the job in hand. As it were. It was no hardship. Toreth loved the slide of satin-smooth skin over his tongue. He played for a while, teasing, showing off his technique, keeping it going until he got what he wanted. "Toreth . . . please. Please." His favourite word, delivered with the kind of feeling that deserved a reward. He tightened his mouth, letting Warrick press deeper. Warrick gasped, his fingers digging hard into Toreth's hips, then all in one breath he said, "Christ yes that's it don't stop," his voice rising as he came. Rearrangement of bodies, and then a warm, contented silence. Toreth listened to the rain against the window. It had been nothing special. That was the strange thing. Nothing special, just another Sunday fuck with Warrick, and it was still wonderful. Very occasionally, Toreth wondered why it was so different with Warrick. Or how. Any of those short, difficult question words, none of which he could answer. Then he would give up and not think about it again for a while. Two weeks. At least two bloody weeks until he'd even get a chance to wonder again. "I'm going to miss you," Warrick murmured into the pillow beside him. Mind-reading again. "You said before." Actually, he hadn't, quite. But Toreth felt too thoroughly satisfied to stop himself adding, "Me too."

Chapter Two
Toreth strolled through the Int-Sec check-in point at the Athens airport, waving his ID over the scanner. 'Ports all over the Administration were much the same in Toreth's experience. There wasn't much about this airport that said 'Greece'. A statistically more Mediterranean cast to the faces and a less frenetic pace than the vast New London terminals. Toreth should've been hard for the promised I&I escort to miss, being blond and dressed in black. No one in the crowd seemed to be looking for him, though. He stood in the arrivals area for fifteen minutes, wondering if Sara had got the details right. Silly idea of course she had. Sara being Sara, it was a hundred times more probable that the fuckup was at this end. Just as he'd decided to give it five more minutes and then find a taxi, he caught sight of an I&I uniform. A few seconds later, the man noticed him and raised his hand in greeting. Toreth studied him as he strode over classic dark Mediterranean, wearing the uniform well. The prospects for the fortnight were picking up already. The man offered his hand with an easy, apologetic smile. "I'm Senior Para-investigator Dimitri Karteris. You must be Senior Para Toreth." "Nice to meet you." Close up, he was older than Toreth expected, giving the impression of youthful good looks slipping into a debauched middle age. Toreth began to appreciate Carnac's idea of picking an attractive liaison. Especially when here, as with Carnac's visit to I&I, it was in his host's interest to keep him happy. "I arranged for your bags to go straight to the hotel," Karteris said as they walked to the exit. "We picked you out a comfortable one. So if it's okay by you, we'll go to the division." ~~~ The division head kept him waiting for three-quarters of an hour, which more than cancelled out the positive benefits of meeting Karteris and driving through the warm, sunny city. Toreth had been at the New London I&I office at seven that morning, finishing work on his active cases. Combined with the flight over, it left him impatient to start and annoyed to have yet more of his time wasted. It turned out that the man wasn't even in his office. He finally appeared at nearly three o'clock, carrying a battered brown leather briefcase and obviously only just returning from lunch or conceivably even arriving for the first time that day. Vassilakis looked younger than Toreth knew he was, fit, tanned and unexpectedly blond. A man who didn't stress himself out over his job, or probably anything else. "I was delayed, I'm afraid. Glad you got here safely. Come in, come in. Coffee's on its way." When they were seated in the comfortably furnished office, Vassilakis asked, "Do you sail?" Toreth blinked. "No." "Pity. Ah well, I'm sure you'll find plenty to keep yourself busy." Sheer perversity, and lingering irritation at the wait, put a touch of disapproval into Toreth's voice. "I'm here to do a job, not for a holiday, sir." Vassilakis stared for a moment, then nodded quickly. "Of course. I meant Ah! Coffee!" While the coffee was served, Toreth inventoried the room more carefully. Vassilakis had the

cleanest senior management desk Toreth had ever seen. Possibly the cleanest full stop. Subtracting the family photographs, a wooden model of a yacht and a bronze inkstand, the only thing left was the screen, currently switched off. He focused on the inkstand. A group of dolphins carried between them a beautifully realistic boy, dead or unconscious. Waves curled round the base, the details so fluid that they virtually seemed to move. The patina suggested, in Toreth's limited experience, a genuine antique. Probably worth a fortune, and at the New London I&I Vassilakis would've been lucky if it stayed on his desk for a week. "Sugar?" Vassilakis asked. Toreth looked up. "No thanks." "Now." Vassilakis settled back in what was definitely not a standard issue chair. "How have you found the Athens division so far?" "Quiet." He expanded his hand screen. "Have you read the report?" A flicker of distaste crossed Vassilakis's face. "I have. I cannot say that I agree with it. Particularly the conclusions. I strongly refute the idea that any of my sections are ineffective, Political Crimes especially." Strong protest or not, his voice never wavered from its relaxed drawl. "Nevertheless, sir, there is a problem here that someone felt was worth setting up an external review for." "Vassilakis, please. Or I shall be forced to address you by rank, Para-investigator." "You don't think there is any cause for concern?" Vassilakis waved his hand dismissively. "Forgive me, Toreth, but New London is a long way from Athens. They don't understand the situation here, or the culture. Athens Greece as a whole is a very different place to the busy north and west. Not rich, by Administration standards, but the poorer classes are relatively not so poor. Crime is lower too, compared to other regions of Europe. Why would the citizens here want to rebel against the Administration?" "Why do they ever? Idealists aren't logical, at least as far as I've ever been able to see." "But resister activity here in Athens is " He snapped his fingers. "We haven't had so much as a demonstration in two years. We haven't had a bombing, a shooting, any kind of serious incident, in four. It makes no sense for them to send you here." "The point is that I have a social dynamics report saying that correlating resistance activity and informant reports to Political Crimes with final arrests and convictions leaves " Toreth flicked to the introduction to the report. "A significant statistical anomaly." "Statistics." Vassilakis sighed, then reached out and repositioned the yacht slightly to catch the sun. Miniature brass fittings, presumably perfectly scaled, glittered. "Well, as I'm sure you know, Toreth . . . " "There are lies, damned lies, statistics, and directives from the top levels of I&I to look into all three of them before Internal Investigations start taking an interest." Vassilakis laughed. "Not quite as I remember the quotation." "Do I have your cooperation?" Toreth asked directly. "Of course you do, man." The surprise seemed genuine enough. "As you said, you're hardly Internal Investigations. We have nothing to hide here, certainly not from our own." As far as you know, Toreth thought. He wouldn't put money on Vassilakis knowing what went on

anywhere in the building outside this office. "Well, sir, I won't take up any more of your valuable time." He couldn't help the sarcasm, but the division head seemed quite unruffled. "You've met Senior Para Karteris? Good. He'll make sure the rest of Political Crimes do everything they can to help. Anything you want, he can provide." Vassilakis poured himself another coffee. "Good luck, Para-investigator. And " He smiled. "Enjoy your stay." ~~~ When he left the office, Karteris was waiting for him, chatting to the admin and looking about as energised as Vassilakis. However, he stood up quickly enough. "What now?" Karteris asked. "Tour of the place?" Toreth suggested. "Sure. No problem." The security in the building appalled him. He'd been surprised to find the main doors standing open when they first arrived, but he hadn't thought much of it. However, the slackness seemed pervasive. They strolled through most of the building with a minimum of card access doors; most of those seemed to have the lock deactivated anyway, as they opened without a card. Only the entrance to the detention and interrogation levels had the kind of security he was used to. Still, the building seemed to be rather older than the I&I headquarters in New London, so perhaps there were some excuses. Or maybe the rest of the staff were as confident as Vassilakis that resister activity was non-existent. Detention and interrogation themselves were reassuringly busy. Of course, that only pointed up the difference in performance between Political Crimes and other sections. He wondered if that had been the stimulus for the internal review; the original trigger was one thing the otherwise comprehensive report didn't mention. Karteris seemed to know everyone they met, and introduced people readily. Toreth's presence produced a polite level of curiosity, but nothing more. Political Crimes was a different story. The staff were all there, and the offices hummed with studious activity. However, the paras and investigators hung back, avoiding meeting his gaze, until Karteris sought them out. Not that it necessarily meant anything was wrong Toreth would've reacted in much the same way to an external review at the General Criminal section. The friendliest by far which wasn't saying much was a pasty-faced, slightly overweight young man called Manos Priftis, who turned out to be Karteris's junior. He was clearly under orders to be pleasant to the visitor, but he still departed with speed when dismissed. The only person missing was the Political Crimes head of section. "Oh, George," Karteris said when Toreth asked about his absence. "He'll be around later in the week, I expect. I did remind him you were coming, but he went up north for a long weekend, skiing. Mind you, he doesn't usually make it on Mondays anyway. Or Fridays. Tuesdays and Thursdays can be iffy." Toreth blinked, wondering if he was taking the piss, and Karteris grinned. "He had a family promotion somebody or other's nephew. Things run more smoothly when he isn't here." Once the idea sank in, Toreth could see the advantages. If only Tillotson were someone's nephew. That led to the rather distracting thought that Tillotson must have parents. Parents who had, somehow, slipped through the genetic screens to produce him.

"Now," Karteris said when they'd met the last Political Crimes staff, "what about an office? There's one empty if you'd like it, but there's a spare desk in mine, might be friendlier. As you prefer, of course." The offer surprised him. Toreth had been considering taking a leaf out of Carnac's book of tricks and asking to share, as much to see what Karteris's reaction would be as because he wanted to. The pre-emptive offer had ruined the tactic, but Toreth decided that sharing still made sense in terms of getting to know the section quickly. As the office already had two desks, moving in was easy. They made a leisurely start, sorting out which cases Toreth would review. To Toreth's relief, Karteris admitted that the lack of resister activity had rendered Political Crimes, if not negligent, then possibly less than diligent, and also seemed genuinely willing to consider ways to remedy the situation. 'Seemed' being the important word. After only a couple of hours in the man's company, Toreth recognised a kindred spirit and therefore set a large question mark beside anything Karteris told him. When the section began to empty at the end of the day, Karteris stretched, making rather more of it than was necessary, and finished up with a smile that could've advertised toothpaste. "Want to go for a drink? I can show you round the bits of Athens tourists don't usually find." ~~~ Outside, the air wasn't hot, but it was warm and dry. They paused outside the gates, looking at the city. The I&I building stood on a hill, and directly across from the main entrance the clear dome of the Acropolis dominated the scene, slightly distorting the shapes of the white buildings within it. Karteris took him to a small bar not far from the I&I offices. No one gave a second glance at their uniforms, and Toreth saw others in I&I black dotted around. He absorbed the atmosphere while Karteris negotiated the tab with the barman. His kind of bar, he decided after a few minutes. The adjective he'd pick to describe many of the patrons was 'available'. A place to come for a relaxed evening's hunting, with a solid prospect for a fuck of some kind at the end of it. Perfect. He wondered if Karteris had been checking up on him. They spent an hour chatting social crap, not work during which Karteris mentioned three times that he and his wife lived virtually separate lives. The offer wouldn't have been more obvious if he'd stripped naked and revealed a 'fuck me now' tattoo on his arse. They finished their drinks, and Karteris asked, "What do you want to do next? We can stay here, go someplace else. Find something to eat." Lift of a lazy eyebrow. "I can take you home and show you some Greek hospitality. I'm a reasonably good cook, amongst other things." Toreth considered the proposal, and came to a surprising conclusion. "Actually, I'm shattered. Late night, early morning. I'll be a fucking zombie tomorrow if I don't get some sleep. How about one more drink and then I'll call it a day?" "No problem." Karteris smiled. "Entertainment is all on expenses, so feel free. Get me one too." As Toreth walked away, he heard Karteris call, "Hey!" However, when he looked round, the para was beckoning to someone on the opposite side of the room. Toreth ordered drinks and looked at his fractured reflection in the engraved mirror behind the bar. Not too bad, but, God, he must be getting old if a decent night's sleep sounded so much more attractive than a fuck. It didn't matter he had the rest of the assignment to catch up on one wasted evening. He certainly didn't intend to pass up chances for the whole fortnight. After few days'

abstinence he wouldn't be able to stop himself if he wanted to. Toreth paused, drink halfway to his lips, and considered the idea. That was crap. He didn't have to fuck anyone at all while he was here. Then, between taking a mouthful of ouzo and remembering why he never drank the foul fucking stuff, it somehow turned into a resolution. Partly it was just to see if he could. One thing he couldn't resist was a challenge, and as soon as he thought that he couldn't do it he knew he had to try. Mostly it was the image of how incredibly pleased Warrick would be. After (Toreth gritted his teeth unconsciously) Girardin, they'd come to an unspoken agreement whereby Toreth did what he wanted but didn't flaunt it, and Warrick didn't ask questions if he didn't want to hear the answers. It worked fine, for Toreth anyway. For Warrick too, he supposed. Still, Toreth knew that Warrick . . . well, didn't exactly hate that Toreth fucked around. Or maybe he did hate it. In any case Warrick certainly didn't like the idea. So it would make a nice present, and Warrick would be happy which meant great sex, and it was easier than trying to think of something to take back for him, and anyway, why the hell not? He could do it. Toreth was about order a whiskey when it occurred to him that keeping his alcohol consumption in check would be a good idea. He caught a wry smile in the mirror. Not so confident in his resolution, after all. He changed it to a glass of grapefruit juice and was about to leave the ouzo on the bar when he had second thoughts and took it with him. When he found Karteris, the senior was talking to a young man attractive enough to test Toreth's resolve right there. "This is Theo," Karteris said. "He's an informer." "Jesus!" Theo looked round, eyes wide. "Keep your voice down!" "Sorry. Despite past mistakes, Theo is very keen to be a loyal citizen of the Administration." Toreth couldn't help looking. Just looking, he told himself. "I'll bet. Want a drink?" He offered the ouzo and Theo took it with apparent gratitude. Karteris's eyes crinkled as he smiled. "I'm too old for you, that it?" Toreth grinned. "The hospitality is great, but it's really not necessary. I'm just here to do my job and go home." The flash of surprise on Karteris's face made Toreth quite certain that someone in the local I&I had thoroughly checked out their visitor. He smiled into his drink. This might be fun.

Chapter Three
The next morning, Toreth arrived to find a stunningly attractive female admin waiting outside the office. Toreth appreciated good skin care when he saw it, and he recognised the dedicated hard work behind her flawless complexion. Her thick, wavy hair probably sent another chunk of her salary down the drain. "Senior Para Toreth? My name is Nikoletta Stefanadis. I'm Para Karteris's admin, but he asked me to help you." She paused. "If you need me to." Narrow waist, a light build that emphasised her generous breasts unfair temptation. "That'd be great," Toreth said. "I meant to ask about admins. I thought about bringing mine over with me, but she's too busy. It won't be too much trouble, will it?" "Oh, I'm sure I'll be able to manage." She smiled brightly, revealing dimples that made her look practically edible. "It's pretty quiet in the section." Toreth suppressed a grin. "I know. That's why I'm here." Confusion showed plainly on her face, then she blushed. "Oh. It's not that quiet. I meant that things aren't too busy right now. Or . . . " She trailed off, then gathered herself. "Is there anything you want me to do, Para?" "Not just now. If I think of anything, I'll let you know." Forgetting his newly assumed role, he followed that up with a wink. She smiled again, obviously relieved that he hadn't taken her slip-up seriously. "My office is right opposite," she said. "I keep the door open, so just walk in any time I can help." Toreth watched her go, and sighed. ~~~ Toreth spent the day organising the files he'd need for the review. A pity he couldn't have brought Sara. However, he needed someone he trusted to hold the fort at I&I. By midafternoon he had most of the depressingly large number of files arranged, along with the expert systems analysis of the statistical anomalies of which Vassilakis had been so dismissive. Despite the excellent summaries, it would take time to assimilate. Toreth looked at the list of files he'd marked for close attention and frowned. He could just as easily have read through everything in the comfort of his own office in New London. Why the hell was he doing it out here? The reason, of course, was that the assignment was supposed to be a treat. A relaxing, lowpressure, high-expenses trip away that anyone would have jumped at. Toreth amended that to 'most people'. Chevril wouldn't have taken it because it would've meant spending weeks away from his precious Elena. More fool him. Mind you, he could understand Chev's reluctance. Leaving someone as stunning as Elena alone for a couple of weeks was asking for trouble. Toreth might've put in a dinner invitation himself, just on general principles, although he'd probably be wasting his money. In any case, he wasn't in New London with an available Elena. He was here, so he ought to relax and enjoy it, resolution of the previous evening aside. The work was probably optional. Maybe he

should take a hand screen and continue the review on a beach, or at the very least on a lounger beside the pool at his hotel. Karteris looked up from his desk, smiled and checked his watch. "We usually go for a coffee about now, if you're interested." Some things were the same Administration-wide. ~~~ In New London I&I, most serious business took place in the coffee rooms, and Athens seemed no different. This time Toreth's arrival caused a definite lull. At a conservative estimate, he'd been the subject of half the conversations in progress. The group of Political Crimes paras went especially quiet, and Karteris gathered a couple of almost hostile stares when he brought Toreth over. Deja vu again from Carnac's visit to New London; Toreth wasn't surprised when the group excused themselves one by one over the next few minutes, leaving him alone with Karteris, Manos and Nikoletta. Then Karteris's comm chimed. He listened, then sighed and stood up, beckoning to Manos. "George is in he wants to talk to us." He turned to Toreth. "I'll see you back in the office." As he was about to leave, Karteris paused and laid two fingers lightly on Nikoletta's shoulder not the first casual touch between them Toreth had noticed over the day. "You keep our guest happy while I'm gone." "I didn't notice you around yesterday," Toreth said to Nikoletta when the other two had departed. "I wasn't here." "Skiing?" She looked at him blankly, then laughed. "You mean like George? Oh, no. Nothing like that. I can't afford skiing I wish I could. Do you ski?" "A bit. My " He paused, stuck. Virtue was one thing, but he'd be damned if he was going to start calling Warrick a 'partner' or anything ridiculous like that. "A friend of mine is a corporate director. I've tagged along with him on the odd business trip." It didn't seem to strike her as strange. "That must be great." "Yes. He's good fun, for a corporate." "Are you married?" No, I'm fucking the man I just described as a friend. "No, nothing like that. I'm " Here if you want me. Hardly the right sort of sentiment for his new persona. Why the hell had he started this? Nikoletta was looking at him expectantly, but all that came to mind were his usual lines designed to suggest availability. "My admin says I'm married to I&I." There. That was fairly neutral, although Sara would laugh herself sick. Or maybe not so neutral, because her gaze flicked briefly in the direction of the chair previously occupied by Karteris, then she said, "I understand." On the way out of the coffee room, Nikoletta said, "Para? I was wondering if you'd like to go for a drink after work?" The casual approach didn't fool him for a moment. The refusal was easy he'd heard Sara go through the litany often enough. "I appreciate the offer, but no thanks. I like to keep my relationships at work completely professional. It makes things easier that way no confusion."

Was that a touch of relief in Nikoletta's eyes? Not surprising if it was, since he'd bet any money that Karteris had put her up to this. Odd in itself, because he would've guessed there was something distinctly unprofessional between the admin and senior para. Maybe there was. In any case, there was obviously something going on in the section. Karteris wouldn't be taking all this trouble to make sure Toreth had a good time unless he had something to hide. Toreth put his beach office plan on hold, at least for a couple of days until he'd decided whether or not there was anything rotten in Political Crimes. ~~~ By Wednesday, his opinion had shifted again, to an uncomfortably schizophrenic one. The Investigation in Progress reports, the arrests and the interrogation records from the cases seemed perfectly in order for each example he looked at. It was only when he called up the summary figures for the statistical report that the improbability of the overall picture struck him. Apparently there were virtually no resisters in Athens. A handful of convictions, mostly of lone dissidents, for minor infractions. No groups, no major incidents. Could Vassilakis be right, and Athens simply be one of the happiest places in the Administration? If so, it had citizens with too much time on their hands, because reports of suspected resisters by loyal citizens doing their duty (and maybe hoping to pick up a reward for informing) registered only fifteen percent below the Administration average. Incompetence? Corruption? Subversion? One blindingly obvious fact was that if something was wrong in the section, then the odds of either Vassilakis or George spotting it were vanishingly small. Toreth finally met the Political Crimes section head for lunch on Wednesday. George's second name turned out to be Makrigiannakis, making Toreth wonder if the widespread familiar name use came from the fact that none of the local I&I staff could pronounce it either. The lunch was spectacular, and George looked like a man who enjoyed something similar every day of the week and twice at the weekend. Skiing, Toreth decided, had to be a euphemism for something else. By the end of the meal he changed his mind. As far as he could tell, George did ski. And sail he owned his own yacht and ride. He also played polo, and his wife bred horses for a hobby. A hobby, for fuck's sake. Somebody's nephew indeed, because he didn't fund his lifestyle on a section head's salary. Despite all that, George was pleasant enough company. However, the meal did nothing to alter Toreth's opinion that the man was as much use to I&I as a pair of chocolate handcuffs. What George knew about his section could be written on the back of a postcard, and what he knew about resisters would fit under the stamp. Worst of all, he seemed to rely entirely on Karteris, as the most senior of the senior paras, to run the section for him. When Toreth considered what he could get away with if Tillotson took that attitude, the possibilities for malfeasance in Athens Political Crimes seemed virtually limitless. On the way back from lunch, Toreth bought a postcard with a picture of some ruined building or another on the front. On the back he wrote, 'Weather sunny. Food great. Missing you sucking my cock', and posted it to Warrick at SimTech. ~~~

Karteris had produced an active case from somewhere a near miracle, Toreth realised now he'd had a better look at the section's records and was absent from the office for most of Thursday. Just before lunch, Sara called. "Problem?" Toreth asked when he saw her expression. "Probably not. But I heard something and I thought you'd like to know. Mike Belkin was pissed off because you got the Athens job when he was supposed to be next in line for a cushy secondment. Davi " "Who?" "His admin. New, again. Belkin's last new admin went on the sick. Stress, again. Anyway, Davi was chasing me, wanting to know how you swung it, so I told him you didn't do anything and to let me know if he found anything out. This morning at coffee he told me Belkin's dropped it because he heard that someone from outside the division insisted on you getting it and he didn't want to stir up trouble." She paused for breath. "Well?" Toreth digested the tale for a moment, then asked, "Who from outside?" "I've got no idea and neither does Davi or anyone else, which did make me wonder if there was anything in it after all. Might be complete crap someone making it up to stop Belkin hassling them. You know how bloody-minded he is when he decides he's missed out on what he's due. But I thought you ought to know, in case there was something to it." "Yeah . . . yeah, thanks." Just what he needed. "Enjoying yourself?" she asked. Toreth considered the question and decided there was no way of explaining it that made sense while sober. "Yeah. I'll tell you all about it when I get back. Actually, keep the comm open for a minute." He called Nikoletta into the office for a brief consultation, making sure she passed in front of the comm. "What do you think?" he asked Sara when Nikoletta had gone. "I'd screw her," Sara said promptly. "And I don't do girls. Should I be looking for another job?" "I lost a data entry this morning turned out she'd misspelled it and then tagged it with the wrong section code anyway." Sara chuckled. "I'll put my CV away. Have fun. Oh and ask her what she puts on her hair."

Chapter Four
Coincidentally, when the call came through on Friday, Toreth was standing by the window, looking out at the city below. He wasn't sure whether it was pleasant to have no building facing him, or whether it was unnervingly open and unprotected. A fragment of his conscious awareness registered Karteris answering the comm. After a few sentences, the studiously casual tone made him pay closer attention. "There's no need. Everything's fine. Okay. One-fifteen, if we have to." A time? An address? A room number? Toreth stayed where he was as the call finished. "I'm afraid I've got to deal with something," Karteris said, already rising. "It won't take long." "Sorry?" Toreth turned, smiled vaguely. "Sure, go ahead." Karteris didn't pick up his jacket, and it was barely ten o'clock. One-fifteen must be a room number, Toreth decided as the door closed behind Karteris. Memories of the introductory tour suggested one of the ground floor meeting rooms. Nikoletta was outside, and she'd probably report any departure to Karteris. The meeting would break up before he found it. The situation required a little lateral thinking, and the solution was right at hand. Lucky thing that Karteris had a ground flooor office, and that there was no flowerbed outside to leave footprints in. Toreth eased open the window, swung himself over the sill grinning at the ridiculousness of the situation and set off along the side of the building. The sloppy security proved a good thing. He quickly found an open fire door which let him back into the building only a few yards from his target. He checked the corridor both ways clear. He'd decided to listen from the corridor if necessary, but luckily the next room along from the meeting room was empty and had a helpfully flimsy connecting door. Toreth set his ear to the door. " not my fucking fault," Karteris said. "So whose fault is it?" A voice Toreth didn't recognise. "You said you'd check him out." "I did," Karteris said. "Maybe there's another Val Toreth at I&I and we got the quiet, serious one. What I heard was that he screws around, drinks, drugs, doesn't give a fuck about politics and likes a stress-free assignment with plenty of expenses and a good time. You know normal." There was muffled laughter, the edge of tension clearly audible. "So who sent him? Who can know? Zavras?" "I've no idea, sorry." One of the juniors. "I couldn't even find out where the report came from. One minute everything was okay, the next thing I&I HQ was asking questions." "But that doesn't mean anyone knows anything concrete." Toreth tensed as he heard a creak, before deciding it was Karteris standing up from a table or chair. "Probably just bored statisticians with too much time on their hands." "So what are we going to do about it? About him?" Grammatopoulos, another of the seniors. "Nothing," Karteris said. "He's not asking any questions about Grant yet, and he won't start if

people keep their mouths shut." "What about the others, though?" "They've got even more reason than us to keep quiet. The timing's bad, but we'll get through it. He'll go home in a couple of weeks. Besides, it's probably a whitewash job if they knew anything for sure, we'd have Internal Investigations tearing the place apart." "Can't you ask him?" That sounded like Manos, Karteris's junior. Karteris laughed. "Oh, sure. 'Excuse me, Toreth, are you here to officially ignore the fact that it looks like we can't catch resisters if they walk up to reception wearing a sign round their necks?' What the fuck am I going to do if he says no, genius?" Silence, then he said, "Is that it? Anyone else losing their nerve? Good. Then let's get back to work. And try to look busy." Movement in the room, and Toreth hastened to get back to his desk in time to appear suitably innocent for Karteris's reappearance. ~~~ To his surprise, Karteris didn't return at once. While he waited, Toreth considered what he'd overheard. Combined with Karteris's little meeting, Sara's call had become more alarming. Who had wanted Toreth assigned to the review? The idea of an unknown benefactor left him very uneasy. Was there something dangerous here that he'd be far safer not finding? He had no objections to whitewashing I&I operational fuckups, if that was what was expected of him. It worried him that he didn't know. If there was a serious problem he was supposed to ignore, then standard practise was at least to drop a hint at the beginning of the investigation. Things didn't always work that way, of course. The mess with Psychoprogramming and Marian Tanit had practically given him white hairs he didn't want to go through that again. Then there was the other possibility, that the gift of an easy assignment been given to him by someone who expected him to skimp the investigation and miss the source of the low conviction rates. In that case, Toreth would look like a prize idiot when whatever problems the section had later exploded into the open. A thorough digging into Political Crimes had to be the best idea, he decided. As long as he kept a tight rein on what entered official records, he could always rebury anything particularly putrid that surfaced. Glad that he'd transferred the files to his own hand screen, Toreth ran a search for Grant. Only one hit a Theodora Grant, an administrative officer at the main university of Athens, who'd been reported as a suspected resister. When Political Crimes investigators arrived at her flat, they had found her recently deceased body, but no other evidence. The post-mortem suggested suicide. Preliminary investigation of her family, friends and colleagues had been unproductive and the case had been closed soon afterwards. Apart from the corpse, the case seemed no different to many of the others. However, if it was the right woman then there must be something here Karteris didn't want him to see. Vigilante justice, being handed out to suspected resisters by paras who couldn't be bothered with proper investigations and paperwork? Possible, although in that case he'd expect more corpses in the files. Toreth stared at the screen, biting his thumbnail. Should he run a few more detailed searches on the unfortunate Theodora? For that he would have to use the local systems, or put a high-security connection through to I&I Headquarters in New London. The latter option would put up a giant flag

saying he was up to something, but it was better than anyone who was watching him knowing exactly what. He connected to New London, then started by pulling Grant's security file. To his surprise, the request was denied. However, a five-second assessment of the message showed it was almost better than getting the file itself. The security-clearance rejection had a code which, from memory, belonged to Citizen Surveillance. If the Political Crimes paras had been tangled up in the death of a Cit agent or even a suspect that Citizen Surveillance had put a 'hands-off' notice on it wasn't surprising they were nervous. Why had Grant been here? To find out, he'd need the files from Cit. For that, while he was in Athens, he'd need to get authority from George and possibly even Vassilakis. In either case it would inevitably attract Karteris's attention. Alternatively, he could investigate the lead more easily, faster and far more quietly from his own office. A weekend return to New London wouldn't raise too many suspicions, certainly not with the happy accident of his new-found abstemious reputation. A trip home, with the justification of enquiries at I&I, had another benefit. He could catch an afternoon flight back and be in Warrick's flat by early evening. Friday evening. Warrick in the cabinet would make a perfect setting to tell him about Toreth's week of virtue. Still smiling, Toreth called through to Nikoletta and asked her to arrange a flight. ~~~ As he waited at the Athens airport, he called Sara. When she appeared on the screen, she looked at her watch at once. "It's half past four there, isn't it?" she asked. He grinned. "Yes." "Great. Okay, I know what you want. How early?" "I'll be in about lunchtime. But I'm sending you a list of things for you to do before I get there." He activated the encrypted transfer. "Should be on your screen any moment." "Long list?" she asked gloomily, sighing when he nodded. "So you spend Saturday morning in bed screwing Warrick, and I spend it here on my own?" "That's about the size of it. You know, if you're going to bitch about it maybe I should think about making Nikoletta an offer." "Yeah, yeah. Not that she'll want the job once I've warned her that you're a sadistic bastard who gets off on ordering his poor bloody admin to ruin her weekend plans." He grinned. "What kind of language is that to use to your boss?" "Memo me." She glanced to the side. "The list's here and clear. See you tomorrow." Toreth picked up an extravagant box of liqueur chocolates at the overpriced gift shop before he boarded the flight.

Chapter Five
Warrick's flat was empty. Toreth stood in the darkened hallway, feeling the first twinges of irritation. All he'd wanted to do was surprise Warrick, and he was tired enough that being thwarted felt unreasonable. Then he looked at his watch. Of course he'd stupidly forgotten the time difference. Warrick was still at SimTech, that was all. This time he called Warrick's admin first, to check. No point wasting another journey. "I'm afraid Doctor Warrick left three-quarters of an hour ago." Toreth clicked his tongue with frustration. "Do you know where he is?" "He has a dinner scheduled, but I'm afraid I can't give out the address without " "Forget it." Toreth cut the connection and stood for a moment, frowning. Then he deliberately smoothed the expression away. A small setback in his homecoming plans, that was all. He had plenty of ways and means at his disposal. ~~~ Carnac. Of all the people in the world, it would have to be fucking Carnac. Toreth stood in the entrance of the restaurant. He'd waved his ID to get in it wasn't the kind of place that admitted men in casual clothes. Now he wished he hadn't bothered. Carnac and Warrick, together. They were both in profile, intent on their conversation. Toreth stood, watching, time passing without him realising it, until Warrick laughed and shook his head. Carnac reached across the table and patted Warrick's hand. Warrick shook his head again, but he was still smiling. Were they talking about him, Toreth wondered? Were they talking about what they were going to do later? Then Carnac looked round and Toreth's heart skipped a beat. Caught spying how humiliating. However, Carnac's gaze passed blankly over him, eventually focusing on a waiter. As the socioanalyst beckoned the man over, Toreth stepped back towards the door, out of sight, to wait until the bastard looked away again. On second thought, he kept backing until he reached the door, then pushed through it and strode out onto the street, wanting nothing more than to put distance between himself and the little tete-atete. Bastard. Five fucking days away (five not fucking days away) and fucking Carnac was back. Had he known Toreth wasn't there? How had he known? Then it hit him. Sara's comment, the coffee-room rumour. So obvious, with this last piece of evidence in place. He'd been walking without really noticing where he was heading, and now he turned and went into a bar without noticing which one. He noticed the drink, though, although not for very long, before he ordered the second one, and the third one with it to save time.

Carnac. Of all the people it could have been. He downed the second drink and slammed the glass back onto the bar. Fucking Carnac. Warrick, fucking Carnac.

Chapter Six
Even through closed eyelids, the light was painful. Toreth dragged his arm out from under the sheets and laid it across his eyes. Slightly better. Faint sounds of movement in the room but, thankfully, they stayed faint. On a scale of one to ten, with one being 'I had a few drinks last night' and ten being 'someone please shoot me now', the hangover rated an eight. Maybe a nine that would depend on what Warrick said when he noticed Toreth was awake. Soft footsteps halted nearby. "Warrick?" A light laugh male, but definitely not Warrick. "No, my dear, I'm afraid not. Although I envy him exceedingly if you always wake with his name on your lips." Oh, Christ. Where the hell had he ended up? Only the smell of coffee finally enticed him to open his eyes. Not, by the look of it, a hotel room. Nor his own room, thank God, although he'd never been sufficiently far gone to take anyone back home. On the other hand, it wasn't the kind of room he wanted to wake up in with such a grim hangover. It was huge, high-ceilinged and brightly lit. Every centimetre of the walls and ceiling was painted in trompe-l-oeil very good, but very unsettling. There was no theme, no consistency. There were a dozen or more different styles of interiors, with startlingly realistic windows onto even more varied exteriors. It left him unsure exactly what was real and what wasn't, with the exception of the man smiling at him. He was very real, and Toreth temporarily forgot his hangover and the bewildering room. Nikoletta was attractive, but the young man beside the bed was undoubtably one of the most beautiful human beings male or female that Toreth had ever seen: bottomless, liquid dark eyes; thick dark hair, curling to shoulder length; pale skin with a hint of Indian colouring. He wore a lemon silk robe patterned with tulips in a slightly paler shade, somehow managing to invest it with unquestionable elegance. It was a measure of how bad the hangover was that Toreth even noticed the steaming mug the man held out towards him. He struggled into a sitting position or at least into a more or less vertical slump against the gold-embroidered lavender satin headboard and paused to recover. "Who the fuck are you?" he asked once the pounding in his head had died down. The man smiled, unfazed by the tone. "Think of me as a guardian angel. Or call me Paul. As you wish." Once Toreth had taken the mug the man strolled over to a nearby small couch and draped himself over it, cat-elegant. Toreth took a mouthful of the coffee wonderfully thick and tarry and tried to think. The latter part of the evening was a blur. The last thing he remembered was going into the kind of bar he'd never consider approaching while sober, or even normally drunk. He must have managed to get through the rest of the evening without mentioning his employer, though, as he couldn't feel any

bruises or stab wounds. When he looked up, the coffee-providing angel was watching him with a fascination that Toreth felt was probably unwarranted. He must look like shit. He studied the man in return and decided that his first guess had been wrong he was nearer Toreth's own age than he'd thought initially. Toreth ran his hand through his hair, trying to straighten it. "How do we feel?" Paul asked. "Absolutely fucking awful, but worse than that." He laughed. "Regretfully, only to be expected." Something needed clearing up. "Did we fuck?" "Alas, beautiful creature, no, we did not." Toreth felt obscurely relieved that he hadn't broken his resolution. Not that it mattered, if Warrick was Don't think about that. He felt bad enough already. "So what the hell am I doing here?" "I found you in the street." Paul's voice lowered, sharing a distasteful secret. "Lying in the street, if the truth be told. Naturally I realised at once that higher powers had guided me there in order to render assistance to a fellow soul in distress. And while you told me many wonderful things, your address was not one of them, making you a creature of mystery as well as enchantment. So I brought you home with me." He smiled, showing perfectly even, white teeth. "And here we are. If your enquiry was more metaphysical in nature, I'm afraid I must confess myself unable to help." Pretty much what he'd imagined. "Thanks. That was, uh, very kind of you." Oddly, he felt more obliged to make some kind of a conversation than he would have done if they had fucked. Paul brushed the thanks aside. "I woke you because you seemed like the kind of vision of loveliness who nevertheless has to suffer under the yoke of paid employment. And even though it's Saturday, when not even the meanest beast ought to toil in the fields . . . " It took Toreth a moment to free the question from the tangle of flowery decoration. "I, er, yeah. I do have things I need to do. I'm a para-investigator." Paul's already enormous eyes widened dramatically. "But how awful!" Toreth blinked. "Sorry?" "A dangerous job. Dreadfully important and public-spirited, of course, but so dangerous. Someone so exquisite shouldn't have a dangerous job." No reply came to mind. Toreth had been complimented on his looks plenty of times before. Just never so . . . extravagantly. "But no matter. There " Paul waved a languid hand, silk whispering. "I never heard any such thing. However, if you are to make it to this frightening job you don't have, should you, perhaps, be leaving?" He leaned forwards a little, smiling again. "Although I assure you that nothing would delight me more than the happy prospect of your continued presence in my humble bed." "No, I do have to go. Can I use your shower?" "I see no reason why not since you already have my heart. I shall summon a carriage for my prince while he avails himself of the facilities." Paul glided out of the room. Toreth downed his coffee, then went in search of the bathroom.

It was also huge, richly tiled in turquoise and gold, and with an underwater seascape painted on one wall, populated with muscular fishtailed men and silver-scaled women who could have been mermaids if they'd looked in the slightest bit maidenly. One of them was fucking an octopus. The shower was big enough for a rather wet orgy, and the bath was one of the largest Toreth had seen outside the sim. He spent a while poking unselfconsciously through gilded cupboards, impressed by the variety of jars and bottles. He set the shower temperature to as hot as he could stand, the water flow to fast, and the spray to stinging needles that soon started to wash away the worst of the hangover. He'd been in the shower for a couple of minutes when the glass door to it opened. "All arranged, my foundling. Taxi in fifteen minutes." Leaving the shower door open, Paul went to lean on the scalloped sink and watched Toreth with a faint smile and open appreciation. Water splashed onto the floor, but as it wasn't his flat Toreth didn't care. He carried on washing, taking a little longer than was strictly necessary since he had an audience. "Exquisite," Paul murmured, then began to recite. "I can love both fair and brown; He whom abundance melts, and he whom want betrays; He who loves loneness best, and he who masks and plays; He whom the country form'd, and whom the town; He who believes, and he who tries; He who still weeps with spongy eyes, And he who is dry cork, and never cries. I can love him, and him, and you, and you; I can love any, so he be not true." He stopped, and sighed wistfully. "What's that?" Toreth asked. "A disgraceful transgendering of a delightful work by one of the greatest poets of the English tongue John Donne." He tilted his head as though expecting a response, then sighed again. "No matter. The work bemoans the rise of unnatural constancy and praises the manifold joys of rampant infidelity." Toreth had never taken much interest in poetry and, with a thumping headache, he didn't feel like starting now. "I'd rather do it than read about it." "Wise words, beauteous one." As Toreth stepped out of the shower, Paul picked up a towel. "Please allow me." So Toreth stood in the steamy room while Paul dried him gently, thoroughly and silently, then he went back into the bedroom and dressed. He'd had less strange mornings after. Or mornings not after, in this case. On the doorstep to the apartment building, Paul stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm. With Paul a step above him, Toreth had to look up. "I know I shouldn't even attempt to impose myself on you while you are in such a fragile condition, angel. However " With a flourish, a small rectangle of lemon-yellow plastic appeared between his fingers. "Were you to call me, you would find me speechless with rapturous ecstasy at hearing your voice again."

Toreth took the card. "Okay. And, er, thanks." "The pleasure, my love, was entirely my own. I shall remember you always." The melting smile again. "Or for at least a week. But do call, at any time, if you would like to remedy the tragic omission of last night." He must have looked blank, because Paul laughed, then kissed his own forefinger and placed it briefly on Toreth's lips. "Fucking, dear heart. Fucking." And the door closed, leaving Toreth alone except for the waiting taxi. ~~~ The sheer strangeness of the morning and the subduing effect of the hangover meant that when he arrived in the office around ten o'clock and Sara cheerfully informed him that he looked like he'd been having fun, he didn't snarl at her. Instead he grunted something noncommittal, dropped the chocolates on her desk, and went into his office to brood. Unfortunately, there was too much to do to allow a really good sulk Sara had already found much of the information he wanted, and he had a job to finish, whatever Warrick was doing with his spare time. He'd barely read through the list of files when Sara came in with two coffees and a plate of biscuits. She handed him his cup and then pulled up a chair, obviously settling in. "Did I get everything you wanted?" "Yes." Her eyebrow went up at his tone. "Nice time in Athens?" "Fine." "How was the flight back?" He picked up a biscuit and dipped the end into his coffee. "Fine." "How's Warrick?" "F " Distracted at the vital moment, Toreth left his biscuit submerged a fraction too long. A chunk of it broke off and sank out of sight. He picked up a teaspoon and fished vainly for it. "Fucking hell. I hate that." She watched him for a while, not commenting, until he gave up hope of retrieving the biscuit. He threw the teaspoon back onto the tray. "Don't you have any work to do?" he asked. "Plenty." She stood up and reached for the tray. "No. Look. Sit down." He took a deep breath. He mustn't piss Sara off, not when he had to go back to Athens and leave her to look after things here. "I'm sorry." She nodded, accepting the apology, and sat down again. "Is he okay?" "I don't know. I haven't fucking spoken to him, because " He swallowed a mouthful of coffee, steadying his voice. "Because when I went to see him he was with Carnac." "Carnac? The spook?" "Yes." "Hang on a minute. Is that 'with' as in 'in the same room as' or 'with' as in . . . ?"

He sighed and launched into the sorry saga. When he'd walked out of the restaurant, he looked up to find Sara staring at him in obvious bewilderment. "So they went to dinner?" "Yeah. Very fucking cosy." "But that's it? Dinner? Did you call his flat later or something?" "No, I " I made a huge fucking assumption on no bloody evidence whatsoever. "Maybe they were just " "Jesus Christ, Sara, I worked that out for myself. Bollocks." She smiled very slightly, and so briefly that he didn't have time to snap at her to stop it. "What did you do?" "What do you think?" He rubbed his face. "I went off, felt sorry for myself, and got completely fucking wasted. Woke up in some bloke's bed with no idea of how I got there. Fuck." "Oh dear. Well " She stood up. "No harm done, eh? Shall I call Warrick, tell him you're back for the weekend?" "No. No, I'll do it." Halfway across the room, she stopped and turned round. "Did you . . . " "What?" "Did you really not screw anyone in Athens? For the whole week?" Why the hell had he told her that? "If you say a word to anyone, I'll kill you." Balancing the tray in one hand, she zipped her lips firmly. Then she grinned. "It's useless as gossip, anyway. No one would believe me." When she had gone, Toreth sat and contemplated the extent of his stupidity. Christ, he'd sack any of his team who came up to him and tried to pass off something that weak as a plausible theory. It had probably been nothing more than a social meal, or even a business meeting. He should have thought of that in the first place why the hell would Warrick's admins know about illicit liaisons? Well, if he had to make an idiot of himself, at least it had only been in front of Sara. He called Warrick sound only. It would make it that much easier to lie to him. Between the effects of irritation, the hangover and lingering embarrassment he'd need all the help he could get. "Hello, Warrick. It's me." "And very nice it is to hear you." Sounded like genuine pleasure. "How's the weather in Athens?" "No idea. I'm back in New London. I got back last night. I . . . I called the flat, but you weren't in." Setting a trap. "I'm afraid not." No obvious guilt. "Actually, I was having dinner with someone." "Anyone I know?" "Yes, indeed, although I doubt you'll guess who." He played through the charade, guessing randomly, until Warrick finally said, "Carnac." Deep breath. "Carnac? Fuck, really? What's he doing back here?" Now there was a hesitation. "Working somewhere in the city, I think. Listen, I've got a meeting now. Are you free this evening?" "Your flat?" "Certainly."

"Fine. See you." Toreth rested his chin on his hand and stared at the screen without seeing any of the work layered there for his urgent attention. 'I've got a meeting now'. Warrick was working at the weekend too? Not terribly unusual, and he had been expecting Toreth to be in Athens. But why the sudden change in the conversation? What hadn't Warrick wanted to tell him? He wished he could think of a reason beyond the obvious one. ~~~ "I can get a section head clearance, of course," Toreth said, "but it'll take me a couple of hours. Maybe more." The man on the screen looked at his watch. "I'm supposed to be taking my daughter fishing, Para." "I'm sorry," Toreth said with as much sincerity as he could fake. "The files I have give Theodora Grant as an alias for a Citizen Surveillance agent. I need the details of the operation in Athens she was working on when she died." "Wait." The screen blanked. Toreth leaned back in his chair. Working at the weekend had advantages and disadvantages. It had taken him two hours to track down someone over at Cit Surveillance who could give him the information he needed. However, it also meant that everyone he spoke to was in a hurry to deal with his question and get on with whatever they were doing. He sat up as the screen flickered into life. "I'm sending the file now. Get a section head clearance to me by Monday." "No problem." Sara could fight it out with Tillotson after Toreth was back in sunny Athens. The file was short and perversely unhelpful. Two months previously, Cit Surveillance had assigned Agent #020571 to act as an agent provocateur within the university in Athens. She had arrived, begun the process of sounding out potential resisters, and been discovered dead by Political Crimes investigators a month later. The operation had followed all proper procedures thorough preparation of her cover, selective targeting of contacts, notification to other Int-Sec agencies, and a low risk projection. However, Karteris had mentioned her name, so there had to be something there. Still possible that he'd meant another Grant, but as the name wasn't Greek the odds seemed low. If Toreth hoped to get any further with the lead, he'd need help with some non-electronic investigation when he returned to Athens. He had powers to take investigators from the pool there, but that involved, to put it mildly, conflicted loyalties. He needed people he could rely on, and who, more importantly, needed his good opinion for their future careers, not Karteris's or Vassilakis's. Whom to choose? Barret-Connor, because the investigator did his job well and discreetly. Another investigator, or his junior para? He was tempted to take Joielin Nagra, if she could be spared. Nagra had been in Toreth's team for a year and a half, and she was the best junior he'd ever had. Her only flaw was that she was bound to get an early promotion to senior, and she was good enough that he couldn't stop it. Not that it would happen for a number of years yet talent had to be backed up by experience. He called through to Sara. "How's Nagra's case load?"

She didn't need to check, and once more Toreth wished he could take her with him. "It could be left with Wrenn and Morehen, if that's what you mean. The big one was the corporate extortion, and that's gone quiet Systems are tracking leads but they don't expect results unless the corporation is contacted again." "Great. Call her and tell her I've got good news. B-C, too. Sort me out flights for them both to Athens. The budget should stretch to it." That settled, he returned to the files.

Chapter Seven
"I'm in the living room," Warrick called as Toreth closed the door to the flat. Toreth took his time taking off his coat. Carnac and Warrick had been having dinner, nothing more than that. Sara was obviously right. If he let himself worry about it he'd end up looking like an idiot in front of Warrick. As he set off down the hall, he took a deep breath the flat smelt deliciously of curry. Special effort, obviously, for his return. Was that a sign of Warrick's guilty conscience? As he entered the living room, Warrick craned his neck to look over the back of the sofa and gave him a smile that under any other circumstances would have put a serious delay in dinner. The picture flashed into his mind of Warrick's mouth on Carnac's. Don't, he told himself. Just don't even start that. "Would you like a drink?" Warrick asked, not standing up. "No." He knew what he ought to say, what Warrick expected to hear. "I'd much prefer you." The smile widened. "Oh, good. Would you like to adjourn to the bedroom?" Toreth came round the end of the sofa, almost stepping on the hand screen on the floor. "Not especially." Still smiling, Warrick lay down on the sofa and offered his hand. "This is a very pleasant surprise," Warrick said when they were comfortable. "I had to come back to I&I. I'm heading back to Athens on Monday." "We'll have to make the most of it, then. Thank you for the card, by the way. It arrived yesterday afternoon." "Did you like it?" His eyebrow arched wryly. "The admins certainly enjoyed it. They laughed so much that Asher came across to see what the fuss was about. If you hoped to embarrass me, you succeeded admirably." Warrick ran his fingers through Toreth's hair. "You were telling the truth about the sun, anyway." "Yeah? I've not been out much." "Still, it's distinctly lighter. Did you get to a beach?" "Too fucking busy." "Mm. Pity." Warrick's voice was muffled against his throat. "I have a sex-on-a-beach fantasy I'm very fond of." Warrick was getting hard, squirming gently against him. It felt wonderful, but Toreth couldn't stop the thought forming: is it me or is it fucking Carnac on the beach with you? "I've been entertaining myself with it while you've been away," Warrick continued. "You know how it is one becomes captivated by an idea for a while, a particular scenario. Or at least I do. Elaborating. Expanding. Adding new details." He ran his hand down Toreth's chest, then up again to start unfastening his shirt from the top. Forget Carnac. "I swam in the pool every day that's outdoors." "Ah." Warm fingers traced down his skin as Warrick undid the buttons with his thumb. "Did you

get sunburned?" "No, I didn't. It's incredibly bad for your skin. Why do you want to . . . no, wait, don't tell me sunburn turns you on." "Yes, a little. Just the idea of a touch along your shoulders." The wistful edge made Toreth laugh. "Sunburn." He shifted round, moving above Warrick, pressing him down into the sofa. "Sometimes you are so fucking weird." It was a good thing that they'd done this so often, because it meant Toreth could devote most of his attention to looking for something different. Different responses, different movements, a different scent something that would tell him beyond doubt that Warrick had been with someone else. The downside of having done this so often was that after five minutes Warrick lifted Toreth's head up gently, one hand cupping his face, and said, "What's wrong?" "Why the hell would anything be wrong?" "If I knew, I wouldn't be asking." "It's nothing." Warrick wriggled out from beneath him and sat up. "If you're not in the mood, or you're tired, all you have to do is say so. Your company for the evening will be very nice whatever we do." He stroked Toreth's shoulder, straightening his shirt. "I don't expect performance on demand, you know." Not if you've got someone else to do it for you. Toreth rolled onto his back and stared up at the familiar ceiling. "Carnac swung me the trip to Athens." Warrick frowned down at him. "It's in English, and all the words make sense, but what the hell are you talking about?" "Carnac pulled strings and got me assigned to the investigation in Athens." "How on Earth do you know that?" "Sara asked around." "For goodness sake. Office gossip " "Is about the most reliable source of information. If the admin network says someone from outside arranged the trip, then someone did. Who the fuck else could it be?" "How should I know?" Warrick asked. "Internal politics at Int-Sec is hardly my speciality." "Well, it's mine." "Why would he do something like that?" So he could fuck you. "I don't know. Carnac isn't my speciality. Why don't you ask him next time you see him?" There was a brief pause before Warrick said, "I think you're perhaps being just a little paranoid." "No I'm not. Don't you think it's a bit of a fucking coincidence?" "Yes. It's a coincidence, in the accurate sense of two unrelated events coinciding." "Unrelated? He set it up so that he could take you to dinner and get you " He stopped, far too late, as Warrick's expression changed slight smile, mostly around his eyes. "Toreth, I assure you it was nothing of the kind. We had dinner and that was all." A little exasperated and so fucking patient. If there was one thing Toreth hated more than that tone of voice it was the thought he was sure lay behind it. 'You're utterly pathetic, but I can put up

with it because I like your cock'. Toreth sat up abruptly. Bastard. Unbelievable bastard. Sometimes, like now, he hated Warrick as he'd hated few other people in his life. "He was fucking flirting with you at that restaurant," Toreth said tightly. "Or was that my imagination too?" "Carnac flirts with doors when he opens them. It's how he " Warrick stopped dead. "How the hell do you know what he was doing?" No ready answer presented itself, so he settled for shrugging. When Warrick spoke again his voice was quiet enough that Toreth reflexively leaned closer to hear him. "I hope the answer isn't that you followed us there." Don't explain, you idiot. "I went straight to your flat from the airport, but you weren't there." With Warrick's gaze fixed on him, he couldn't manage to shut up. "So I called SimTech and they said you had a . . . a dinner meeting." "A business meeting, yes." "A business meeting. Right. So when you said you thought he was working somewhere in New London . . . ?" Warrick sighed. "Yes. I'm sorry. He's at SimTech." Toreth's hands clenched on the edge of the sofa. You are fucking him he wasn't sure if he'd said it out loud or not. "How did you find us?" Warrick continued. "I ran a vehicle check on cars from SimTech. There was only one to a classy restaurant." "Then you went to the restaurant, saw us, and left without asking for an explanation?" His lips twitched. "Not a very thorough investigation." How could he be so casual? Probably because it really had just been dinner. "If he's working at SimTech, why didn't you tell me?" "Because no one is supposed to know. He's carrying out a study of the corporation for an interested party. I'm afraid the details are confidential." The seesaw of doubt tipped the other way again. "Very fucking convenient." "And also true. Only the directors know why he's here or even who he is. Publicly, he's a consultant psychologist." "What's so fucking secret?" "I can't tell you." Warrick sighed again. "I suppose I ought to be grateful that they didn't tell you the meeting was with Alex Welham." Clandestine meetings under a different name that certainly would have clinched it. "Yeah, I suppose so. Or maybe not. I mean, if I'd punched the fucker in the restaurant, it would've been sorted out then." Warrick's expression iced over. "I hope that was a joke." "Not really." Warrick stood up, took a couple of paces away and turned. "Toreth, this study is important for SimTech. Very important. Production should start this year. We have customers waiting and a delay would be disastrous, both financially and for our reputation. I'm asking you no, begging you

please don't do anything to endanger it." "No problem. Just stay the fuck away from Carnac." "You know I can't. Believe me, he wasn't my first choice, but the socioanalyst was appointed by the by the interested party." Yeah, right, of course he was. But Toreth didn't say it, because he knew perfectly well what it sounded like. Stupid, pathetic jealousy, and if Warrick got any more patient something very unpleasant would happen. Toreth ought to know better he should've gathered enough evidence before he made his case. "Fine. Do whatever the fuck you like." Toreth stood up and began rebuttoning his shirt. "I'm going home." For a moment he thought that Warrick would protest. It was a disappointment when he simply nodded and said, "Call me, if you have time." ~~~ Toreth poured himself another whiskey, looked at it, then left it on the table and went to the window of his flat. He opened it and leaned on the sill, breathing in the cool New London air. If his stomach would stop somersaulting at the memory of Warrick and Carnac eating together, he could manage to be properly angry about them. The conviction had grown stronger all evening, as he tried not to think about it. Carnac had wanted Warrick the last time he'd been in New London. Now he'd arranged to get rid of Toreth so he could have him. Stupidly, the word adultery kept forcing its way into his mind. Stupid because adultery technically required a marriage contract. But Warrick had promised. After Girardin, he'd said never again, and Toreth had believed him. For a moment he wondered what was worse Warrick fucking Carnac or the way Toreth had been so stupidly naive as to think it wouldn't happen. Which was also a stupid thing to think, because it was obviously the fuck. If they were fucking, he told himself firmly. If. However sure he felt, he had no evidence. It was all bloody ifs. Of course . . . it didn't have to be. He'd thought about it before. Usually when Warrick had a conference, especially if Toreth had succumbed to the temptation of checking the attendees' names and found Girardin listed there. The only thing that had stopped him was the idea of Warrick finding out. Carnac was different. He was too fucking clever to leave things to trust, especially when Toreth had no choice but to return to Athens the day after tomorrow. Returning to the table, Toreth contemplated the untouched glass of whiskey, then poured it back into the bottle.

Chapter Eight
The private detective firm hadn't expressed surprise when Toreth asked for a Sunday afternoon appointment. Perhaps, Toreth thought as the lift rose, they had a lot of customers who wanted to arrange a little surveillance of their unfaithful bastard fucks at the weekend. Outside the office, he almost changed his mind. If Warrick found out then he would be unbearably difficult about the whole thing. Maybe if Toreth kept repeating Warrick's assurances that nothing was going on, he'd be able to get through the next couple of weeks. Then Carnac would leave, and everything would be back to normal. But he still wouldn't know. Carnac would go on his way, and Toreth could never be sure that Warrick hadn't been assigned the part of personal liaison. Would Warrick do it? Toreth snorted. With SimTech's future at stake? Of course he fucking would. Hand on the doorframe, Toreth closed his eyes and imagined Warrick and Carnac together. It was so easy, since he'd fucked both of them. He could almost hear their voices, and even in his head he couldn't be sure whether Warrick was lying back and thinking of the corporation, or whether he was enjoying it. Wanting it. Toreth opened his eyes. The detective firm was owed by Uche, an ex-I&I investigator who owed Toreth favours. They were discreet and reliable, and it was the easiest way to get rid of this exasperating uncertainty. No problem, as Karteris would say. ~~~ The discussion had a relentless practicality that actually made Toreth feel more at ease with the idea. He wondered if Uche had different lines of salesmanship to use on different customers. This, presumably, was the Practical Guys approach. "Prices depend on the resources we need to apply to the problem," Uche said. "If the target's high-level corporate that'll cost you more than if it's a straying spouse." "How about a straying corporate regular fuck?" "That'll put it somewhere in the middle." He smiled, his slightly discoloured teeth still appearing bright in contrast to his dark skin. "It depends on how close a watch you want and if you want it in office hours too." "Especially in office hours." "Then you're back to corporate prices, I'm afraid, because we'll be dodging the same security. Do you have a second target in mind?" "Yes. He's working at SimTech temporarily, under the name Alex Welham." Useful of Warrick to let that slip. "His real name is Carnac." Toreth had to think back. "Jean-Baptiste, I think." "Corporate too?" "No. Socioanalyst." "A . . . " Uche stared, then laughed. "I'm afraid you'll have to wait for a few minutes while I come up with a whole new price scale."

~~~ It was a good job that he didn't have any expensive hobbies like skiing, Toreth thought as he emerged back into daylight. If he'd stuck to the cover story of Carnac being a consultant psychologist, perhaps Uche wouldn't have doubled the charges. And perhaps, not knowing what they were up against, the watchers would've been caught. That didn't bear thinking about. Back at his flat, the first thing that caught his eye when he opened the door was a yellow rectangle on the table below the mirror in the hall. Paul's card. He picked it up and called the number. When it connected, the screen stayed blank. "Paul?" he asked. "On occasion," the musical voice admitted cautiously. "It's Toreth." A pause, and he realised that it was entirely possible he'd never told the man his name. "You found me lying face down in the street on Friday night." "Ah! My golden handsel!" Instant recognition, and unmistakable pleasure. "How may I be of service?" Before he could change his mind, Toreth said, "I wondered if you'd like to have dinner tonight. With a post-dinner fuck." Delighted laughter. "My dear! Refreshingly direct. But then, didn't I say 'any time'?" "You said you'd be speechless, too." "Oh, but I am, I am. All things are relative." Paul's voice developed a brisker, more businesslike tone. "Before you waste the price of a taxi, I ought to tell you that while I'm sure it will be my purest pleasure to accommodate your desires, I don't bottom. I sincerely hope that doesn't disappoint, angel?" "No. Suits me fine." And the taxi was free, courtesy of I&I. "Then I shall await your arrival in an agony of anticipation no, first of all I shall put something on ice. Dry or sweet?" To his surprise, Toreth found himself smiling. "Dry." "I didn't doubt it for a moment. Later, my treasure but not too much later."

Chapter Nine
Barret-Connor and Nagra flew back with him in the morning. They managed to book into the same hotel, and Toreth held an impromptu case conference in Nagra's room even if Political Crimes possessed hidden depths of efficiency, they were unlikely to have every room in the place under surveillance. Neither of his team members had any useful ideas about the case but they clearly appreciated the trip away. Toreth considered emphasising that it wasn't a holiday, but decided against it. He trusted them, and besides, it still might turn out to be exactly that. Back at Athens I&I, Toreth informed Karteris that he'd take the empty office and a couple of extra desks for the staff. Karteris seemed unfazed by the news, and provided accommodation two doors down. Had he known about Nagra and B-C's arrival in advance? Possibly. The question then was whether the information had come from the airport or hotel, or from the man's contacts at New London I&I. The new office was close enough to allow Karteris to keep an eye on Toreth, but conversely it also allowed Toreth to keep tabs on Karteris. Advantage to the native, though, since he had Nikoletta to increase the effectiveness of the surveillance. Not that either B-C or Nagra were hard to pick out in the building his pale blondness was as unusual as her polished Caribbean skin. Pity he hadn't chosen people who'd blend in better. Used to the diverse ethnic mix of New London, it hadn't occurred to him that B-C and Nagra might be conspicuous here. Toreth's research in New London had included a credit and purchase check for Karteris. It looked clean enough, but it gave him a list of regular hangouts to try for gossip. He assigned Nagra to that, as the most personable of the two. B-C would join the hunt through the case files, and also start investigations into the case files they hadn't been given, especially any that had been closed with the suspect's death. ~~~ Later that afternoon, Karteris appeared in the office doorway with Nikoletta beside him. "Anyone fancy a trip up to the Acropolis dome this evening? See the sights. I don't know if you're interested, but I thought I'd offer." Toreth had decided to stick to his new image, Carnac notwithstanding. However, sightseeing ancient monuments was taking being a boring bastard a bit too far. "Is there much to see up there?" Toreth asked. "At the Acropolis?" Nikoletta sounded shocked. "You've never heard of the Parthenon Casino? It's famous. And great fun." "How did they get away with putting a casino in the place?" B-C asked. "Ah." Karteris grinned. "Back in the days of petroleum cars, the air pollution was destroying most of the ancient monuments. Some anonymous corporate offered to pay for the restoration and then protect the Acropolis with the dome. No one knows who it was supposedly he was part of the Mars consortium. Anyway, the city thought great, someone looking for a tax write-off, so they accepted. Turned out they should have read the small print more carefully." Nagra laughed. "And they couldn't get rid of it?"

"Allegedly there are still Administration lawyers going through the contract with a fine-tooth comb, trying to find a way out." ~~~ The dome entrance, while not an actual airlock, still stirred unpleasant memories of Toreth's mind-numbingly dull secondment on Mars. There, however, the boredom had been compounded by the installation being dry. The Acropolis dome was anything but. They stopped at a small building that housed a reception and bar, where Karteris paused to set up an account for the evening. He returned with three large bags of casino chips, which he handed out to Toreth, B-C and Nagra. "Entertainment budget." Toreth hefted the bag in his hand and debated, feeling the weight of expectant gazes too. If he refused the chips, then B-C and Nagra would feel obliged to do the same, and the last thing he wanted to do was piss off his entire investigative team of two. "Thanks," he said. After acquiring drinks, they set off across the historical paving, following in the footsteps of millions. The Parthenon itself, brilliantly lit, dominated the dome. Toreth had no idea which of the white buildings were original, which were restoration, and which had been added to provide modern conveniences for the casino. As everything was under the protection of the dome, collections of slot machines and lower stakes tables sprouted in groups on the Acropolis hill. The scene which greeted them when they reached the Parthenon would, Toreth thought, have induced collective apoplexy in the original builders. Good thing they'd been dead for more than two and a half thousand years. Although it was relatively early on a week night, patrons already thronged between the massive pillars. The gaming tables were in marble whether real or fake, Toreth couldn't tell and the staff circulating with drinks wore ancient-style dress. The lights blazed back in reflection from the golden clothing of a vast statue of a woman with ornate helmet and shield, which dominated the far end of the room. "Well," B-C said after a while. "At least they didn't knock it all down to fit in a bigger bar." Karteris gestured vaguely towards the floodlit heights of the building. "A lot of it's restored, but they brought some original bits back from a museum at your end of the Administration, sometime soon after the bombs. Athens was lucky, you know, not being hit then. There's a screen somewhere with the official story don't know where, though. Come on." They moved into the crowd. ~~~ Gambling bored Toreth, but he adored casinos, especially the expensive ones. Few places in the world came with such a rich assortment of neglected spouses who were not only bored to tears but actively resenting the person who'd dragged them there. However, tonight they were all off limits. He turned to Nikoletta and rattled the bag. "Would you like to help me spend these?" She glanced at Karteris, who had apparently been distracted by something on the far side of the temple. "That'd be fun, thanks," she said. If he had to gamble, Toreth didn't mind playing poker. However, it was only fun playing with people he knew, and it made for a poor spectator sport. They stuck to games where absolutely no skill was involved, betting small to make the generous expenses handout last even longer. Toreth had his usual terrible luck. When the bag was half empty he handed it over to Nikoletta with a smile, and said, "Maybe you'll do better without me."

As he strolled off he caught sight of Karteris closing in to take his place. Toreth wandered aimlessly for a while until he spotted B-C's blond crop through the crowd. He was seated at a blackjack table not something Toreth would've suspected B-C of even knowing how to play. However, he seemed to be doing well enough. The neat stacks of chips in front of him looked to be more than double what Karteris had handed him at the start of the evening. Nagra stood a little way away, watching. "Not playing?" Toreth asked her in a low voice. "Nope. My mother always said gambling was a tax on stupidity. And besides, I gave my stake to B-C." "What the hell for?" "We're not all on senior para salaries, you know. He's going to play for a while, then we're going to cash in what's left and keep it. He's counting cards," Nagra added confidentially. Toreth snorted. "Or so he says." "Well, he's winning, anyway." She frowned. "Except that he was supposed to quit if we ever made it fifteen percent up." "Shall I get him away from there for you?" Toreth moved to stand behind an empty chair opposite B-C, and waited until a brief break in the game, when the investigator looked up and caught his eye. As B-C nodded hello, Toreth smiled slowly, licked his bottom lip, and carefully mouthed, "Want to fuck?" B-C flushed brick red, and for the five seconds it took him to realise what Toreth was up to, Toreth had never seen anyone appear so purely appalled. Then B-C looked down at the cards in front of him, over to the dealer's shoe, and shook his head. Satisfied, Toreth strolled off to the bar and bought himself a cocktail that turned out to be fifty percent fruit salad. B-C joined him a couple of minutes later, his half of the winnings safely stowed in a bag with a print of a naked nymph, complete with friendly dolphin. B-C sat down on the next stool. "You rotten bastard. Sir." Toreth swirled the overloaded cocktail stick through his drink and sucked the cherry off the end. B-C coloured faintly again. "Nagra told me you were supposed to stop at fifteen percent," Toreth said. "Yes, but I was on a " He paused, then nodded once. "No, she's right. Thanks, I suppose. You can buy me a drink, though, now I'm not playing. Lager." Toreth grinned and beckoned the bartender over. After all, everything was on expenses. "Where the hell did you learn to count cards?" he asked when B-C had his drink. "I don't know if you remember, but when you had your six months on Mars, I got a secondment to Paris. While I was there, I went out with a girl who worked at one of the Atlantic coastal casinos in the summer." "One of your interchangeable leggy blondes?" B-C nodded, unruffled. "She showed me how to do it. Actually, it's a good way to keep your brain sharp, but the house always wins in the end, which makes it a bit expensive for me. So normally I do crosswords instead." Sometimes Toreth couldn't tell whether B-C was joking or not.

They sat for a while, watching the crowd. Suddenly, B-C gestured with his glass and said, "Look over there, Para." After a moment Toreth spotted Karteris and Nikoletta. It took him a moment longer to notice that Karteris's hand rested on his admin's backside as she leaned over a roulette table. "Well done," Toreth said automatically. "Para?" "You just confirmed a theory for me." Either Nikoletta had a far more relaxed attitude towards personal space than Sara did, or Toreth had been spot on about their unprofessional relationship. One productive result of the evening, anyway.

Chapter Ten
By Wednesday afternoon, B-C had ruled out another theory too. Suicides and accidental deaths amongst citizens reported as potential reisisters were, if anything, slightly lower than Toreth might expect it wasn't unknown for those who feared they were about to be arrested to take desperate measures to avoid interrogation. If Political Crimes were killing resisters out of hand, then they were doing so in a highly ineffective manner. Not that Toreth was willing to discount that possibility, given what he'd seen so far. However, they certainly weren't killing enough suspects to account for their poor conviction rate. Surprisingly, Toreth found that discarding that idea didn't discourage him. Being able to look up and see familiar faces made him feel more confident of eventual success. A small part of New London had been transplanted here people he could rely on. That evening, at the hotel, the confidence proved justified when Nagra brought him the first interesting result. "It may be nothing, Para, but I'd consider asking for another full credit and purchase. There were a few regular taxi drop-off points on the list, with nothing spent at the other end. Not in the nice parts of town, either. I tried bars at the end of the most popular two routes, and an alternate name cropped up a few times when I showed people Karteris's picture. Taki Papadamou. All the places he was known at had gambling, some more legal than others, and this Taki is well known as a big spender. Speaking of which, I blew the budget you gave me for bribes." "No problem." Damn, that phrase was getting to be a habit. Had he used it before he came here? He had a feeling he had, but now it was annoying him. "And good work. Call it through to Sara for her to arrange the c&p on both names. Use a personal comm, not the hotel one. Tell her to keep it quiet. Very quiet." She raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment. To celebrate the news, Toreth went for a dip before dinner. As he swam lengths in the fading light, he wondered where Warrick was, and whether Carnac was with him. ~~~ B-C and Nagra were at lunch, leaving the office quiet except for distant noises leaking dully through the door. Toreth closed the fourth daily report he'd received from Uche's detectives and looked out of the window over Athens basking in the spring sunshine. The report detailed Warrick's regular work schedule, nothing suspicious. Carnac had returned to his hotel after his day at SimTech and spent Wednesday evening alone in his room. Room service for one delivered at nine o'clock. Toreth smiled and picked up his second lunchtime sandwich. The reports may have been pricey, but they had proved an excellent investment. He'd been stupid to worry about the idea. Maybe he should consider doing it more often. Warrick's trips to conferences might be a good starting point, when there would be no expensive socioanalyst bumping up the bill. Or maybe not, because the undoubted satisfaction had an unpleasant aftertaste an awareness of how pathetic this would look to an outsider. Sara would never let him live it down. Warrick would be horrified and livid. They'd both know that he spent his time fretting about what Warrick might be up to in Toreth's absence. He'd call the agency from the hotel that evening and tell them to stop. After all, it was now

Thursday there had been three whole days with no action. Of course, there was no way of telling what Warrick and Carnac had been up to in the sim. That wasn't a thought he liked, not least because he knew that Warrick would be able to say that nothing had happened with Carnac and believe it, because it was just work. Was there a way of getting hold of the sim schedule? At least that would show if the two of them had been in together. If they'd used any of the sex protocols, that would be recorded too. He was wondering how it might be possible to retrieve the records when the comm chimed. Warrick. An irrational touch of guilt sharpened Toreth's voice. "What the hell do you want?" "Well, firstly, to ask if your temper had improved since I saw you last." On the screen, Warrick's eyebrow lifted slightly. "However, the answer to that question is clearly no." "If you just called to be fucking sarcastic, I've got work to do." "No doubt. So I'll be brief. I thought I might come out to Athens at the weekend, if you have no objections." Objections? "Fuck, no. I mean yeah, sure, come. That'd be " He caught hold of the enthusiasm and damped it down. "That'd be fine." "Wonderful. I thought, if you don't have to be in the city itself, that I might book somewhere quiet for us." Toreth smiled slowly. "Somewhere near a beach?" Warrick's answering smile was positively mischievous. "The idea had crossed my mind, yes." "So I can " Toreth was about to elaborate on the possibilities when he remembered Nikoletta. Friendly she might be, but there was no reason to assume that she wasn't passing information on to Karteris. Or that Karteris himself wasn't listening. No need to spoil his virtuous image with overly graphic plans. "I can get the weekend off, no problem." When Warrick had gone, Toreth sat, twirling the comm earpiece between his fingers and thinking about the surveillance. If Warrick was coming here, there couldn't possibly be anything going on. Unless there was, and the trip was designed to diffuse suspicion. Would Warrick think of that? Carnac probably would. In the end, Toreth decided to wait. One more day. He could call the agency tomorrow and cancel the surveillance then. Maybe. Toreth finished his sandwich, brushed away the crumbs, and returned to the official investigation. How long would it take Sara to manage the credit and purchase? Assuming Nagra had told her to keep it as discreet as possible, it might take longer than usual. Karteris obviously had some kind of contact in New London, but Toreth doubted that they'd be up to spotting Sara at her most sneaky. Not that there was any guarantee that Karteris's gambling extravagance was anything to do with the dismal arrest record of the section. He shouldn't pin all his hopes on it, but it was difficult not to when it was all he had. He was no longer optimistic that he or B-C would come up with anything from the files. For lack of other ideas, he found a few sheets of paper and a pencil and started making lists. A couple of years earlier Sara had tried to interest him in a decision-tree program on the I&I admin system. Toreth had killed a couple of hours with it, then abandoned it. It had too many flow

diagrams with dozens of little circles and lines that gave him a headache. Sara loved them, but then she was better than him at holding twenty different things in her mind at once. It was, as she had informed him airily, a female thing. However, the first exercise in the training scheme had been binary lists, and Toreth had rather liked them. You knew where you were with a list for one thing, all you had to do was look at the title at the top of the page. He started one for Problems and Solutions. That lasted for ten minutes, until he reached the bottom of the page with Problems while Solutions was still a heading. He wrote 'fuck 'em all and go home' underneath it, screwed up the paper and started again. Dead-Ends and Potential Leads started as badly. After a few minutes of pencil chewing, he unscrewed Problems and Solutions and smoothed it out. That was the object of the exercise, after all for every point you thought of, find at least one list where it fell in the positive half. Nikoletta. A Problem if you wanted decent filing, or were trying to do anything without Karteris finding out. However, she might be moved over to Potential Leads, with some suitable persuasion. The corridor was empty as he strolled the few metres to her office everyone was still at lunch, and he wondered if she'd be there. She was, listening to something through headphones and reading from the screen. A white paper bag sat on the desk and she held a half-eaten cake of some kind in one hand. He caught a faint smell of cinnamon. He waited until she popped the cake into her mouth, then stepped into the office. She looked up at once, lifting off the headphones. "Doing anything tonight, Nikki?" She waved her hand towards her mouth, chewed and swallowed hastily. "No, Para." "I thought I'd take you up on that offer of a drink. And maybe a meal." He smiled. "In a professionally friendly way, of course. You deserve an evening on expenses, and I could do with a change from the hotel. It's nice enough, but I've eaten there almost every night." "That's very kind, thank you, Para. I'd love to." She licked her fingers, then offered the bag. "Would you like one? Loukoumades. Like doughnuts." Far too sweet, but Toreth took one anyway. It was the friendly thing to do, and B-C or Nagra could eat it. ~~~ At three-thirty he was alone in the office again when someone knocked on the office door. "Come in," Toreth said. "I brought you a file," Sara said as she closed the door behind her. "Which " Then it registered and he looked up. "What the fuck are you doing here?" Sara's usual grey admin uniform had been replaced by a cream-coloured shorts-and-halter-top arrangement that temporarily distracted Toreth from her reply. "Sorry?" he asked after a moment. "I said, I thought I'd bring it personally rather than send it, since you were so cagey about getting it in the first place." "And Tillotson authorised the flight?"

"No, you did. Or at least you left me the code to sort out B-C and Nagra. I'm flying back Sunday night that was the cheapest way to do it." She smiled brightly, radiating earnest truthfulness. "It was, honestly." He grinned. "Did you know it's a statistical fact that people who use words like 'honestly' are usually lying?" "You've mentioned it before. I am paying for my own hotel, though, and I booked tomorrow off as holiday." She waved her hand screen. "Now, do you want this file or not?" "What is it?" "Karteris's financial records. And either senior para pay is a hell of a lot better over here or there's something very fishy going on. He's spending " Toreth held his hand up. "Not in here. Let's go for a drink. I'll get hold of the other two." ~~~ They walked half a kilometre away from the I&I building and picked a cafe at random. Toreth bought three coffees, and a chamomile tea for Nagra, then they picked seats with a clear view of the tables around them. "Show me what you've got," Toreth said to Sara, adding a suggestive twitch of his eyebrow. Nagra snorted. Sara shook her head, then expanded her hand screen and set it out between them. "I sorted everything by amount and location spent," she said. "All the money that goes into Karteris's account is from his pay here. No more, no less. Doesn't look like he gets any pocket money from his wife, unless she's funding his alias. Taki Whateverthehellhe'scalled gambles a heck of a lot, and loses badly. Despite that, he's got savings in six different places, and a third share in a pricey little boat. Doesn't spend as much as you'd think on food or clothes, though. And get this nothing spent at all on housing. No registered partner, either." "He could be staying with a friend," B-C said. "No law against that, at least some of the time." "Here's the killer," Sara said. "Taki's got a genetic profile, just as you'd expect. But the system doesn't throw up a fault if you query it with anything. Feed in any old DNA ID sequence, and it passes. Basically, he's a free-floating alias. As far as I could tell, he was set up about six years ago by someone at Justice in, uh " She peered at the screen. "Salonika, I think you pronounce it. It was probably for a perfectly legit undercover operation, but they lost track of the alias and never shut it down. The files went dormant for a couple of years, then someone in Athens started using them." Sara sat back, looking justifiably pleased with herself. "You should introduce Taki to Marcus Toth," she said. "I bet they'd get on well." Toreth grinned at the reference to his own double. "Probably. So, we can get Taki shut down anytime we want to. Freeze the accounts, set up an enquiry with Justice. Tillotson will like that we might get a cut of the funds. Sounds like we can get plenty of witnesses if we want to arrest him." "Maybe," Nagra said. "But I get that close-knit feeling. My bet is we'd need to interrogate. And I hate to say it, but none of this has anything to do with low arrest rates, except that Karteris doesn't need to work his nuts off trying to get a raise." "So where's the money coming from?" B-C asked. "Good question." Toreth considered for a moment. "Okay. Taki's boat might be a weak point Sara, when you get back to I&I, see if the other two partners are real or fictional. And if they're aliases too, you can fly back out here to tell me." Toreth turned to B-C and Nagra. "And we can start financial

checks on the rest of the paras in the section. It'll take time, but I think it's justified now, and it'll look less suspicious if we do the whole section. ~~~ On the way back to the office, Sara said, "I thought you could buy me dinner tonight I know Warrick's showing up tomorrow." He didn't bother asking how she knew that. "Great, except that I'm already taking Nikoletta out for the evening." "Oh?" She glanced at him and raised an eyebrow. "Well, don't let me spoil your plans." "No, that's fine." And the more he considered it, the finer it was. "You can come too. I'm planning to take Nikoletta off on her own somewhere and try to get a handle on what's going on here. You can do the same with Karteris." She stopped dead, pointed her folded hand screen accusingly. "Oh, no. You can stop right there. I don't screw paras, and I definitely don't screw paras as a favour to you." "I'm not asking you to fuck him. Just show him a bit of attention. Butter him up. Dig for gossip. No body fluids involved." When she still hesitated, he added, "Dinner's on expenses it'll be somewhere nice."

Chapter Eleven
"They're baiting hooks," Nikoletta explained. "They caught those fish during the day, and they'll be going night fishing squid, I think. You need the right bait to get the right fish. Traditional fishery is all that's allowed these days. It's all strictly licensed by the Administration, to preserve stocks." The four of them moved off along the quay of the tiny natural harbour. Knowing exactly where his food came from had never appealed to Toreth, but he'd felt obliged to accept Nikoletta's suggestion that they take the public metro out to the Piraeus section of the city. He hadn't expected a double date, either, but Karteris had been surprisingly keen. Still, the strangeness of the situation appealed him walking with Nikoletta while Sara walked beside Karteris, doing a passable imitation of interest in the man. As far as Toreth could tell, there was no inch of the convoluted coastline which hadn't been colonised by restaurants and bars. The fishing boats bobbed against the harbour wall, setting off a vague unease possibly related to the smell of dead fish. Soon, Nikoletta turned back away from the water's edge and into a crowded taverna. Nikoletta and Karteris seemed to know the proprietors, and a table was found for them in a corner with, to Toreth's relief, no view of the sea. Toreth was surprised to hear Greek being spoken by the older diners, or at least he assumed that was the language. Nikoletta must have caught his expression, because she smiled. "This is a traditional place. They don't mean any harm by it." Toreth exchanged glances with Karteris, who looked equally unconcerned. "I'm not on duty," Toreth said. At least the menu was in English Toreth felt happier knowing what he'd ordered. Service was slow, but that suited his plans. He kept up a constant flow of alcohol, refilling Nikoletta's glass as often as he dared. Karteris drank steadily to no obvious effect, and Toreth didn't worry about Sara she could pace herself. When the food arrived, Toreth had to admit that the fish was spectacularly good, the salad and other accompaniments simple but equally delicious. Fresh ingredients, which was exactly what Warrick always said was important. The proprietor came over and Toreth complimented the food enthusiastically, which seemed to please Nikoletta. Toreth had to admit that it wasn't a bad evening. Karteris had a wide stock of work anecdotes, primarily about George and Vassilakis, which did nothing to raise Toreth's respect for them. Nikoletta must have heard them before, but she listened and laughed, and then listened with equal attention as Toreth responded with stories about Tillotson and other idiots at New London I&I. The only irritation was Karteris's proprietorial air towards both women, which made Toreth grit his teeth. He didn't give a fuck how Karteris treated Nikoletta, but Sara wasn't his admin. It didn't help that Sara was showing every sign of playing the part Toreth had given her rather too well. When Toreth was engaged with Nikoletta, Sara and Karteris's conversation frequently dropped into lowered voices and laughter. After the other three had rounded the meal off with desserts that seemed to be comprised entirely of nuts and honey the mere smell of which was enough to make Toreth feel queasy they left the restaurant.

As they strolled back into town, Toreth said, "It's still early. Would you like to get a coffee somewhere? Or another drink. I don't often feel like it, but . . . maybe it's the sea air." On cue, Sara yawned. "I'd love to, but I'm shattered. I'll get the metro back." A pause, then Karteris said, "I couldn't possibly let you go alone. I'll walk you back. You two stay, if you like." "If you don't mind," Nikoletta said. Karteris looked between them, then said, "Why would I? See you tomorrow." When they had gone, Nikoletta said, "I know a bar it's quite quiet, at least during the week." As soon as they walked through the door, Toreth's estimate of his chances of success for the evening jumped sharply. He couldn't have picked a better place himself. Low lights, quiet music, medium busy with a relaxing hum of voices. Nikoletta steered him towards a secluded table. He left her there and bought drinks at the bar, smiling to himself. Nothing like an air of reluctance or indifference to make a woman try to prove her attractiveness. For the first hour or so, Toreth gave every appearance of listening with rapt fascination to a detailed if rambling recounting of Nikoletta's life, from her earliest memories. Which, from the time it took her to get through them, felt to start soon after conception. Only one thing was omitted the blindingly obvious fact that she was fucking Karteris. He'd hoped she'd mention it herself. Even with his extensive skill in attentive not-listening, it made for a tedious evening. He checked his watch surreptitiously, and did his best to encourage her to drink a little faster. Finally, before boredom forced him to make a pass at her, she reached a sufficient level of intoxication to put the next stage of the plan into operation. As he set a fresh pair of drinks on the table, Toreth forestalled a resumption of the Life and Times of Nikki by laughing quietly. It was sufficiently unprompted that Nikoletta would have to ask. "What's so funny?" she said as he sat down. "Nothing." "Go on, tell me." "It's just that Jesus, was I an idiot." She raised her eyebrows. "What?" "Well and you're probably going to throw that drink over me in about thirty seconds here you are, nice respectable woman, great family, good career, and when you turned up outside the office that first day, I thought you were there to . . . oh God." He smiled wryly. "I shouldn't have started this. Too much to drink. Forget I said anything." "No, it's okay. You're right. I was supposed to be a a distraction." She drank and put the glass down slightly too hard. "He told me to keep you happy whatever it took. For the good of the section." "Karteris told you to do it?" She nodded, her olive skin flushing darker. "Fucking forgive me, but that is way out of order." Brief pause. "On his part, I meant." She looked uncomfortable as well she might, Toreth reflected, having just admitted to a man who'd told her he always kept his work relationships professional that she was willing to whore for her boss.

He patted her hand. "No need to look like that. Um, tell me if I'm overstepping the mark, but you and Karteris is there something going on there?" After a moment, she said, "Yes. And before you say anything, yes, I know he's married." "Hey!" Toreth held his hand up. "That's between the two of you. Besides, he mentioned to me that he doesn't see much of her. Are they separated?" "No. He wants to leave her, but he can't his wife's family got him the job at I&I. I don't know what it's like in New London, but here you need a sponsor inside the Administration to get on. His wife's family are Administration and corporate. Everyone expects him to end up section head one day. Maybe local division head." Now there was a frightening thought. Although to be fair, the man would be far more effective than the current morons in charge. "And that's why he's staying with her?" "Yes. It's only until he's promoted. Then he's promised to leave her. Although sometimes I think ..." He nodded somberly. "I understand." She sniffed. "No you don't." "You'd be surprised." Now she looked openly sceptical. "Oh, that sort of thing happens to men too. Actually, okay, it happened to me. The difference is that men don't talk about it. Too embarrassing not macho enough." She smiled and poked his arm gently. "And you're not macho?" He tried to summon a touch of colour to his cheeks. "Hey, I&I's a male culture, you know that. Virtually all of the interrogators are men, most of the paras, more than half of the investigators. If you don't play the game, you don't get any respect and you don't get on." Pause to convey a touch of anxiety. He'd said too much. "Look ah, hell. You won't say anything about this to anyone else, will you?" "Of course not." After a moment she said, "Tell me about her?" So she expected it to be a woman. "Well . . . " He finished his drink and, automatically, her attention fixed on him, she did the same. "Let me get you another one," Toreth said, standing up before she could protest. He took his time at the bar, running over his story a couple of times to ensure a basic level of continuity. With what he had in mind, it shouldn't be too difficult. Back at the table he made a show of getting ready to tell all, under her sympathetic gaze. "Her name was Dilly. Actually, I knew her brother first. Met him through a case, but we ended up good friends. Then I saw him with her, at the theatre." He paused, letting that collection of facts sink in. See, I go to the theatre. Cultured as well as sensitive. "And?" Nikoletta prompted. "God, she was gorgeous. Dark eyes you could drown in. Blue dress, all the way down to the floor. I fell for her right then and there. But " He sighed. "She had a boyfriend. Which she told me right up front." Sensitive, cultured and fair. "She said she wasn't interested?" "Yes. Or rather no, she didn't. She was interested, or at least bored. Her boyfriend was a

structural engineer. Project management. He spent a lot of time off world. When I met her that first time, he'd left for Mars a week earlier. After she told me that, I offered to take her out for dinner. I could lie and tell you I didn't have any dishonourable intentions, but . . . " He grinned, and Nikoletta laughed. "Actually, I didn't have much except dishonourable intentions. And Dilly didn't exactly fight me off." Good time for a pause, staring into his drink, rattling the ice. Clearly, the painful part was coming up now. As he expected, her voice softened. "What happened?" "He was away for a year, and we had a lot of fun. I thought at the time there might be more to it, but " He shrugged. "I kidded myself for months that the only reason she didn't tell the boyfriend that it was over was because she didn't want to hurt him when he was so far away. And then he came back." She watched him intently, caught up in the story. "She didn't really want to leave him?" "Not for a minute. Her family were old corporate money they'd never have approved of her marrying me. It was never in the cards, not outside of my imagination. I was just something to pass the time. That's what she said to me in the end." He looked across the bar. "'There was never anything more between us than the physical'," he said quietly, as if quoting. "What an awful thing for her to do to you." Her voice had hardened. "If it'd been me, I'd have . . . well, I'd have done something." It is you, you stupid bitch. "I nearly did." He looked down at the table, took a mouthful of his drink. Building himself up to the confession. "God. I went round to her flat, when I knew he was there. I was going to tell him everything what she'd been doing for that year she'd been calling him on Mars twice a week. I got all the way to the front door, rang the comm, but when he opened it, I bottled out. I said I'd got the wrong flat." She put her hand on his, squeezing for emphasis. "Maybe it was for the best." "Maybe." Pause, look away, look back. "But, well, sometimes I really wish I'd had the guts to do it. D'you think it's wrong of me, to think that?" "No, no. I understand." That had a pleasingly thoughtful ring to it. Silence before Nikoletta shook herself slightly and asked, "So what happened?" He deliberately misunderstood the question. "I went out, got drunk and woke up in the street the next morning." She laughed a little. "No, with her." "They married a few months after he came back. They've got kids now. He's a junior partner in her family's corporation. I still see her brother, he tells me how she's doing." He looked down into his drink, softening his voice. "She needed the kind of life I couldn't have given her." He wondered if he was overdoing the sugar, but when he looked up again, Nikoletta's eyes were shining. "I think she was an idiot to let you go." Pause. "Has there been anyone else since?" The touch of eagerness in the question sounded promising, at least from the point of view of getting her into bed. "Well, I mean there have been women, but no one else . . . no one else like her." Poor damaged

me, waiting for the love of a good woman to heal my broken heart. "I mean, when someone means that much to you, you can't cut it off. You can't stop loving someone just because . . . " Her hand tightened. "You'll find someone, I know you will." God, this was too easy, and the urge to move in for the kill, to take her back to the hotel, was becoming unbearable. With this amount of sympathy created, she'd be willing to do more or less anything certainly any number of things she'd thoroughly regret in the morning. However, he was losing sight of his objectives, distracted down the well-trodden path of seduction. She was looking at him, obviously expecting a response. "Maybe. I suppose " He sighed. "I suppose that, in the end, I loved her a lot more than she loved me. I believed what I wanted to believe." She nodded. No light bulb over her head, though. "Actually, I was just thinking that you're right." Make it her idea, disguising the non sequitur. "If you love someone if you really love someone then you do whatever it takes to make them happy. It shouldn't matter if you have to give things up. You do it." Exactly like fucking Karteris doesn't. Can't you take a hint? For a moment, he thought the point had missed her again, but then she frowned. "Yes. If you really loved someone you wouldn't worry about what your family thought, would you? I mean, you loved her." He looked down into his drink, freeing her to talk without the pressure of his eyes on her. "God, yes, I did." "And she just used you." "Well . . . " Pause, a touch of reluctance to place any blame on the love of his life. "I knew from the beginning what I was getting into. Maybe I just wanted it too much. Read things into it into us that weren't there. I wouldn't want to say that she lied to me, as such. Things " He gestured helplessly. "Things get said in the heat of the moment." "Rubbish." Getting angry on his behalf. Good. "I bet she knew exactly what she was doing." Another sip of his drink, then Toreth decided to layer it on thick. He slid down in the chair a little. "I suppose the bottom line is that if she did use me, it's because I let her. That's the way the world works. People abuse you if you let them. You give them what they want, open your heart, and they despise you for it." Long silence. Longer than he would have liked, but he let it develop. Play the fish carefully enough and you'll land it in the end. "Toreth?" "Yeah?" "What do you think of Karteris?" Now there was a loaded question. "I think he doesn't appreciate his admin enough." She smiled. "Thanks. But I mean . . . would you be surprised if someone said he wasn't completely honest?" And another one. "Well, maybe not. Someone suggested that he might be spending more than ought to be."

Silence, before she asked, "Who says?" "I'm sorry, Nikki, but I really can't tell you that." But someone else has already shopped him, so it won't matter if you kick him while he's down. She nodded slowly, chewing her bottom lip. Lipstick had smudged onto her top teeth and Toreth fought down the impulse to make it into an excuse to touch her mouth. Finally she said, "He's doing something at work." Toreth held his hand up. "If you tell me about something specific, I'll have to do something about it. I'm here to look into the section." "Good. I want you to do something. I'm sick of him treating me like a like I'll do anything he wants and be grateful for the chance to kiss his shoes. I don't want you to have him sacked, or anything like that. Just . . . " "Give him a hard time over it?" She smiled, grateful. "Yes." She folded her hands on the table and took a deep breath. "Right. He's stealing drugs." Not as good as he'd hoped for. He frowned, "Well, a lot of people do that, Nikki." "No, he's stealing a lot. I know because I've seen him faking the drug returns. He sells them on." "That's it?" "Yes," she said, unhesitating. "Isn't that enough?" He could hardly say no, since if she knew nothing else it would deprive him of the one piece of usable leverage he'd found over Karteris so far. "It's enough to scare him with, certainly." He needed to get her to do it now, before the cold and sober light of day brought her to her senses. "Listen, why don't you think about this? Sleep on it. Let me know in the morning if you're sure you want to, and then I'll see about finding some evidence." "I am sure, and I've got all the evidence you'll need. I can give you the real drug returns. And I know the names of the dealers, too. They call him at home sometimes when " She stopped abruptly. When you're fucking him there, while his rich, classy wife is somewhere else. She stood up, finishing her drink. "Come on. I want to do it now. Before I see him again." "Okay." He stood too. "If you're sure, Nikki." ~~~ Nikoletta's coffee was better than her filing, and Toreth sobered up with the thick sludge that passed for coffee around here while he read through the files. The evidence was indeed comprehensive. So much so that Toreth wondered whether something like this had been in Nikoletta's mind for a while. There was no other reason why she should keep it all so neatly and conveniently at her own flat. Karteris operated a simple enough system, variations of which went on all over the Administration. An interrogator signed out drugs, recorded them as being given to prisoners or discarded into the recycling systems, but then kept them for personal use or sold them. Toreth had done it himself from time to time, although he usually bought his supplies from Daedra because he was too lazy to fake his own paperwork. Scale made a difference, though. As far as Toreth was concerned, petty pilfering of drugs was no

different to stealing office supplies or using his free pass every time he took a taxi. It was expected, a perk of the job. Karteris had been a little more ambitious. He must be turning a healthy profit, if not a skilful one. Unforgivably, the numbers didn't even add up. Paras ought to make competent thieves. This was frankly embarrassing. The scam was not, however, enough to do much more than discomfit Karteris. And it would do Toreth's reputation no good at all to hand someone like Karteris over to Internal Investigations or, worse, Justice. A prime way to lose friends and credibility in I&I. "Is that enough?" Sitting on a low couch opposite him, Nikoletta still sounded eager to see Karteris punished, which would make an exit with the evidence easier. "Oh, I think I'll certainly be able to worry him with it." Toreth tucked his hand screen away. "Thanks for the coffee. Remember, don't say anything to Karteris about this I'll make sure he doesn't know it was you who told me." Even if she changed her mind about the betrayal in the morning, there would be no way for her to explain to Karteris what she'd done. "You're going?" she asked. Toreth crossed the room, bent down, placed his hands on her shoulders and kissed her cheek chastely. The urge to laugh rose up, almost overwhelming and far stronger than the temptation to stay and fuck her. "Yes. If I stayed, we'd both regret it in the morning." ~~~ Coming back to Karteris's flat had been a huge mistake, Sara decided. She'd overdone the flirting and then spun the so-far fruitless conversation out for as long as she could manage. Now she had the choice of either backing out in a way that would have to make Karteris suspicious or screwing the man, the idea of which made her feel rather ill. He reminded her too much of Toreth, except without his redeeming qualities Hell, maybe Karteris had the same redeeming qualities if very deeply hidden and this was simply how Toreth appeared to most people. That idea didn't make the prospect of getting intimate any more appealing. At least the sitting room of his flat was nothing like Toreth's, except in size. The tiny room was clean, tidy, and very well decorated, if a touch too masculine for her taste very obviously a bachelor place, however married he was. Presumably his wife lived elsewhere. The furniture was new, and the place was in a good neighbourhood too, if her sense of social status hadn't been thrown off by the different city. It wasn't outrageously plush, but it fitted in with the suggestion of inexplicable funds. Or maybe this was all paid for by his wife. Was there a tactful way of asking? Karteris returned from the kitchen with a chilled bottle and two glasses. Real crystal. Then the door comm chimed. Sara thanked God silently while Karteris went to answer it. He returned at once. "It's my wife!" he hissed. Wonderful. Now the evening was turning into a cheap farce. "What the hell do you expect me to do about it?" Sara snapped.

"Go out through the bedroom," Karteris said, with a speed that suggested practise. "The window opens onto a courtyard the door opposite leads to the street." On the way out of the room, Sara noticed the bottle and glasses. His problem, she decided as he hustled her through the bedroom door and shoved it closed behind her, catching her heel. The window wouldn't open. Of course, Sara thought as she struggled with the catch. Noises came from the room behind her closing doors and indistinct voices and for a moment she was tempted to give up and stroll back and out through the front door. Serve the adulterous bastard right. Finally the window opened, but as she got a knee on the window ledge, the door handle rattled. Dive out or hide? The drop looked risky, so she ducked into a nearby wardrobe. She was about to call out quietly to say she was still here, when she realised she had no idea who was out there. Walking out head high was one thing, being caught skulking in a cupboard would be humiliating. She listened to the footsteps cross the room, loud over wood, soft over carpet, loud over wood right outside. Then the window closed and the latch clicked shut again. Could things get any worse? Loud, soft and the footsteps stopped. "She's gone," Karteris said. "Did you get anything from her?" Surprise almost gave Sara away and she clamped a hand over her mouth to stop the squeak. Nikoletta? "Nothing," Karteris answered, the question apparently causing him no surprise. "I don't think he tells her anything. How about you? Did you have to . . . ?" "No." Soft giggle. "Why? Jealous?" "Of course. Weren't you?" "Of that skinny, flat-chested Asian girl? Hardly." Sara fumed. A scuff of movement, then Nikoletta said, "Stop that, please. We need to talk." "No. Come on. There's plenty of time later for that. Come on." His voice was muffled now, with a note of pleading that made him sound suddenly younger. "It's been too long. I bought champagne a good vintage, not the cheap rubbish next door." A sigh. "God, I want you so badly. Feel it." A pause, during which Sara prayed they weren't doing what she thought they were doing. The mention of champagne had given her hope that they might leave. Then the unmistakable sound of bodies on a mattress made her press her hand to her forehead and groan silently. When she saw Toreth in the morning, she was going to kill him. Or at the very least maim him. Emasculation sounded like a suitable punishment. It went on for a long time. Hours, it felt like, although it was too dark in the wardrobe for Sara to check her watch. A wooden rail poked into her back, forcing her to lean uncomfortably to the left. As the volume from the bed rose, she risked moving. An ominous creak of wood stopped her, but at least she no longer felt as though her spine would snap. Whatever washing liquid Karteris used stank of fake scent, of a variety that would probably be called 'woodland fresh'. Even though she held the clothes back away from her face, Sara's nose itched maddeningly. She pinched the bridge until her eyes watered, suppressing the sneezes. To complete the discomfort, that meant she had no hands free to put over her ears. Not that it would have done much good, as Karteris was loud and effusively complimentary.

God, this was almost worse than having to screw the man herself. Or maybe not. The idea of listening to it from a few centimetres away, rather than metres, made her feel queasy again. What time was it? Didn't these people need to get up for work in the morning? She tried to concentrate on Nikoletta, but that barely improved the situation. For one thing, the woman was so false. Sara hadn't heard so much theatrical groaning and moaning since the last time someone had trapped Chevril into buying a round of drinks. She felt like opening the wardrobe door and yelling, can't you tell she's faking it? No, was the obvious answer, as Karteris finally came, with fervent protestations of eternal love. Sara didn't know which of the three of them was probably most relieved. Maybe they'd fall asleep. Maybe they'd go for a shower, or a drink, or something, and she could get out of here. "Wake up," Nikoletta whispered. Karteris mumbled something too low to hear. "This is important, love. Are you listening? I've got some news you won't like, so please, just listen and don't be mad. I told Toreth that you've been dealing drugs from the pharmacy." Moment of absolute silence, then a sudden creak. "You did what?" Karteris yelled. "Please don't be angry. I didn't have any choice. They've been checking up on you, and someone told Toreth that you've been spending too much money. I had to tell him something." "Why in God's name didn't you tell him it was from Stef?" "Because that would be too easy to check. Do you really think Stephanie would lie to protect you?" "Nikki . . . oh, Christ. What the hell is he going to do?" "Probably nothing. If I&I came down hard on everyone who stole a few drugs, they'd have to put half the paras and interrogators on suspension. George or Vassilakis will make sure he keeps it quiet." The bed creaked again, and then footsteps sounded. Bare feet, this time, as Karteris paced. "He's so bloody abstemious. What if he sends it straight to Justice, did you think of that? Justice wouldn't care what Vassilakis thinks. God, sometimes you are so stupid." "Please, love. I'm sorry." "Nikki, do you have any conception of what happens to paras in prison?" "You'd get a light sentence even if it came to that, which it won't." "It would only have to be a light fucking sentence, because I wouldn't live long enough to serve it. Even if I don't meet someone I interrogated myself, there'll be plenty of people in there with reasons to hate paras. If I'm lucky I'll last long enough to be gang-raped in the showers a few times before someone shoves a broken bottle up my arse or down my throat." "Don't be crude." "I will be killed if I go to prison," he said slowly and deliberately. "I'm not going to rely on Vassilakis to save my neck. Besides, even if it was just a charge, Steffi would divorce me and my career would go down the recycling." Silence. Then the bed creaked again, and Nikoletta spoke in a low voice, in the same language Sara had heard in the restaurant.

"Speak fucking English," Karteris snapped. "Okay. Listen, love I'm sorry I didn't think of everything, but the important thing is that he thinks he knows where the extra money came from." "I won't " "Shh." Voice lower still, and muffled. Sara imagined the devious bitch wrapped around Karteris, breaking down his resistance with her probably surgically-enhanced tits. "Toreth isn't an idiot, and I bet he isn't half as pure and innocent as he makes out. No one got to be a senior by being that much of a goody two-shoes. Handing you over to Justice would be like . . . like career suicide." "Nikki . . . " Weakening protest. "He'll be here for a few more days, then he'll go away and everything will be back to normal. Didn't you tell the others that everything would be okay if people kept their nerve? You were right you always are. You were right about Grant." "Yes, but only because she died." A pause, then Nikoletta said, "I mean, of course I know that we can't expect a lucky coincidence like that to solve this problem, but the point is that it worked out for the best, didn't it? You told everyone they didn't need to do anything and they didn't." "Yes." Karteris sighed. "Yes, okay, you're right." Noisy, wet kissing, then Nikki said, "Why don't we go and find that champagne?"

Chapter Twelve
Early Friday morning, over a hotel breakfast, Sara spent half an hour listening to Toreth's account of the evening before, suppressing giggles with ever-increasing difficulty. When he reached the revelation about Karteris's drug-dealing, Sara summoned her best admin poker face and said, "I know." Toreth stopped dead, a bread roll half torn in his hands. "You what? Karteris told you?" "In a way. Actually, I overheard him discussing it with Nikoletta. When she turned up at his flat to let him know that you'd swallowed her act like one of those hooks. Right bait for the right fish." At his expression of utter amazement, a warm flower of satisfaction began uncurling, petal by petal. Some compensation for the stifling time in the wardrobe her sinuses still stung. "The drug story was a cover to explain why he's been throwing money away. He's up to something completely different. She must've thought last night was a godsend." "But " Toreth dropped the bread. "But she had the fucking evidence ready! And she must know I'll cross-check it with the pharmacy records." "Then he's dealing and doing something else." "So Karteris put her up to it?" She couldn't remember him being so comprehensively wrong for a long time. "Nope. It was all her idea to tell you. Protecting her man, who wasn't very happy about it." Silence. "Admins," Toreth said finally. "You're a devious fucking breed, aren't you? Remind me to keep an eye on you in future. Did you find out where the money's really coming from?" "No, but she mentioned that some of the others were involved too." "Ah, fuck." Toreth sighed. "I suppose I'll have to do something about it, won't I?" "You don't have to." "And if it comes out later? I'll look like an idiot if it's something big and I miss it." "Well . . . " God, if he insisted on pursuing this hard, there went her relaxing weekend. "You're here to look at efficiency, not corruption. If the whole section's involved in some scam, it won't be anything to do with conspiring with resisters, will it? How many paras have gone bad? Ever." He thought it over. "Hardly any. And never a whole section." "Right. It'll be gambling or contraband from outside the Administration something like that." He nodded, still looking pensive. "I'll get Nagra and B-C to keep their ears to the ground over the weekend. I'd be a fuck sight happier if I knew what was going on, though. Pity you didn't overhear that too." He focused on her. "Come to think of it, how the hell did you hear all this?" "From the wardrobe in Karteris's bedroom. He thought I'd gone out of the window." "What was it like?" "Cramped. Noisy." He grinned, then his expression turned thoughtful. "Were they speaking Greek?" "A bit. When they were arguing about the drugs, she said something in Greek and he told her to use English."

"How about when they were fucking?" He waited patiently while she thought it over, giving her all the time she wanted. "They might've been," she said finally. "A few words. I was trying not to listen too hard." "Interesting." "If you like women trying to win awards for bad acting." "No, interesting that she'd know it. That he'd be angry with her for using it. There were a lot of people speaking Greek in that restaurant." She hadn't looked at it like that. "That doesn't really mean anything, though, does it?" "Well, you couldn't get a waiver on the strength of it, no. But it's an idea. Karteris runs the section, for all practical purposes. If there's any one person who could cut arrest rates to favour resisters, it's him." "But . . . Karteris?" She tried to think of a tactful way of phrasing it. "I mean, he's a para. I can't imagine him being a resister any more than I could you." He looked at her sharply. "Reminds you of me, does he?" "I hadn't really thought about it." He was watching her with the penetrating, assessing gaze that won him so many confessions. It compelled some kind of reply. "I only met him the one evening. I mean . . . a bit, I suppose." "A bit. You suppose. Hm." He picked the bread up again and started buttering it. "Get some fresh coffee, would you?"

Chapter Thirteen
Toreth had already unpacked, dumping his clothes into a drawer and throwing his toilet bag into the bathroom, which had taken him a total of forty-five seconds. Warrick, of course, was dragging his own unpacking out to ridiculous lengths. Standing in the sunlit bedroom of the expensive villa, watching Warrick unfolding and refolding clothes, Toreth wondered again why he hadn't ended the surveillance. He'd called the agency, meaning to do it. He had told them that Warrick would be out of New London for the weekend, and not to bother trying to keep tabs on him for that time. Somehow, however, when Uche had asked whether he wanted the surveillance to resume on Monday, he'd said yes. Why? It was stupid, really. He'd trusted Warrick with Marian, with his career with his life, for fuck's sake. Not over this, though. Not over Carnac. Carnac was too fucking slippery. As Toreth had half expected, Warrick hadn't brought any gear no doubt he'd been too worried about security searching his case at one of the airports. Not that they needed gear to have fun. However, Toreth did catch sight of a package wrapped in gold paper nestled in the bottom layer of Warrick's case. Too small to be anything more than a gag, or narrow cuffs, or maybe a cock ring, but still promising. "What's that?" Toreth asked. "A present," Warrick said blandly as he set it on the bedside table. "What kind of present?" "A secret, for now." He smiled as he turned away anticipatory, probably pleased that Toreth had asked. "But I think you'll like it." "From the Shop?" "That would be telling." ~~~ Unpacking done, Warrick led the way back into the main room. The villa had only a handful of rooms, but they were huge and beautifully furnished spotless white walls, well-cushioned sofas, thick rugs, polished wooden floors to match the wooden beams. Of more immediate interest was an extensive collection of bottles on the sideboard. He poured drinks while Warrick disappeared through another door. Then Toreth strolled over to sit on one of the deep window ledges and looked round the living room. It was larger than some flats he'd been in hell, the screen on the entertainment centre was practically larger than his own place. Generous, expensive, tasteful and so exactly Warrick's idea of a perfect weekend. However, something nagged at Toreth. It took him a minute to pin it down the silence. Or rather, not silence, but an absence of familiar noises. The boat trip out to the small island had taken less than an hour, but there was no trace of the sounds of the city. The sea hissed on the beach below the villa, and something insectile chirped in the fragrant bushes, but that was all natural. Gulls calling, wind in the leaves of the olive trees it made him feel oddly exposed. When the rattle of a boat engine rose in the distance, it was almost a relief. He was listening to it fade away when Warrick reappeared through a doorway to his left.

"What do you think?" Warrick asked. "Middle of fucking nowhere. No bars, nowhere to eat." "Rubbish. Call a boat, we could be back in the city before it got dark. And there's all mod cons here, plenty of food and a beautiful kitchen. And " he paused and smiled, " no one around to hear anything." Toreth snorted. "Doesn't usually bother you." "Oh, it bothers me." Another pause, another smile. "I just can't help it, that's all. Come and look at this." Rather to Toreth's surprise, Warrick didn't want to show off the kitchen but instead took him through to a courtyard at the back of the villa. Tall white walls screened it on three sides from whose eyes Toreth couldn't imagine and a woven roof provided a shaded area for a table and chairs. The fourth side was open to an olive grove, with glimpses of the sea beyond. Sunk in the centre of the courtyard floor was a deep tub, sunlight making prisms of the fine droplets above the bubbling surface. Maybe this wasn't such a bad place after all. "Want to try it?" Without waiting for an answer, Warrick began to strip. "Sure. Want a drink?" "Mm. Please." By the time he returned, Warrick was already in the water up to his neck, eyes closed, head back against a folded towel, and looking both blissful and eminently fuckable. After setting the glasses on the rim, Toreth undressed and slipped in. A seat ran around the side of the tub and he settled onto it opposite Warrick, wriggling until he found some suitably entertaining bubbles. He reached out with his foot, stroking up Warrick's thigh, nudging his cock gently. Not uninterested, despite the warm water. Not surprising, as it was eleven days since they'd done anything. Five days since Toreth had done anything with anyone at all. The memory flowed back of the night with Paul, the disconcerting walls of his flat muted in the shivering light of a startling number of candles. Champagne, and expensive smells in complex layers. Soap, shampoo, conditioner, moisturiser, a spicy scent, and underneath it all the warming musk of male skin. Lying on the bed, enjoying the smooth slide of fingers inside him and listening to Paul's unexpectedly filthy pillow talk. Uncomplicated fun. He could have a whole weekend's worth of that here, if he could just forget Carnac. Toreth relaxed into the embrace of the water, letting the swirling bubbles carry away the tension, the doubts. "Well?" Warrick asked after a while, eyes still closed. "What do you think?" "I think . . . I'd like you to fuck me." "Mm. I could probably manage that." Toreth was about to suggest they change venues to the bed when Warrick sat up and said, "Wait there." Dripping water, Warrick climbed out and disappeared into the bedroom by the sound of his wet, bare feet on the boards. He returned after a minute with a tube. "Warrick, that won't "

"Oh, yes it will." He splashed back into the water and flourished the tube. "Guaranteed waterproof lubricant." "You're joking." "Not at all. I read the brochure, and I thought we ought to be prepared." Toreth slid off the seat, keeping low in the water, and moved towards him. "Fucking Boy Scout." Warrick laughed, reached forwards, and ducked him. If he'd been expecting it he wouldn't have panicked. He flailed out and his fist connected hard with something before he broke up from under the surface, gasping for air. He lost his footing, slipped, and disappeared under again, the rush of water in his mouth sweeping away the last shreds of control. That was the last thing he remembered until he heard Warrick's voice, urgent and insistent. "Toreth? Toreth listen to me. You're fine." Where the hell was he? He opened his eyes to find himself half out of the tub, the floor a few inches away from his nose, and his knuckles white as he gripped the rush mat. Bubbles still swirled around the lower half of his body and he heaved himself out. He struggled up onto to his hands and knees and stayed there, coughing up the last of the water. Its chemical tang mixed in his mouth with the bitterness of stomach acid. Warrick crouched beside him, hand outstretched but not touching him. "Are you all right?" Humiliation set his cheeks burning. "Shut the fuck up." He staggered to his feet. "Don't say a fucking thing." He grabbed for a towel, missed, and stumbled out of the courtyard anyway, just wanting to get away from the water. He made it as far as the living room before his legs started shaking and he collapsed onto the sofa, still coughing. Well done, he thought bitterly. Good start to the weekend. Very fucking sexy. A robe landed on the sofa beside him and he managed to stand up for long enough to pull it on. By the time Warrick returned with a full glass, he had the shivering under some kind of control. Warrick handed over the drink and turned to go. "Wait," Toreth said. "It's okay. Sit down." As Warrick sat, Toreth looked at him properly for the first time and saw the scrape on his cheekbone with the bruise starting to swell up. His own knuckles were beginning to hurt, some indication of how hard he'd hit him. "Jesus, I'm sorry," Toreth said. "Don't worry about it." Warrick touched his cheek gingerly. "Makes me appreciate how restrained you are the rest of the time." "The rest of the time is the game. That was . . . I wasn't thinking." "I noticed," Warrick said drily. Silence. Warrick didn't ask, of course. He simply sat there, his expression guarded but his entire body radiating patience and concern. It was, for some reason, infuriating. Toreth took a deep breath, trying to stifle the anger. He had to say something, so he should make it as quick and matter-of-fact as possible. "Remember when you tried to show me how to do

underwater breathing in the sim?" Warrick frowned. "I . . . yes. You wouldn't do it." "Yeah." Toreth looked away. "Reason being, back when I was a trainee, the instructors had a little initiation ceremony for the new recruits." He swallowed down the sickness. "Ducking them in a bath. Cuffed. I wasn't very good with water I never have been. Anyway, the stupid bastards managed to drown me. No heartbeat, emergency resus, the full works. And now I'm really not good with water." There was a brief pause. "But you go swimming," Warrick said. "Yes, I do. I like it." But sometimes when I dive in, just for a moment . . . "It's not really water itself that's the problem. It's the idea of " He swallowed again. "Of drowning. The actual process of . . . as long as I'm in control, it's fine. But what happened just now, or being underwater in the sim, or looking at drowned bodies. Or fuck, I saw them doing it at Justice once." He looked down, watching the ice starting to shiver in his glass. Perversely, he couldn't resist the urge to push the limits of the fear. "Totally fucking illegal, of course no waiver, not that I reported it. Took three of them to hold him, with someone else counting seconds while they had him under. Up just long enough for a breath before " Whiskey and water slopped over the rim, and Warrick removed the glass from his hand. Toreth licked his fingers slowly. The spirit tasted thin, overwhelmed by the memory of cold, chlorinated water, fresh from the tap. If he concentrated, he could hear the laughter of the interrogation instructors as they demonstrated the effectiveness of their restraint techniques. He'd fought them, and it hadn't made the slightest fucking difference except to how quickly he'd lost the battle not to breathe, not to "This is what the nightmares were about?" Warrick asked. "What?" Startled out of the grim fantasy, Toreth blinked at him. "Gil Kemp?" "Oh. Yes. That fucking river. River and the cuffs. Fuck, yes. The bastard couldn't have picked it better if he'd known. I should probably sleep in here tonight." "Don't be ridiculous," Warrick said firmly. "I didn't arrange a secluded weekend so that you could sleep on the sofa." "I won't sleep, and I'll only keep you awake." And I'd rather be pathetic on my own, thanks very much. "You'll sleep if you're tired enough." It took him a moment to realise what Warrick meant. "No. I'm not in the mood." Warrick smiled slightly. "You're not in the mood yet. Wait here." He stood up and left, heading for the bedroom. If he'd had anywhere to go, Toreth would have gone too. Staring through the window he could see nothing except blue sea and sky and a single wisp of cloud, impossibly white. Miles and miles of fucking water and the realisation brought back the nausea. Odd that he hadn't thought about it on the trip over. Well, he was thinking about it now. Much too far to swim if anything had happened to the boat halfway across. Starting to head for the shore, watching it stay stubbornly far away, until the cramps started, pulling him down . . . He turned away from the window, killing the thought deliberately.

Trapped, he had no choice but to wait until Warrick returned, carrying the gold-wrapped box. His cheek was coming up beautifully. Dillian would have a field day if she saw that, and God only knew what Carnac would think. Warrick closed the shutters, sinking the room into twilight. "Here you are." Warrick sat beside him and offered the box. "Go on." With a sigh, Toreth took it and opened it a data disk. "What is it?" "Put it on and find out." With the disk playing, the screen stayed black at first. Toreth settled back on the sofa, and Warrick edged along, closer but not touching. "What is it?" Toreth asked again. "Wait." Slowly, the darkness faded not disappearing, but seeming to shift into the background and edges. There were suggestions of walls and floor, everything shadowy and indistinct, except for the man in the centre of the screen. Warrick, dressed in a loose, dark shirt and trousers, his feet bare. And then Toreth knew exactly what it was. On the screen, Warrick stripped slowly, not making the amateur's usual mistake of looking at the camera. Of course, with the sim there was no camera to tempt him. "That is the sim, isn't it?" Toreth asked as Warrick's shirt came off. Warrick paused the recording and nodded, a little rueful. "That obvious, is it?" "Well, how old's the body?" "Thirty . . . no, all right. Twenty-seven." A touch of smug satisfaction lightened Toreth's mood. "You know, I've got the same waist size I had when I was twenty-seven." "It's from the first truly high-res bioscanning system we bought. I was the guinea pig I remember lying in it for the test scans while Lew calibrated the system. Motionless for four hours." Warrick contemplated the screen, tapping the remote against his unbruised cheek. "I had to process the file quite extensively to pull it up to the current standards, but it wasn't as bad technically as I thought it might be. The low lighting helps I don't know how it would look in a high-illumination setting." Toreth couldn't help smiling. "Very fucking seductive." Warrick blinked, then grinned. "Sorry, no, it isn't really, is it? Not unless you're turned on by real-time spline reticulation." "And are you?" Toreth reached out and found the back of Warrick's neck, massaging gently. "Mmh." Warrick's head went back and he sighed. "Sometimes. If they're topologically interesting splines." "Put it back on." Toreth released him. "And come over here." Warrick obeyed both commands, moving up to sit against Toreth, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, as the figure on the screen came back to life, dropping his shirt and then slipping off his trousers. Now he was clad the only in the briefest of black silk briefs, which for the moment remained in

place. Warrick lifted his head slightly, half smile curving his mouth, and started to touch himself through the thin silk. Toreth surprised himself with a gasp he hadn't even realised he'd been holding his breath. Not wanting to look away and miss a second of it, he groped left, sliding his hand up Warrick's thigh. Warrick's hand came down on top of his, holding him still. Watch, was the clear message. Okay, fair enough it was Warrick's present. There was, however, a problem. Either it was going to be just Warrick, which would be nice but not that novel, since he'd seen Warrick bringing himself off plenty of times, or . . . or there was going to be someone else. The idea bothered him. It would be better, as porn, but it would be unbearable to see Warrick with anyone else. Maybe he should ask what was going to happen next. Maybe he should just enjoy it and not worry. It wasn't as if Warrick didn't know him and what he liked and didn't like far too well, indeed. Well enough to know how to distract him from recent events. How long since he'd thought about the tub? He ought to be going over it, replaying the panic, working himself up to a good long night of bad dreams. Toreth shook his head sharply and concentrated on the screen. It took him a while to notice the figures. To begin with he thought they were a part of the background, until the forms became solid enough to distinguish from the darkness. They weren't so much people as living shadows, featureless, androgynous, with a peculiar fluid grace. A dozen of them crouched or leaned against dimly visible walls, standing out only when they moved. They stayed back on the fringes, but as Warrick's eyes drifted closed they began to circle closer. "Are those Yeses?" Toreth asked, whispering without meaning to. "An unofficial outing, although we're restarting the programme at the end of the year. Now, shh." The restlessly prowling group inched closer. Toreth was torn between wanting to see what they were going to do and wanting Warrick to get on with it. As if he'd heard the thought, the figure on the screen eased the briefs down, exposing the tip of his cock, sighing as he touched bare flesh at last. Toreth was mildly embarrassed to find his mouth was actually watering. Finally, one shadow, bolder than the rest, came up behind him and slid its arms around Warrick's chest, smoky and semi-translucent, and he seemed to notice them for the first time. Too late, evidently, because as his head turned and his eyes opened, the rest closed round him in a rush. A swirl of darkness, glimpses of pale skin, the view finally clearing to reveal Warrick struggling futilely in their grasp. Darkness slid from their hands, binding his eyes and mouth, curling round his wrists and ankles to form manacles, around his throat to collar him. Shadowy chains with floating, tattered ends still managed to hold him, legs apart, arms up and out. With their prisoner bound, the figures drew back, leaving him twisting in the chains, breathing harshly past the black gag. A small, slender shadow knelt in front of him, and Warrick jerked in the chains as it touched him, pulling down the briefs. A few minutes of stroking and he was hard again; a few more and he was twisting in the chains, thrusting forwards. Then Warrick stiffened, his cry muffled by the gag as he came, and a second later a dark blur rippled over his body, seeming to originate from the shadowy hands on him.

He was still hard sim magic and the shadow kneeling before him didn't stop its attentions. Four more shadows detached themselves from the silently watching pack and flowed forwards, hands reaching for Warrick. Slowly, with inexorable strength, they pushed him to his knees. Androgeny seemed to be optional for the whatever-the-hell-they-weres, because the figure behind Warrick was now most definitely male. Rip of silk, unexpectedly loud, as the shadow tore away the briefs. It knelt behind Warrick and placed its hand on his back with an oddly precise gesture. He stopped struggling at once, staying in place, trembling, as the rest of the figures drew away. Warrick hissed, his back arching, as the shadow thrust into him hard. Protest or pleasure, Toreth couldn't tell. Probably pleasure to some degree, because he was still hard. The first shadow returned, lying on its side in front of him and swallowing his cock easily. The shadow behind him shifted, leaning in, fucking him harder, and Warrick bucked in the chains, moaning through the gag. It took another few minutes before Toreth noticed that Warrick's body was becoming translucent at first, he thought he was imagining it, but then Warrick shuddered, coming again, his head lifting. The darkness rippled over him once more, and when it was gone, Toreth could see the faint outline of the cock still thrusting deep inside him. The gag, too, was visible through his cheek, a thick tongue of black holding his jaws apart. One of the shadows moved forwards and took hold of Warrick's head. Toreth barely noticed that its foot slid into the body of the shadow on the floor as it came closer still. "Jesus fucking Christ." It took Toreth a moment to realise that he was the one who'd spoken. Warrick shifted on the sofa beside him, but didn't say anything. The gag stayed in place the shadow simply thrust through it into Warrick's mouth, the shape of its cock dimly visible as Warrick's throat spasmed. Acting, Toreth thought vaguely, because Warrick never choked in the sim. Not even underwater, when Easy to dismiss the thought, to focus his mind on the picture in front of him. God, he was hard almost reaching the point of discomfort. Toreth shifted on the sofa, pressing down on his cock with the flat of his hand through the towelling robe. "Want some help with that?" Warrick murmured. "I wouldn't say no." Warrick slid off the sofa, moving to kneel between his legs. Even as Toreth opened them wider, inviting, he couldn't help saying, "You'll miss the end." Warrick smiled, hands sliding slowly towards their goal. "I've seen it before." "You've seen that before too mmh." Warrick's fingers closed round his cock, and he groaned, sinking back into the deep sofa. On the screen, Warrick echoed the moan, hands clutching convulsively at the shadow chains as another orgasm shook him. Fuck, Toreth thought, he must've had fun making this. And then, briefly, what a weird bloody present to give someone. However, coherent thought was becoming difficult as Warrick's head dipped in his lap, breathing out over him, licking, breathing again, hot and cool at once. "Please." Toreth lifted his hands to push Warrick down, changed his mind, and laced them behind his own neck instead, arching his back against the sofa and lifting his hips. "Please."

Mouth sliding down over his cock, and he was shuddering too, eyes locked to the screen, enchanted by the combination of the muffled gasps from the recording and the real counterpoint from his lap. Too good to last for long, and no reason to try to delay it. "Ah, Jesus, fuck." He arched up again, eyelids closing as he came, Warrick's throat squeezing deliciously around him as he swallowed. Afterwards, Toreth lay back, panting, watching the screen with rather less concentration than before. Warrick shifted round on the floor to rest his back against the sofa. The scene had changed while his attention was elsewhere. The figures had drawn back, leaving Warrick alone in the centre of the screen, as smoky and translucent as any of them. The chains dissolved, removing the last thing that differentiated the shadow that had been Warrick from the rest. Toreth tracked him by eye for a few seconds before he was lost in the restless crowd, and a moment after that the figures dissipated, spreading darkness over the screen. Warrick rested one hand on Toreth's thigh and picked up the remote with the other, switching off the screen. "Not too arty?" he asked. "Arty?" "The present. For porn, I mean." Warrick looked round. "I have a broad understanding of the principles, obviously, but it's not my field and I've never tried to make anything before. I know it's rather short. I'm afraid I became a little caught up with the effects. The shadowing was " Just like Warrick to start a fucking inquest. Toreth leaned forwards and shut him up with a kiss. "It was fantastic. Just what I've always wanted. Do I get to keep it?" "It wouldn't be much of a present if you didn't. I'd rather you didn't show it to anyone else, of course." Warrick raised a finger in warning. "And if I ever happen to flick on the screen and see it commercially available . . . " Toreth grinned. "No fucking chance." They sat in silence for a few minutes, Warrick leaning against his leg, an enjoyable weight and warmth. In the post-orgasm glow, even the silence of the island didn't seem so bad. Eventually, Warrick levered himself to his feet with a grimace. "Are you hungry? We can eat outside before it gets too cool." When Toreth followed him into the kitchen, Warrick already had the fridge open and was taking out cartons. Cold air from the fridge made Toreth belt up his robe. Then he stood and watched as Warrick laid out the food ready-prepared salads and snacks, all delicious-looking. "I asked them to leave one meal for us," Warrick said. "I'll cook tomorrow. It's possible to have full service with this place there is a cottage at the back for a couple of staff. However, I thought a little privacy would be pleasant." So that was who the wall was designed to keep out. Thinking about that brought back the memory of the pool. "What was the present for?" Toreth asked, hoping to distract himself. "For?" "I mean, what occasion?" "Ah. Nothing in particular. I had intended to give it to you for your birthday, but it took rather less time than I expected to finish it. Then I thought that now would be as good a time as any."

Feeling guilty for something? He squelched the thought. "Bring the bottle and glasses." Warrick picked up the tray and started for the door to the courtyard. Then he paused. "Or would you rather " "I'll be fine," Toreth snapped. Warrick raised his eyebrows. "Very well." He wasn't fine. They sat at the table and ate, and the gentle bubbling of the water grated on his nerves like broken glass. He pressed on stubbornly, not tasting the food, barely aware of the conversation. No. This wouldn't ruin the weekend. Bad enough that Warrick had seen it happen no need to compound the embarrassment with a further display of nerves. By the time they'd finished eating, dusk had fallen. It was only when he looked up that he realised low lights had come up around the courtyard. "Fancy another dip?" Toreth asked as he pushed his plate away. "I'm not sure if . . . " Warrick hesitated, obviously not wanting to mention the earlier incident. "I remember that when we were kids, Jen used to threaten us with the direst consequences for swimming after meals," he finished lightly. Toreth stood up before he let Warrick talk him out of it. "Well, I'm going in." The touch of the water on his foot almost caused him to lose his balance and his dinner, but he fought the feeling down and lowered himself into the tub. It had been okay earlier. It would be okay now. He sat on the ledge, trying to relax, his muscles aching with tension. "Are you all right?" Warrick asked from behind him. Toreth realised that he had his eyes squeezed shut. He forced them open and leaned back, looking up. "Absolutely fucking fine. Get in." Warrick opened his mouth, then closed it without comment and slid into the water. A bloody good distraction, that was what Toreth needed. He reached out and pulled Warrick onto his lap, facing him. Steadying him with one hand in the small of his back, he took hold of Warrick's soft cock with the other. Warrick smiled. "Something of a standing start." "I like a challenge." Not that much of a challenge, but it proved an effective way of avoiding thinking about what had happened earlier. Warrick's face, shadowed by the courtyard lights, reminded him of the creatures in the recording. He studied the changes as Warrick's arousal increased, lines smoothing away from his face, his eyes drifting closed. Loving the way his lips softened and parted as his breathing quickened, tongue flicking out once to wet them. Finally Warrick was close to coming, and the words started, as if he could no longer control his voice. "God, that's good. That's so good . . . " "Do you want to get out?" Toreth asked. Warrick shook his head vehemently. "It'll make a mess of the water." "I don't care. It's filtered." Warrick's hands tightened on the rim of the pool. "If you stop . . . just

don't stop." His head bowed. "Mmh did you like the video?" For a moment the non sequitur threw him. Then Toreth smiled. "Yes. It was the most incredible fucking turn-on. You look so good in chains. Helpless. Being taken. Being used." Warrick whimpered, thighs spreading wider as he pushed forwards into Toreth's fingers. "That was only playing, though, wasn't it?" Toreth lowered his voice. "The sim. You could've snapped out of it whenever you wanted. Not like the real world." His free hand slid down to cup the base of Warrick's spine. Palm keeping him in place, leaving his fingers free to stroke and probe gently. "Much better when it's me, isn't it? Isn't it?" "Yes," Warrick gasped. "God, yes. Please." "Better when you can't escape. Better when the chains are real, when the pain is real, when you're mine, to do whatever " Whatever the fuck I want with. But the words were drowned by Warrick's scream as he came, shoulders bunching as his arms tensed, his cock twitching in Toreth's hand. "Ah. Mm." Warrick slid down into the tub, onto the ledge, and collapsed against him, slopping warm water over Toreth's shoulder. "Thank God no one around." "They probably heard it on the mainland." Warrick chuckled quietly. "You know, you were right before. I don't care." He sighed, then said, "House systems courtyard lights out." Darkness enveloped them. Darkness and silence, except for the bubbling of the water. Tension crept back into Toreth's neck and shoulders. For a moment he considered suggesting that they go inside. However, that might be construed as running away from the water. He was supposed to be proving something here. "Look at the stars," Warrick murmured. Toreth leaned back obediently. Like diamond dust sifted thickly over the sky, the Milky Way blazed impossibly bright, unobscured by the reflected glow of city lights. More stars than he'd seen in his life. More stars than he'd ever imagined existed. Even the gaps between them looked different a deep velvety blue only a shade away from black. The unexpected beauty of it held his gaze, leaving him unaware of time passing. He didn't look away until a moth, blundering past in the darkness, brushed his cheek and he started. Stars. He blinked. I should tell Warrick to put it in the sim, he thought. If it isn't there already. The sim . . . and he thought of the tape again, and that made him smile. The tape and the sofa. This was going to be a perfect weekend. Warrick still lay against him, light in the water, holding him securely to stop the currents pushing them apart. He breathed slow and steady very nearly asleep. "Warrick?" He pressed closer, face against Toreth's neck, and hummed sleepily. "Mm?" "What the fuck is real-time spline reticulation?" After a moment Warrick's head lifted slightly, and he started to laugh.

Chapter Fourteen
"What's that part of the city like?" Toreth asked. "Traditional," Karteris said. "As far as anywhere in the main city is. Not like you might find out in the country, though." Traditional. Elsewhere, that might mean not arrestable but worth watching. Did it here? "Safe?" Toreth asked. "Of course. Under normal circumstances." Karteris took a breath, as if debating what to say. "I know what the note said, and I'm not trying to tell you what to do, but you're not going through with it, are you?" "Vassilakis told me there hadn't been a major incident in the city for years. Was he talking crap?" "Well, no, but . . . you should let me organise a team to come with you." "No." Toreth pointed at the screen, where an anonymous note gave a time and place, and the single line 'come alone'. "They'll be watching I won't get a sniff if they see a load of backup." "Or if you don't trust anyone here, why not take your two?" "Just let me do this the way I want to," Toreth said evenly. "Well, it's your funeral." Karteris shrugged. "But Nikoletta won't thank you for the paperwork if you get killed or kidnapped." "Who the hell in Athens would want to kill me?" Most of the likely suspects were in the I&I building itself. "I'll take a gun, though." "Well, thank God for that, at least. Come down to the armoury and I'll get you one signed out." ~~~ Toreth leaned against the wall in the stifling heat of the enclosed square. With the sun high in the sky, only one side of the square was in shadow. That had seemed too obvious a waiting place, so he'd picked a doorway in the opposite wall. His jacket lay over the rim of the small fountain at this side of the square more an elaborate watertrough. Ten minutes after the appointed time. How long should he wait? Despite the heat and the bright light, he kept scanning the square. Movement, from up and right a long shutter opening onto a balcony on the shadowed wall. Opening very slowly. Pots of geraniums hanging from the metal railing obscured his view as he squinted against the light. A soft sound of metal hinges and the shutter stilled. Either the opener was trying not to wake someone in the room, or . . . Toreth stiffened. Deliberately, he turned his head as if scanning the square again, keeping his gaze locked to the balcony. After a few seconds the shutter moved again, squeaking once more. This time, instead of stopping, it swung quickly back with a squeal of metal and he caught a glimpse of movement from the darkened room beyond. White powder and chips of brick rained down even as Toreth dove left toward the marble fountain. He landed heavily, swearing, scrabbling for his own gun. He thought he saw a shape on the rooftop to the right, then a faint flash of light from the balcony opposite fractionally preceded another

smack into the wall above. Toreth fired at the balcony, three quick shots, then scrambled completely behind the metre-high side of the fountain. Something hit the cobbles with a crack and a crash of breaking pottery. Silence. Heart pounding, he tilted his neck and looked back. Nothing obvious on the roof. The holes in the plaster covered a spread of three metres, roughly at chest height if he'd been standing, and were large enough to make him glad of his cover. Marble and water should stop anything that simply made dents rather than demolished walls. Toreth edged cautiously along behind the fountain until he reached the best cover from the balcony and rooftop. His comm earpiece was still in place, and he tapped it lefthanded to activate it. "Emergency comm." There was an Int-Sec standard code for describing field situations a letter denoting an armed situation, numbers to describe the details as economically as possible. Toreth was saved the difficulty of remembering it because the comm remained stubbornly dead. He tapped it again. "Emergency fucking comms. Come on, you lazy bastards." Nothing. "B-C. Nagra. I&I Athens. I&I New London. Sara." Had he jarred it when he landed? Toreth didn't think so. He did, however, know that he'd left it in his jacket pocket at the armoury when he was putting on the holster. Where had Karteris been standing at the time? Run or stay? If he ran, the gunman would very likely get another shot. Accuracy didn't seem to be his strong suit, but he definitely had caliber on his side. Staying was superficially attractive, right up to the point when the gunman or his possible friend appeared at the end of the fountain . . . or above him. An upward glance revealed more balconies, shuttered windows and flat roofs. It had certainly been a lovely setup. Toreth shifted position and peered cautiously around the curved end of the basin. Nothing. He moved another few centimetres from cover, and still there was no reaction. A heap of soil, geraniums and broken pottery on the far side of the square marked the results of his own shooting. Otherwise, the small square was still empty, the fountain trickling peacefully. Surely someone would come to investigate the shots? Long time since he'd been in this kind of position. Usually his cases were less exciting. Toreth had never enjoyed being shot at there were far healthier ways to generate adrenaline. The alley by which he'd entered the square was less than ten metres away. If he went quickly, he would easily make it. Toreth checked round the end of the fountain once more, crouching, readying himself for the dash. And stopped. Red and white flowers and green leaves, with dark splashes of soil between them. He replayed the sound in his mind. A crash and a metallic impact as well? The black shape poking out from under the compost certainly looked like a gun. Interesting, but still better examined from behind a solid wall with an easy exit to hand. One, two, three and The sprinting start would've impressed the hell out of the I&I gym instructors. Toreth slithered to a standstill ten metres down the alley, left hand on the wall, heart trip-hammering again.

No shots. No sound at all. He considered returning to the square, but whether the object amid the flowers was a gun or not, there was still the figure on the roof to consider. He was still thinking it over when he heard movement behind him. As he spun away from the square, he heard B-C call, "Para!" "Where the fuck have you been?" Toreth asked when the investigator reached him. "You were supposed to be waiting out of sight, not out of the fucking district." "Sorry, Para. We were " B-C stopped, then pointed. "Are you okay?" Toreth had been vaguely aware that his left arm hurt bruised when he landed, he thought. However, when he looked down, the upper part of his shirtsleeve was slowly dyeing crimson. Fuck. Still, the tear in the fabric was small and his arm moved freely nothing worse than a scratch. "I'm fine. Come on. And where the hell is Nagra?" "We were trying to raise some backup," B-C said as they started down the alley away from the square. "After the shots, Nagra called you and didn't get anything. So she stayed back to call the emergency comms while I came to look for you. It's only been a minute since we heard the shots." Seemed like a lot longer than that, but B-C was probably right. "My comm's dead." "Where are we going, Para?" Toreth paused at a cross alley, then turned right. "I'm trying to find another way into a house on that square." Too many narrow streets and irregular houses. He stopped and pulled out his hand screen. "Local map." After a moment the tangle of streets appeared on the screen, with a dot to mark their location. At least the location mapping worked, which suggested that the fault was in the earpiece rather than the comms chip. "Okay. We're here, and we want to be there, so . . . " B-C peered over his shoulder. "That way?" "Looks good. Call Nagra, tell her where we're going." ~~~ As they approached the front of the building, the map screen went dead again. Intermittent fault? Not important, because he'd got a fix on the right one. The shutters on the front of the tall, narrow house were also closed. To Toreth's bafflement, the door had no screen or card swipe. However, when he pushed the handle, the door swung back, revealing a dim corridor and a staircase. They were still looking and listening when Nagra appeared. "Backup's on its way." "I want to take a look before they arrive," Toreth said. "B-C, you wait down here. I don't want any I&I people going in there until I'm done, understand? Especially not Political Crimes." "Where first, Para?" Nagra asked. Toreth thought back to the square, to the stealthily opening shutter. Not difficult the scene was still sharp in his mind. "Top floor. Quick check in the rooms on the way up." Actually, there was little serious danger of being boxed in. Anyone in the house had had ample time to get out before the three of them arrived. Leaving B-C by the door, Toreth and Nagra moved quickly up the stairs. The lights were out, so Nagra opened shutters on the landings, letting light in as they went. The house was silent the rooms

they glanced into were dingy, even considering the lack of light, and plastic dust sheets covered what little furniture they held. On the top floor a single door opened on the side facing the square. It stood ajar, letting in light and a faint air current to lift the dust on the floor. Toreth caught the familiar smell of blood, and not from his arm. Nevertheless, he and Nagra opened the door in approved textbook style it would be highly embarrassing to be shot at this point. The only furniture in the room was a bed, the plastic covering carelessly folded beside it. The body lay beyond it, by the open shutter which squeaked softly as the breeze nudged it. Blood pooled on the dusty floor. Nagra waited by the door as Toreth crossed the room. A crumpled, grease-spotted paper ball on the floor by the bed caught his attention a half-empty bottle of water stood beside it. Toreth sniffed again. Faint hint of some food under the blood. Obviously the man had been waiting for him. In the centre of the bed sat a matte black box, fifteen centimetres on a side, square except for one sloping face where a small control screen glowed dimly. Two steady green lights. Altogether, it looked like the kind of thing best not touched. A faint noise distracted him from his inspection. It was unexpected enough to set his heart thumping again, and it took him a moment to realise what it was. A soft moan. "Nagra," he called in a whisper. "Para?" "Get an ambulance. We've got a live one, for the moment." A pause, then she said, "I can't get a contact." He opened his hand screen and tried to call up the map again. Nothing. Toreth looked back at the box, considering. Maybe he'd been maligning Karteris, or at least wrong about the method of cutting off Toreth's communication Karteris could still be behind this. Leaning over the bed again, he inspected the device more closely. A switch at the back looked like power and was probably safer than messing with the unfamiliar interface on the screen. Unconsciously holding his breath, he clicked the switch. The lights went out and the screen faded. "Now?" he asked softly. "It's back." Toreth crossed the last couple of metres to the body, stepping awkwardly around the blood, keeping his gun trained on the still figure. The man lay huddled face down from the smears on the floor, he hadn't moved very far since he'd been shot. And a lucky fucking shot it had been, Toreth thought as he knelt. He wouldn't have staked a single chip on any of his shots having connected, but at least one clearly had. Exactly where was now his main concern. Carefully, he turned the man over and stopped, unaware of the wetness of the bloodied clothing under his hand. DNA records, held on every citizen in the Administration from birth, would have revealed the man's name. However, for once that wasn't necessary. Toreth recognised his victim Karteris's pretty informer. "Theo?" he said aloud. ~~~

Theo, Alexandros thought as he sat down behind the roof parapet. Out of the sunlight, the breeze was cool enough to make him shiver, his face and neck damp with sweat. Five years in the resistance cell together, and he'd never known the man's name. Even now, with Member Two dead, the knowledge felt uncomfortable. Was Theo Two dead? There had been no movement from the room since the first silenced shots, and no reply to the para-investigator's exclamation. Alexandros had seen Two drop the gun, seen him fall backwards. He must be dead. It should have been fingerprints, not a corpse, providing a lead to the para-investigator, and Two should have been clear of the building by the time they were found. Cursing silently, Alexandros looked up at the sky, blinking back tears. Two had been a comrade a friend, even, name or no name. At least now he could never be taken back to I&I. He forced his gaze down to the gun in his own hands. It wasn't that he didn't know how to use it, but he was glad that it hadn't been necessary. No backup had materialised. Everything had gone exactly to plan, except for the bastard's unexpectedly good shooting. That wasn't his fault, or Two's. The gun felt heavy and unpleasantly slick in his sweating hands. He remembered to click on the safety before he put it away in his jacket pocket. Alexandros made his way carefully along the roof, stepped across the gap to the next building without looking down, and went to leave a message for Member One reporting their success and failure. ~~~ The middle-aged I&I medic introduced himself as Eugenio Quattrone, late of I&I Naples. Combined with his complete non-association with Political Crimes, that gave Toreth some confidence in the man. "Aren't you going to tell me that a few centimetres to the side and I'd have bled to death?" Toreth asked Quattrone. The man glanced up from his examination of Toreth's arm. "Para?" "I thought it was a medic thing. I've been stabbed a couple of times and both times they told me fuck!" Sudden pain startled him into the exclamation. "Sorry. I think we have something in here. One moment." The man turned away. Blood trickled ticklishly down Toreth's arm as he waited and he held his elbow away from his body, trying not to drip on his trousers. B-C had gone to the hotel to pick a shirt up for him, so that he'd have something less gory to wear once the medic finished. "Now, if we can just hold still . . . " A hiss of a nozzle, and the pain slowly faded away. Now Toreth felt only pressure on his arm and a dull sensation of probing. "This wasn't done by a bullet, so I don't think a few centimetres would have made any difference at all. Except it would be harder to find whatever's in here." Toreth decided that he'd rather not look. With his free hand, he picked up his shirt and examined the sleeve. Not much torn, but the bloodstain would be a bastard to get rid of. Perfectly good shirt as well, practically brand new a New Year present from Warrick. Maybe he could get it repaired. The probing stopped, and a few seconds later came the chink of something on metal. "There we are," Quattrone said. Toreth looked into the proffered bowl. It held a small flake which seemed to be white underneath

the coating of blood. "Marble, I think," the medic said. "Although you know better than me how that could've got in there. Made a nice clean cut, anyhow. Keep still, I'll bond it together and we'll be ready to go." As the medic started work, the door opened. Expecting B-C with the clean shirt, Toreth looked round to find Vassilakis. The division head appeared gratifyingly concerned. "I'm fine," Toreth said before he could speak. "Thank God." Vassilakis came in and closed the door. He glanced at the medic, but Quattrone didn't visibly register his presence. Vassilakis frowned briefly, then said, "Toreth, I have no idea how this could happen. Or who could be behind it. No idea at all." Tell me something I don't fucking know. "Athens doesn't seem like a very healthy place for IntSec outsiders, does it? Between me and Grant, I mean." Vassilakis stared at him blankly. "Theodora Grant?" Toreth said. "Cit Surveillance? She didn't have much fun here either." Vassilakis stiffened. "Hardly the same thing." "Oh?" "No. The woman deliberately mixed with criminal elements. Not surprising that it had unfortunate consequences." "I thought Athens didn't have resisters?" Vassilakis's normally affable expression hardened. "It doesn't, Para-investigator. She came looking for something that isn't here, and when she couldn't find it she pressed until she found something else instead. If Justice can't control the vermin running around in the city, that's no concern of I&I's. Now, if you'll excuse me." The door closed firmly behind him. "That man," Quattrone said precisely, "is an idiot." "Tell me about it." He'd meant it rhetorically, but Quattrone didn't hesitate. "If you'll excuse me for saying it, paras need to be kept in line, and what this place really suffers from is too many people like Vassilakis not doing it. The section heads all take their cue from him." From the vehemence, it was a grievance the medic had been waiting for a while to air. "I've worked in five different I&I stations, and this is the worst. Everywhere else the paras don't trust each other, they don't trust the management, and the management doesn't trust them. Here it's all hands off. Too friendly and too laissez faire." Toreth felt a sting in the back of his hand, and looked down in time to see Quattrone lifting an injector away. A thin, shiny line of wound sealant marked the near-invisible line of the cut on his arm. "We're all done here," the medic said. "It won't give you any trouble if you don't put too much stress on the join for the next twenty-four hours." Toreth hoped Theo was enjoying a similarly easy time. Unfortunately, the I&I medical unit wasn't equipped for surgery, so Toreth had been forced to surrender his prisoner to the nearest hospital. Toreth had stationed I&I guards outside his room, and at the moment Nagra was keeping them company. ~~~

Karteris was waiting in Toreth's office. Toreth sent B-C away, not making even a thin pretense of an excuse. "Glad to see you're okay," Karteris said as Toreth closed the door. "You should see the paperwork from getting internal reviewers killed. As it is, I've got more forms than there were bullets in that wall." "Here's some paperwork for you to look at first," Toreth said. The summary page he showed Karteris was simple the discrepancy between the amount of drugs signed out of stores and the amounts used and discarded. Along with the names of the men he sold them on to, it was some of the best evidence he'd seen for a long while. Since it had been prepared by an I&I admin, it ought to be. "Where did you get this?" Karteris asked, although he didn't seem to expect an answer. "Aren't there enough legal drugs for sale?" Toreth had trouble keeping the smile off his face. "It's not like they're expensive." "There's always room for more. Haven't you ever done it?" "Of course I haven't," Toreth said with self-righteous indignation. Karteris stared for a moment. "You know, I believe you. What the fuck do you do for fun?" "Exercise and go to bed early." Time to be serious. Best not to mention his suspicions of Karteris's resister sympathies straight away. "Okay, this is the deal. I want to know what's going on in the section. What's important enough that you're willing to risk losing a nice little fuck like Theo to keep it quiet." "Theo's nothing to do with me." "No? He's your informer, and he tried to kill me." Karteris shook his head firmly. "He's registered to General Criminal, not me it's in his file." "Fine. If you don't tell me . . . well, dealing is a Justice matter. Vassilakis won't be able to charm you out of that one." "Justice?" Outrage, not fear. "You can't give me to Justice!" "Watch me." "Don't you have any fucking loyalty to the uniform?" He didn't dignify that with a reply. Karteris stared at him, expressionless now, and Toreth had to admire the man's nerve. From what Sara had said, jail was a real fear for Karteris. Toreth closed up the screen. "Up to you. I expect you'll like it in prison. Lots of men there who won't turn you down. Or let you turn them down. You might even meet someone you know do you have a good memory for prisoners? I know I can't remember all the useless bastards I've interrogated. Bet they remember me, though." There was a brief silence, then Karteris said, "You won't do it." "What?" His confidence had returned. "Hand a para over to Justice for doing something practically everyone in the division's done? You'd be stupid to try it, and I'd be even more stupid to believe you would. Forget it." Fuck. And to be fair, it was no different to how Toreth himself would've played it. He had one card left he wondered if Karteris knew he was holding it.

"Okay. If you won't tell me what was worth sending Theo after me for, maybe he will." Clearly Karteris had no idea. "I thought I heard that you killed him." "Where did you heard that from?" "One of the admins." And they'd know if anybody did, making it a good source to name even if it wasn't true. "I'm not that good a shot. I'm bringing him back here from the hospital later, and as soon as he's up to it I'll be interrogating. The first thing I'll be asking him is where he got his comm jamming gear. Unless you'd like to tell me something first?" Karteris shrugged, composed once more. "Nothing to tell. Good luck with him. He's not easy. Took me a good few days to crack him the first time. Mind you, once he went . . . " He smiled, almost convincingly. "But hey maybe you're more his type." "Maybe." Toreth touched the comm, sending the signal to B-C. "Until I find out, you can wait in the cells here." Karteris stared incredulously. "Cells?" Then he looked round as the door opened to reveal B-C and two I&I guards. "I might not be willing to take the drug sales all the way," Toreth said, "but they'll do to hold you until I've had a word with your little friend. Shouldn't take long. And hey, if I'm wrong, I'll buy you dinner to make it up to you." ~~~ Nagra had gone with Theo to the hospital. As Toreth argued with the medic, the junior stood nearby, looking twitchy. Outright attacks on I&I staff were rare enough, but combined with the possibility that it was an inside job he couldn't blame her for a little healthy nervousness. The I&I guards merely looked bored. "I have every legal right to do it," Toreth said to the medic, with as much patience as he could muster. "I want to see his medical records, right now." "He's not fit to leave the hospital," the medic repeated adamantly. "Still less for anything else." Toreth glanced at her name badge something unpronounceable with far too many vowels. "I'll make that assessment. I have plenty of experience in scheduling injured prisoners for interrogation. Believe me, I don't want him to die any more than you do." "I won't release him so you can " Toreth held up his hand. "I'm going to give you one chance to reconsider the end of that sentence, Doctor. Unless you'd like to accompany Theo back to I&I." She stopped, jaw clenching. Toreth watched curiously, wondering if she'd have the guts to go through with it. They so rarely did. Finally, she nodded. "Wait here, please," she said. Toreth looked at his watch and swore under his breath. It had taken until now, almost nine o'clock, to get to speak to the medic. In the end, he'd had to threaten arrests for obstruction. He hoped B-C had had better luck back at I&I. ~~~ Half an hour later, when the medic walked back into the room, the mixture of fear and defiance on her face told him what she was going to say before she spoke. Stupid of him to have let her go alone. The shooting must have shaken him up more than he'd realised.

"I'm afraid it won't be possible for you to speak to your prisoner," the medic said. "He died of complications from his injuries about fifteen minutes ago." Bullshit that stank worse than the room he'd found Theo in. "Did he say anything?" "Nothing." Her right hand clenched and unclenched. "Nothing at all." "I see." Without taking his eyes from her face, Toreth said, "Nagra, I want the security recording from Theo's room. Just to make absolutely sure he didn't have any interesting last words for us." Her gaze darted to the door, and Toreth shook his head. "Try it, if you like." She straightened. "I have nothing to be ashamed of." ~~~ He and Nagra watched the recording in the security centre at the hospital. The unpronounceable doctor stood between them. "I'm sorry. I couldn't do anything." Her voice soft, only just audible on the microphones. "I tried." "Can't go back there." Theo's hand on her arm, his voice weak. "Can't. Please. Please." Then Toreth could do nothing but watch as the medic gave the injection to his prize bloody witness and then stood by the bed, waiting, finally calling the resuscitation team. The irony was that Toreth had done it so many times himself, albeit under the unofficially official sanction of an annex order. How the hell had the woman imagined she'd get away with it? "Want to tell me it was painkillers?" Toreth asked her. She shook her head, eyes tearing. "Get the guards down from Theo's room," Toreth said to Nagra. "I think we can trust them to process her. Tell them to put her in a cell until we get the results of the post-mortem." On the way out, he thought of Vassilakis. No fucking resisters in Athens, indeed.

Chapter Fifteen
"Right, we've lost Theo, which is unfortunate. And Karteris won't play." The next morning, Toreth addressed his team of two back at I&I. "However, it's not hopeless. We have the lists of Theo's contacts from his first arrest. The lists are probably suspect, but it's the best we've got. What we do have is a general level four damage waiver. Vassilakis signed it himself, Justice are processing it now. We've got Theo to thank for that, for taking the shots at me, so we shouldn't think too badly of him." "So we get cracking as soon as we bring them in?" Nagra asked. "Yes. Arrests should be starting soon. We need help, so I've asked the General Criminal section here to lend us some investigators. Not ideal, but it's the best I can do for now. The alternative is to call in a lot more help from New London, and that risks Internal Investigations hearing about it and coming in to take the whole damn case away. B-C, did you find out anything yesterday?" "Yes, Para. I went down to stores, and there's a comm jammer missing, all right, machine ID matches the one from the scene. But, big surprise, it wasn't officially signed out." "Right. Well, it's probably a waste of time, but see if anyone will admit to anything. And then " Someone knocked on the door. "Yes?" Nikoletta opened it, started a sentence, then stopped when she saw B-C and Nagra. "Uh, Para? Section Head Makrigiannakis would like to see you. Right away." ~~~ George's office was even plusher than Vassilakis's. When Toreth walked in, he actually stopped to look down, because he thought he'd stepped in something unpleasant. In fact it was the deep-pile rug, fantastically patterned and exquisitely dyed. The wooden sideboard looked like it belonged in a mansion or judging by the extensive range of drinks at one end a restaurant. "Did you want me, George?" Toreth asked. The section head didn't ask him to sit down. "Why is Senior Para-investigator Karteris on the detention level?" If you'd been here yesterday, you lazy bastard, you'd know that. "Because I told someone to put him there." The section head's eyes narrowed, which meant that they virtually vanished in his pudgy face. "The detention officer said that you ordered he be denied access to a Justice rep." "I told them not to rush processing him, yes." "He has a right to a rep. He claims that you've got him there because of a few irregularities with his drug sign-outs. Is that right?" Toreth said nothing. After a few seconds, George asked, "What evidence do you have against him?" Not as much as I'd like. "I'm afraid I can't discuss that. I have my reasons." "This is my section, Para-investigator, and "

"And I get my authority from I&I headquarters in New London, not from you. If you don't like the way I do my job, file a complaint." Without waiting for a dismissal, he left George spluttering outrage and went to start organising the arrests.

Chapter Sixteen
The next day, Toreth and Nagra met up in the canteen for a late lunch. They bought sandwiches and took them outside, where the chances of being overheard were lower. Probably a little late in the day now, since Theo's death and his acquaintances' arrests were hardly secrets, but Toreth thought there was no point in taking chances. "Get anything?" Toreth asked as he unwrapped his lunch. "Nothing, Para. And I'm afraid the second prisoner I worked on is in medical. But he didn't know anything. In fact, I doubt he had any more to do with any resistance than I do." "Why the hell is he in medical?" Unlike Nagra to be careless. "I made a mistake with the dosage. I'm sorry, Para. It was an old model injector." "Damn. Well, it's inside the waiver, unless he dies. Nothing else?" "'Fraid not. I sent the third one back to the cells before I stopped for lunch. Nothing again, unless she was hiding it well. But you know how it is quick, thorough, safe. Pick any two." The news would have been less depressing if Toreth had had any better success himself. "Para!" Toreth looked up to see B-C approaching at a trot. "Para! Karteris is gone." "Gone?" Toreth wondered if he'd misheard. "As in dead?" Suicide? The investigator stopped by them, breathing quickly, and shook his head. "Gone as in not in detention." "How the fuck can he be gone? How long?" "Late yesterday afternoon. His twenty-four hours for a Justice rep to be appointed expired and G Section Head Makrig " B-C took a few breaths. "George, right. Get on with it." "The section head signed a release for him. The security officer said he brought it down in person." "He doesn't have the authority. Not over an internal review. That would take a division head." Who was another member of the favoured elite. "Vassilakis?" "I haven't seen the paperwork, but probably." "Shit." There was nothing to be done about it now except make sure it was included in Toreth's final report. "I don't suppose there's any sign of Karteris?" "As far as I can tell, he hasn't been seen since yesterday. I heard about it while you were in interrogation, and I've been chasing rumours round the building that he was still here somewhere. But I'd say Political have been covering up for him, although you'd never be able to pin it on them as deliberate. He supposedly left a lot of messages, saying he'd be in various places he hasn't been anywhere near. He's run, for sure." "The alias? Taki?" "That's the other thing. There's almost eight thousand gone from his accounts. Probably all he could get out on short notice, but nowhere near all of it. It's possible that he doesn't know we know, so he might be travelling under that name." Possible, but not likely. A feeling based primarily on the fact that if Toreth had been in Karteris's

place, he wouldn't have risked it. "Put out an arrest warrant for Karteris, under both names." "He's probably outside the Administration by now," Nagra said. "I know." Toreth closed his half-finished pack of sandwiches. "I'm going back to try again. The sooner we get on with it, the sooner someone will know something." ~~~ Mass interrogation was never Toreth's favourite technique. It was boring, took too much time, and smacked of desperation something people did when they'd run out of intelligent ideas. However, there had been at least one more person at the square, up on the roof. Setting aside the small chance that it was Karteris himself which would have been a monstrously stupid risk Toreth couldn't imagine the man taking then it was probably someone known to Theo. Odds were that the name would be in the system somewhere. It was damned difficult to lose records, and the chances of Karteris having a Warrick at his disposal were fortunately small. Of Nagra's three words, Toreth went for safe and quick for the rest of the afternoon's interrogations. The brief interrogations backed up his theory that the contacts listed in the file knew nothing about any resistance. He was explaining the terms of the damage waiver to the sixth (and hopefully last) prisoner, when Nagra called him out of the room. She was waiting for him in the office upstairs, standing by his desk. "You aren't going to like this, Para," she said. "Justice have Karteris." Toreth stared. "Where? When?" "The coast guard found him at lunchtime on a beach, few miles down the coast. Drowned." She looked at him, then said, "I said you wouldn't like it." She was dead right, although she didn't know the real reason why. Toreth sat slowly, keeping his back straight, deliberately relaxing his abdominal muscles. Sickness is mostly tension, he told himself firmly. "What happened?" he asked. "Someone reported a motorboat drifting this morning. Turns out it was the one Karteris owns a part share in. The engine was dead mechanical failure. Unlucky for him that there weren't any oars or even a life jacket on it. The pathologist thinks that he tried to swim to the shore and just didn't make it." "Why " Toreth swallowed. "Why the hell would he try to swim?" "He must've known he'd have been picked up the next day. It's so busy around there that the boat was spotted almost as soon as the sun got up. They found a suitcase on it. Clothes, but no ID which is why we didn't hear about it right away and no sign of the money. Probably at the bottom of the Med." Toreth turned away, trying to look at the situation objectively. Did it make sense? A gut instinct said that something was wrong, but when he tried to pin it down it was washed away by the sickening idea of Karteris dead. No. Karteris dying. Of "Excuse me," Toreth said. He managed to make it down the corridor at a walk, not a run, until he reached the toilet door. Then he was forced to press a hand over his mouth, fighting the choking tightness in his throat. He crashed through the door, pushing past a startled investigator, barely hearing the man's protest.

Toreth dropped onto his knees inside the cubicle, then he was lost in the darkness, surrendering helplessly to his body's memory, his stomach emptying in wrenching spasms. Ten minutes passed before he could even straighten, never mind stand. He leaned against the wall, gulping air, muscles aching. Three people in his life he'd known before they'd drowned. The first had been his brother, and they'd both been so young that the memories were no more than faded still photos. Yang had been a witness at SimTech, hardly a person at all. But Karteris he'd spent time with. Karteris he'd seen alive two days ago. Karteris he could imagine struggling, fighting the cramps, could imagine him going down, breathing in water like a kick in the chest . . . His stomach turned over again, but there was nothing left to throw up. Stupid. He hadn't even fucking liked Karteris. And thank fucking God that he hadn't fucked the bastard. Illogical as it was, that would have made the whole thing so much worse. Outside the cubicle, he was relieved to find the room empty. Turn on the tap. Lean down and cool, chlorinated water in his mouth. He forced himself to rinse and spit until the taste of vomit had cleared. Then he washed his face and left. Nagra was waiting patiently. Toreth said nothing about his abrupt departure, and she didn't comment. "Why did it take Justice this long to work out who he was?" Toreth asked when he'd sat back at his desk. "No one recognised the body, and no one got round to doing the DNA check until this afternoon. I'd say laziness rather than malice." "You'd think someone there would know him." "There was damage to the body, including the head. Probably done by rocks when it was washing around, or it might even have been hit by a boat." Something almost like hope made Toreth's heart rise. "Could he have been dead when he went into the water?" "The Justice pathologist says not. Post-mortem injuries only." She cocked her head. "You think he was killed to shut him up? Why? I thought he wouldn't play ball with you?" "I think " I don't want to think about it at all. "I think we should forget him. Whatever he knew, we'll have to get it from somewhere else." ~~~ Toreth tried Nikoletta first. She was in her office, surrounded by a crowd of other admins and weeping copiously. He thought of Sara's opinion that the woman had faked enjoying fucking Karteris. However, that didn't mean the current grief couldn't be real enough. Guilt, maybe. In a way, her intervention might have triggered Karteris's plan to remove Toreth from the scene, and thereby, indirectly, his aborted flight. He coughed. "Excuse me," he said. "I need to speak to her alone." The group tightened protectively around its wounded member, but Nikoletta shook her head. "I'll be fine," she said in a tiny, brave voice. When the room cleared, Toreth closed the door and went to crouch beside her chair. Better a nice, sympathetic interview here than in an interrogation room.

"Nikki? How are you?" Damp tissues littered the table like leaves. At his words she picked up a handful and burst into fresh tears. Toreth patted her arm and refrained from sighing. "It's all my fault!" she wailed. "I told you about the drugs. You talked to him, didn't you? It's all my fault for wanting to hurt him. And I can't even tell anyone because they'll all hate me." Good summary of the situation so far, from a frighteningly selfish point of view. "Nikki, do you know about anything else Karteris might've been part of? Anything else that might've made him run?" Tears dried, and she stared at him. "Anything else? No. Why?" The protective streak surfaced again, frown gathering. It would've looked good on her, except for the red eyes and dripping nose. "What are they saying about him?" "Nothing. I was just wondering. Running like that seemed to be an overreaction to what I said to him, that's all." He ought to have guessed her next words. "You mean, it maybe wasn't my fault?" The frown deepened. "But . . . no, I can't think of anything." She sniffed. "Nothing ever happens here, or it didn't." Until I turned up. He was using the wrong bait, or maybe looking for the wrong kind of fish. "Did he say anything to you the last time you saw him? Ask you to do anything?" To his surprise, she nodded. "He asked me to find him a current address. He said he had to leave the office, and he wanted me to find it and send it to him. The name was Alexandros Vasdeki." "Did you do it?" "Yes, of course." "Good. Send it to me, now. Then go home, why don't you?" Her grieving presence was an irritating reminder of the cause of it. "No one will mind." And it's not like Karteris needs any misfiling doing. "I'd rather be here, at least for a bit. With things to do. Not stuck at home to think about him . . . " ~~~ The name had sounded familiar in Nikoletta's office, and when Toreth opened the file, he discovered why. Alexandros Vasdeki was the man who had considered Theodora Grant suspicious enough to be worth reporting to I&I. Not, however, listed as an official informer under Karteris's control. He was also listed as a known contact of Theo, his name marked as No Action. One of those who'd been considered so respectable as to be eliminated without interrogation. Toreth asked the system to run a background check on Vasdeki again, using all the latest up-todate information. Clean again apparently a very well-behaved citizen. On reflection, he should have guessed. It was exactly the kind of thing Toreth would have done, in Karteris's place kept the important name away from the lists of previously arrested and interrogated prisoners. In fact, Toreth would've padded that list with innocent names to slow down exactly the kind of systematic interrogation approach they had tried, to give himself more time to get clear. Which all added up to the conclusion that Toreth wasn't thinking clearly enough to get the job

done. Karteris's fucking fault, for being stupid enough to drown himself in the Toreth sat back in his chair, rubbing his temples. Headache starting that was too much coffee and too little food. Briefly, he considered finding something to eat, then decided to wait. He'd call B-C and tell him to arrest this Vasdeki, and then go back downstairs to try a couple more prisoners before he went back to the hotel. Perhaps that would make an effective distraction. ~~~ His coffee was growing cold, but the idea of touching it made Alexandros queasy. The pavement cafe felt horribly exposed in the middle of the early evening crowd, it was as though there were a giant screen above his head, an arrow pointing him out to all. Finally the young woman three tables over answered her comm, turning half towards him as she did so. Dark glasses and a scarf obscured her features, but he recognised Member One. When she stood up and walked away, she left a small briefcase beside her chair. Walk over, pick it up, stroll away. Easy and natural no one called out, or tried to stop him. By the time he reached a taxi, he was shaking. Why had he ever become involved? Why had he ever thought they might succeed? He turned up the window opaquing and opened the case. A screen lay on top, and he sat back, holding it tightly as he read his instructions. Hard to get past the first lines, which drew his attention back repeatedly. His arrest had been ordered. He'd expected it feared it from the moment he'd heard that Theo had been taken away from the failed ambush by ambulance to the hospital, not the morgue. A stolen ID had paid for this taxi. Another lay in the case, along with an amount of money that under other circumstances he'd have been delighted to see. Even now, it lifted his heart because hopefully it meant flight, escape. Please God that arrangements had been made to let him leave now and take Gina with him. He read on, a chill settling through him at the next sentence. 'I can't explain and I won't order only ask, and pray that you'll have the courage to do what's necessary . . . ' ~~~ No swimming today. Back at the hotel that evening, Toreth forced himself to eat and then went up to his room and began pulling together the basics of the report on Political Criminal. The first few days initial interviews, case reviews included nothing that needed close attention, which was good because the words came off one file, through his brain and back out into the report without leaving any lasting impression. He had to keep reading back over what he'd written to work out what he needed to say next. Something to do, as Nikoletta had said. Even so, without the prospect of a weekend of dedicated fucking to distract him his mind kept circling back to the news of the afternoon. Eventually he found himself staring out of the darkened window, seeing ocean. Black ocean. Cold, brilliant stars overhead. Night breeze, water growing colder. He pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead, trying to stave off the inevitable moment of imagining going under and Drink. He needed a bloody great big drink. He emptied the minibar of everything that looked moderately drinkable, lined the bottles up on

the floor by the foot of the bed, and lay on his stomach, looking down at them. Start with the most palatable. The first two miniature bottles of generic whiskey went down easily, and he closed his eyes, concentrating on the warmth spreading from his throat down into his stomach. Better. He counted the bottles again, deciding how many he could drink and still function tomorrow. However he calculated it, if he drank enough to blot out the nghtmares, he would be far too hung over to work. When he'd just about resigned himself to a bad night, another source of distraction occurred to him. He put the shadow fuck disk on and watched the first ten minutes. Concentrating on Warrick, trying to reach back to the memory of the sofa, to Warrick beside him, to the following two days of fun and fucking and olive groves and beaches. Beaches. No. Fun as recreating Warrick's beach fantasy had been, it was better to stay away from there, and from the courtyard. The embarrassment of his panic in the tub felt distant now. All he remembered was the water, the overwhelming fear as it closed over him. Feeding into the image of Karteris struggling, of the unheard cries suddenly cut off by He switched the screen off and threw the remote across the room. Another miniature bottle, vodka this time. When he'd finished it, he rolled over on his back and stared at the ceiling. This was going to be a bad one. Why the hell hadn't it all happened when Warrick was here? I want him, Toreth thought, the admission sickening and weirdly comforting at the same time. I want him here, to make me forget all this crap. I want to fuck him until I'm too tired to dream about anything and fall asleep with Toreth looked at his watch. Ten o'clock. Maybe he could go down to the bar in the hotel and find someone sod his virtuous image. Or . . . he pulled his comm earpiece out of his pocket and called Warrick before he could even wonder if he was with Carnac. Fortunately, Warrick answered immediately. "Toreth?" "Yeah, it's me. I just wanted " And then Toreth couldn't think of anything to say. "Is something wrong?" Warrick asked. "Not really. I mean, yeah, I've had better days." He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to focus, trying not to see Karteris. "Feels like I'm getting nowhere fast." Swimming for a distant shore. "I nearly had a suspect, briefly, one of the seniors, but they fished the stupid bastard out of the sea this morning, dead. So I'm back to square one." "Ah." Amazing what a lot of meaning Warrick could cram into one syllable. "Yeah. Ah. Look, can you make it out here this weekend?" He found he didn't care how pathetic it sounded. "Friday, or whenever." Tomorrow. Now. "Damn. Toreth, if I could come, I would, I promise. If I could get on a flight tonight, I'd " He stopped. "But I'm confined to my flat." "What?" Confined to what kind of a fucking excuse was that? "Why? Who by?" "SimTech are assessing a security threat someone has been attempting surveillance on the building, and on myself in particular. Until they find out who they're treating it as a physical threat. I woke up this morning to find half the security team outside my door. I'm working from the office in

the flat until they find out who's behind it." He sighed. "These things are always so damn tangled corporations, independent surveillance companies, possibly sabotage teams. You know how it is. I can't see it being resolved by the weekend. And it would happen now, of all times, with the report and . . . everything." Toreth heard a voice that sounded remarkably like his own say, "What a fucking pain." "Quite so. Of course, you're more than welcome to come here, if you'd like to. However, I'm afraid it would be the polar opposite of last weekend." Toreth could imagine the wry smile. "Privacy is in short supply the place is crawling with security." "That's okay. I've got things to do here." Like kill myself. There was a brief pause before Warrick asked carefully, "Will you be all right?" Why the hell wouldn't he . . . oh. For a minute, he'd completely forgotten Karteris. "Yeah, sure, I'll be fine. Talk to you later." After the connection cut off, he considered calling Warrick back and confessing. If he could've come up with a way of phrasing it that didn't make him want to die of embarrassment, he might even have done it. Warrick, you're right, I am paranoid and pathetic. I had you followed because I thought you were fucking Carnac. Oddly, that was the first time since the start of the call that he'd thought of Carnac and the name made him moan out loud. What if Carnac discovered what he'd done? He pressed his hands over his eyes, trying once more to block out an image but this time of Carnac's delighted smile. The arrogant fucking bastard would really get off on the idea that Toreth thought Carnac was a . . . a threat. No. If Carnac found out, suicide would start to look like an attractive option. If he could've borne the idea of her knowing, he might have called Sara and asked for her advice. Except that she'd probably say 'tell Warrick straight away', because that was the kind of fucking stupid idea she usually came up with. No. The sensible thing to do was to cancel the surveillance at once, warn Uche to beware corporate snoopers, and pray that Warrick never found out anything more about it. Eventually SimTech would drop the investigation. No one need ever know what he'd done. Toreth brightened very slightly as he spotted the silver lining. At least with Warrick locked in his flat and surrounded by security, he couldn't be playing personal liaison with Carnac.

Chapter Seventeen
Despite the combination of SimTech, Karteris and too much to drink, Toreth woke in the morning surprisingly refreshed. His shoulders ached a little, say one bad dream's worth, but he didn't remember waking. Maybe the stresses had cancelled each other out. Even so, hungry as he was after eating so little yesterday, he couldn't face breakfast. When he arrived at I&I, Nagra was waiting in the office. "More bad news?" he asked her. "Not this time. Justice picked up Alexandros Vasdeki this morning." "Alive, I hope." "Yes. They caught him up at the station, trying to get a ticket out of the Administration. He had a fake ID, but it failed the security check. He tried to bribe his way out, but he was desperate enough that the station staff guessed he was running from something serious, and they held him instead of taking the money." "A lot of money?" "He had nearly five thousand on him. No accounts in his name missing that sum, so I expect it was a present from Karteris." Interesting that Karteris hadn't simply killed the man Toreth would have done, in his place. Again, the feeling nagged at him that there was something wrong with Karteris's death. Alone in a small boat . . . Toreth closed his eyes briefly. Stay away from the whole damn idea. "I'll read his file one more time and go down." ~~~ It had taken two attempts yesterday before the guards managed to leave Toreth's prisoners sat at the table rather than putting them straight into the interrogation chair. The second, more forceful explanation seemed to have sunk in, because Toreth found Vasdeki there, waiting with his head in his cuffed hands. He breathed harshly, sounding close to tears, and he didn't seem to hear the door open. Excellent start. "Good morning," Toreth said. With a startled exclamation, the prisoner looked up. Slighter than Theo, but good-looking in the same classically Greek way. He muttered something under his breath a prayer, probably, but the desk microphone would pick it up for later examination. Toreth sat down and placed a hand screen on the table to one side. "My name is Toreth. Senior Para-investigator Val Toreth, in fact, although I don't particularly care what you call me. I've heard it all before anyway." Vasdeki took a shaky breath, but when he spoke his voice was only a little unsteady. "What are you doing here? This isn't your country." "It's a part of the European Administration, of which we're both citizens. Now we're here, citizen, to talk about " "Forget it. I won't tell you anything." Vasdeki stood up. "I'm ready. You can do whatever the hell

you like." Not protesting his innocence, then. Toreth smiled and waved the man back into his seat. After a hesitation, he obeyed. "Oh, no, no, no. Not like that." Toreth pretended to consult the screen. "We're not here to discuss your interrogation. Your wife is called Gina, isn't she?" Dead silence, the low purr of the air cycling systems seeming suddenly loud. "She doesn't know anything," Vasdeki whispered. "I'm sorry?" "She doesn't know anything." And then the realisation dawning that that didn't matter in the slightest. "I'm sure I can come up with a reasonable suspicion that she does, which will be enough to get me a damage waiver. For example, she also works at the university. The case we're considering a political case has connections to there. Do you know what a section N interrogation is?" When the prisoner shook his head, Toreth called the relevant section of the Procedures and Protocols up on his hand screen and held it where Vasdeki could see it. The heading, 'Approved Sexualised Interrogation Methods', always caught the eye. "I won't touch her myself, of course," Toreth said as Vasdeki read. "There are section N trained guards who I'll bring in to do all that. I'll be standing right next to you, so that when you want it to stop you can tell me." The problem with section Ns was reliability. Some prisoners folded almost at once but, especially if both partners were active resisters, it could make them more determined to resist, to show no weakness in front of the other. An even bigger gamble here, since it was unlikely he really could get a waiver issued for the section N. Making a threat he couldn't carry out was a disastrous way to start an interrogation. Worth the risk, though, because it fell under both safe and quick. No reply from the prisoner. An outright refusal would have come by now. Toreth decided to test the water. "How long had Karteris been helping the resisters?" Laughter wasn't a sound often heard in the interrogation room. Not even, as with Vasdeki, when it was ninety percent hysteria. Finally he said, "Helping us? Oh, God." He shook his head, laughter still escaping in hiccups. "You have no they've been blackmailing us. For years. And in return they've been 'protecting' us." The ease and completeness of Vasdeki's surrender stirred suspicion. "You don't think they'll protect you now?" Vasdeki looked down. "No. And if I don't talk you'll get everything you need from them. It might take you more time, but I know what they are." His head lifted and he extended his hands, displaying the cuffs. "You're cowards, all of you. Threatening Gina because of what I've done. Coward. Karteris was the worst of the lot. I heard what happened to him I hope he took a long time to die." Easier not to react here in the interrogation room, where his training held most strongly, but it still sickened him. Not so much the images he couldn't stop, but the thought of dozens of interviews to come with Karteris's name mentioned again and again. He'd get through them, one at a time. Start with this one. "How did the blackmail work?" Toreth asked.

The lack of reaction to the insult seemed to quench the brief defiance. "Oh, we did all the work. A few people were registered as informants and they collected the payments for the bastards here. Cash, or goods and services, whatever we could give them. Wanting more and more . . . it couldn't have gone on for much longer." Toreth felt his focus coming back as he kept the questions away from the danger topic of Karteris's death. "How did they find the resisters?" "Whenever someone was reported, they'd drag them in and sound them out. See if they were guilty, and what they'd be willing to do. Sometimes if people were innocent they still might pay to have their names cleared completely. Even an accusation of anti-Administration activity damages." Perhaps arranging a few extra accusations of suitably rich targets too. An old scam, and one cracked down on by I&I management wherever it appeared, because it inevitably ended in tears when an ambitious para tried to strong-arm the wrong corporate. "But what about real resisters?" "Nationalists." He shifted his wrists in the cuffs. "Sometimes the accusations were true. And from time to time they'd pick up someone who knew a few names, other nationalists, and they'd suck them into it too. Theo was like that he knew my name, I don't know why. If people wouldn't cooperate, they died under questioning or went for reeducation." "I need names, Alex. Resisters being blackmailed, who was doing the blackmailing. Give me that and if it all checks out if then Gina is safe and you're on reduced charges." Vasdeki smiled grimly. "I can give you some of the bastards who work here. But not the rest. I don't know any of our names. We weren't stupid." Of course, once Toreth had the names of the paras, the resisters would be easy. Whether Vasdeki hadn't thought about that, or was lying to himself about it, Toreth knew better than to point it out. "You can't give me any resisters at all?" "Nationalists," Vasdeki repeated. "No I know one name. Theo. And I only know because I heard you call him that." "You were there?" "Yes. On the roof." He lifted his head. "I thought he was dead, or I never would've left him." As if Toreth cared. "Who was behind that?" "Karteris arranged it all I was there when he did it. Theo took me along, because it was set up in such a rush. He told Theo what to put in the message, he gave us the comms jammer. Just like he did with the woman. The Citizen Surveillance agent." Exactly what Toreth had hoped for. "You were there when Theo and Karteris talked about Grant?" "No. Theo told me about it afterwards." Vasdeki smiled bitterly. "Our first joint operation. We had as much to lose as they did, by then. Mutual destruction. Karteris told us she was there. I worked at the university, so I was chosen to keep an eye on her. I tried to steer her away from things that mattered, but she kept asking questions she wouldn't stop looking." "But you weren't there with Theo when the murder was arranged?" Hearsay, and so difficult to get a warrant on when corroboration from Theo or Karteris was unfortunately impossible. The prisoner shook his head. "If you want to hear about it firsthand, Theo said another one of them was there another para. Shorter, heavier build. Pale." Easy description to match up, but Toreth waited patiently for the prisoner to produce a name

unprompted. "P-something, I think." "You tell me." Vasdeki closed his eyes. "Priftis. Emmanuel Priftis." Toreth paused briefly, but prompting would be acceptable now. "Manos Priftis?" "Probably. That's what Manos is short for. He went with Theo when she was killed. For all I know, he might've been the one who did it. Theo never told us the details." Beautiful. Finally, a live fucking witness the first crack in the wall. There would be more. "Well done. Gina will be grateful." Vasdeki looked down, shaking his head. ~~~ The next time Toreth opened the door to the interrogation room, he found his prisoner uncuffed and pacing the floor. The single guard watched; Toreth decided not to bother with a reprimand, which would only add to the resentment against him. "Sit, please," Toreth said. Priftis did as he was told. "What's going on?" Toreth didn't answer. Instead he spent a minute or two checking the camera feeds and recordings, watching the junior para out of the corner of his eye. When he began to fidget in the chair, Toreth sat down. "Okay, here's what I'll do. Straight, simple deal. I know that you can give me the names of the people blackmailing resisters, and the names of the resisters too." He said it with such matter-of-fact confidence that it took Priftis a moment to register what he'd said. Toreth watched horrified realisation dawn before the junior struggled for control too late, as they both knew. Even so, Toreth had expected Priftis to try to lie his way out of the situation. Instead he put his head in his hands and said, "Hell." "I hope for your sake you can tell me how it worked, where the money went, and who else was involved. Do that, and I promise you'll get treated as leniently as I can arrange. I&I can't discipline the whole section. You know the drill. You can go to a new division with a nasty mark on your record, or you can be one of the scapegoats the Administration hoists up on high to show the good citizens we're serious about corruption." Toreth smiled. "I choose which." Priftis took a deep breath and looked up. "I don't know where you're getting this crap, but I don't know anything about it." Much too late. "If I were you, I'd be looking harder for friends than that, because the ones you've got already aren't doing you much good. Alexandros Vasdeki has pointed the finger at you." Toreth watched the name sink in. "Yes. He's made a statement that he spoke to you about the blackmail, more than once, with Karteris." "The word of a resister?" "He also said that you were there when Karteris arranged to have Grant killed. Remember Theodora Grant? She was a Cit Surveillance agent, Junior." Priftis look away, breathing more quickly. "Suit yourself. If I don't clear this up soon, you know what will happen Internal will hear

about it. You can talk to me, now, here, or you can talk to Internal later, when they're holding a report saying you were an uncooperative prisoner." Another pause before Priftis slumped back in the chair. "You're good at this." "Yes it's my job. Want to see my commendations?" "It's no fun from this side." He sighed. "Okay. Christ, I feel like I ought to ask for a guarantee signed by my Justice rep." "Names, please." Priftis looked at him, doubt still plain on his face, then nodded slowly. "Okay. No problem." ~~~ Toreth took Priftis and Vasdeki over to Justice and left them in cells there, where they would have a much harder time getting a message to their respective friends, and where the friends would have a harder time getting at them. Now he had a brace of live witnesses, he intended to keep them that way. Back at I&I, Toreth filled in Nagra and B-C on what had happened, then moved on to plans for the future. "We still need more evidence than Manos's word. For one thing, he claims he knows nothing about Karteris arranging to have Theo take a shot at me, and I believe him because he spilled everything else. We'll get a team of investigators and interrogators from the pool in New London. Then we'll pull in all the resisters being blackmailed, and from them we get confirmation of the names of the blackmailers. From what Priftis says, everyone kept their own list of resisters they'd brought in personally. Karteris might've had a more comprehensive list, but we'll be lucky to find it I'd have wiped it if I were him." Nagra cocked her head. "Any chance Nikoletta would know about it?" "Priftis says not none of the admins were involved." Although that didn't quite tie in with Sara's overheard conversation. He must remember to get an official account of that for the case file. "Priftis couldn't know for certain." "If she had known," B-C said, "why would she have given us Vasdeki?" "Good point. Anyway, they seem to have put most of their effort into making sure no one here from outside Political Crimes heard about the extra cash on offer. The only non-Political person Priftis named is the head of security. He arranged camera-free interrogation rooms for them to soften the resisters up and make the blackmail threats." "So he'd know pretty much everyone who was involved?" B-C asked. "If he blacked rooms out for them." "Another good point. When the waivers come through we can start with him. I doubt it'll take too long to have everything wrapped up." And then he could go home and forget about the whole thing, most especially Karteris. "Lucky for us, because when Internal Investigations catch wind of what's going on they'll put half the division on a flight over here. If I had the choice I'd prefer to be long gone by the time those bastards arrive." Not that there'd be much chance of that. Nagra nodded a vigorous agreement. However, Barret-Connor coughed. "Shouldn't we call Internal Investigations in anyway, Para, for something this big?" How the hell had the man stayed so naive for so long? Almost endearing, in a way, but dangerous. "B-C, do you want to spend the rest of your career known as the man who handed over

virtually an entire I&I section to Internal on a plate?" B-C considered. "Ah no?" "Good choice. Me neither. Nagra?" She laughed. "Not unless I get a pay rise big enough to make up for it." "So we're agreed. This stays within the division for as long as possible. At the very least, we want to be well enough entrenched that they can't just kick us out and take over. Although . . . " Although better still if they could ensure a clear distinction between their own investigations and Internal's probably inevitable involvement. Best of all, the change of plan offered a way to get back to New London all the sooner. Nagra and B-C were looking at him expectantly. "Just thinking." He pointed to Nagra. "Call Sara, tell her to organise everything but not to put anyone on a plane just yet. I need to talk to Vassilakis." ~~~ Despite Manos's assurances, Toreth hadn't been sure whether Vassilakis knew about the scam. It didn't much matter either way, but from his reaction to the revelations, the answer looked to be no. By the time Toreth finished talking, Vassilakis was ashen under his tan. His first words were everything Toreth had hoped for. "What should I do?" he asked. "If I were in your place, sir, I'd take the initiative suspend everyone under suspicion, maybe even place them under watched house arrest, and call in Internal Investigations yourself. Make clear you're doing it on your own initiative, no pressure from me. You found something out, you're reporting it." Toreth hadn't thought it possible for the man to get any paler, but he did. "Internal? I'll be crucified!" "Vassilakis, this has been going on right under your nose for years. I didn't have to bring it to you I could've kicked off the whole thing and the first you'd have known about it was when you strolled in at eleven o'clock and found your office sealed and Internal scheduling the whole section for interrogation. You included." "And you'll tell Internal if I won't?" "I'd have no choice but to tell them." Tired smile. "But with my signature on it, I take any heat resulting?" Not quite as stupid as he looked. "Not at all. I keep my hands cleaner, you have a chance of salvaging some kind of reputation. In other words, we both win." Toreth leaned on the desk. "I had Karteris in custody, and George let him go. Who else's authorisation is on that release? Internal won't just be looking at the seniors on this one." Vassilakis stared at his immaculate desk, picking at his bottom lip. Finally, without looking up, he nodded slowly. Toreth waited while Vassilakis made the call; the section head didn't protest his insistence on staying to listen in. Toreth thought Vassilakis put up a decent performance, and he certainly engaged Internal Investigations' interest. By the time the call finished, Toreth could imagine the activity beginning to stir up at Internal headquarters. No mention at all that the call was Toreth's idea. Good. The Athens head could change his story later, but the first version on file would be the right one.

~~~ Outside the office, Toreth pulled out his comm earpiece and called Sara. "Ready?" "Yes. I can have everyone on a plane in a couple of hours, whenever you want them." "Great. Set everything up for the team to leave . . . " When? How long would it take Internal to get themselves organised? Not long. "First thing tomorrow morning will do." That should spread news of the operation within I&I. That might be useful later, if Internal got here sooner than he hoped. Back in his office, B-C and Nagra were waiting. "The team will be here in the morning," Toreth said. "Will that be soon enough?" Nagra asked. "I think it will be about damn near perfect."

Chapter Eighteen
Nightmares woke Toreth four times. Not, however, the usual frantic recreation of real memories. Instead he struggled through far longer dreams of darkness, exhaustion, and the cold, bottomless pull of the sea. He woke panting, gagging at the salt taste of sweat on his lips. He wanted it over, he thought as he stared at the stars through the window, muted here by the city lights. He wanted the case finished. He wanted to go home. After the fourth dream, he didn't think he'd sleep again, but when the comm chimed at seventhirty it shocked him unpleasantly awake from deep sleep. Toreth groped for the earpiece, accidentally switching on the light. He groaned at the brightness. Expecting Sara, he was surprised to hear Warrick. "What the fuck do you want?" Toreth said, too dazed for tact. "I would like you to read a file." "Now? Jesus fucking Christ, it's " "Five-thirty in the morning, here. Read the damn file, Toreth." Finally Warrick's tone of restrained fury penetrated the mental fuzz of sleep. If he'd been more awake, he might have had the sense to close the comm link straight away. "Okay, okay." Toreth found the hand screen and fumbled to expand it. "Send it through." Despite everything, Toreth still didn't realise what it had to be. The opening three or four lines were enough to tell him. By the time he'd read halfway down the page, his stomach cramped with the humiliation of being caught. "Warrick " "Finish it," Warrick said. He slumped back against the pillows and obeyed. Everything was there: everything he'd arranged, everything he'd told them, copies of the reports he'd received. One line stood out. 'The client has requested recorded evidence of any liaison'. Which was true, he had. But written like that, laid out in black and white, it looked so pathetic. That was because it was. So fucking pathetic. As soon as he got back to New London, he'd have Uche's licence revoked. Client fucking confidentiality, indeed. Reaching the last page, he read slowly, not wanting to finish and move on to the next stage. 'Discussion' blazing row and then Warrick closing the connection. He wished Warrick had just sent the fucking thing, not waited while he read it. Eventually, he couldn't delay any longer. He closed the file and Warrick's face appeared on the screen. Too small and too far away, and he was almost glad about that. "I'm sorry." What else could he say? Warrick let out a breath. "It's all genuine, then?" Oh, fucking hell. Complete fucking idiot. A stupid, amateurish mistake he'd sneered at dozens of prisoners for making. Too late to take the admission back. "Yes, it is. Warrick, I'm really fucking sorry." Sorry

SimTech caught me, sorry I was so stupid as to think they wouldn't. No response, and for the first time Toreth realised how angry Warrick was, because he didn't look it. He didn't look anything self-control so tight that it left not a crack through which any emotion could escape. He didn't look like he cared, and the fear went through Toreth like a knife. Say something, Toreth told himself. Anything. Don't let him go. But his mouth felt as dry as beach sand and he couldn't force out the words, even if he'd been able to think of any. "Thank you for being honest, at least," Warrick said. "Rather too late in the day as it is. I'm sorry that you couldn't trust me, but the real " Suddenly, he found his tongue. "Why the fuck should I trust you? It's not as if you haven't done it before." "Don't you dare try to use that as an excuse for this." Warrick's voice lowered, harsh with anger. "It has nothing at all to do with Girardin." "Who said anything about that tosser? You fucked Carnac before. And you lied about why he was there." "No!" Dulled crack over the comm Warrick's hand on the desk. "Enough. I have no intention of listening to your feeble attempts to justify yourself. How the hell you can even . . . " With an obvious effort, he regained control, the anger subsumed beneath his mask. "I won't keep you awake any longer. I have a great many things to do, and " his mouth twisted, " a number of people to see. Damage control. I need some sleep beforehand, so please don't bother to call back." Blank screen. Toreth stared at it blankly, paralysed by the shock. Finally, the numbness dissipated sufficiently to allow him to panic. What hell could he do? Here, nothing at all. Warrick was too far away for Toreth's usual tactic of fucking him out of a bad temper. Not that there'd be a makeup fuck for this even if Warrick were standing right in front of him. Probably not ever again. Even so, even though Toreth couldn't imagine what the hell he could say to Warrick, the urge to go back to New London and find him was suddenly overwhelming. So overwhelming, in fact, that he spent a minute considering leaving Nagra in charge and going anyway, before he acknowledged the impossibility of that. He was as stuck in Athens as Vasdeki and Priftis, locked in their cells. ~~~ By eight-thirty, Toreth had been to the hotel gym and back. Exercising had blanked his mind for a while, but there were physical limits. Every muscle ached, and it barely blunted the edge of burning embarrassment. Caught, and in a weird way half of him hoped that Warrick would never call him again. The other half prayed for a call this minute or the next minute or the next one The comm chimed again while he was in the shower. He didn't even bother grabbing a towel on the way out. It wasn't Warrick. Sara's eyes went wide. By the time he'd switched to sound only, she was laughing. "What the hell is it?" he snapped. The laughter cut off sharply. "Toreth, I'm sorry. Listen everything's screwed up." Fucking tell me about it. Toreth tried to focus. It must be the case. "What?" "I'm at work and Internal Investigations are here too. One of the receptionists called me when

they showed up. They've held the team you wanted for Athens they say they're taking over." He let out a breath. At least something was going wrong according to plan. However, someone was probably listening, so open relief could be dangerous. "Fuck. Would it help if I came back?" "I don't think so. And I expect they'll want to talk to you there. I just thought you ought to know." "Thanks." He sighed. "Stupid of me to think I could keep it inside the division." "I'm really sorry." "It's not your fault." Sara was still apologising when he cut the connection and went to find a towel. It was a pity to let her worry, but he could explain it all when he got back to New London. She'd understand. Unlike Warrick. He stood in the bathroom, towel in hand, distracted by the thought of Warrick. It could take hours to get everything sorted out in Athens days, maybe. He could only hope that Internal would live up to their reputation as high-handed heavyweights and crush his insignificant little investigation without a second thought. Why hadn't SimTech security tracked that fucking idiot Uche down a couple of days earlier? If they had, then Toreth could've left Athens. He wouldn't have wrung confessions from Manos and Alexandros, and he wouldn't be waiting now for Internal Investigations. If. Ifs were no bloody use to anyone, which was the same thought that had started the mess in the first place. Toreth took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and started drying his hair. He'd just have to deal with one thing at a time. ~~~ Toreth intercepted the Internal Investigation team as they arrived in the I&I reception. There were more than two dozen of them, easily distinguished by dress from the local staff. Internal wore dark grey suits, an unusually civilian look for an Int-Sec division. On the other hand, the black I&I uniforms were meant to impress the public; anyone facing an invasion by Internal didn't need any extra intimidation. The team head made him wait until the entire Internal group assembled before he would even speak to him. Arrogant wankers. Toreth pretended impatience at the snub. Actually, he welcomed the delay. It gave time for the Athens branch staff to gather around the periphery of reception to watch the show. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see B-C and Nagra hovering, and Nikoletta in tears again handkerchief pressed to her mouth. Witnesses dozens of lovely witnesses, ready to recount to all and sundry how this mess was in no way Toreth's fault. Looking round, he spotted only two faces from the list of blackmailers. The rest were probably busy destroying evidence or already running. Much good either choice would do them. Or maybe Vassilakis had taken his suggestion about house arrests. Finally, the senior Internal officer disengaged himself from conversation with his second in command and strolled over. He looked like a man it would be a bad idea to play poker against. He didn't offer to shake hands, but his tone was friendly enough. "Senior Investigator Ransome, Internal Investigations." Ransome gestured at his companions. "And my team."

Whose names I don't need to know because I won't be here long enough for it to matter, Toreth thought. "We have been called in by the I&I Athens division head," Ransome added. Toreth resisted the urge to look round to check everyone had heard that. "I have everything under control here. I have investigators on the way from New London." "No, you don't. This branch of I&I is now under the supervision of the Internal Investigation Division, by authority of the Int-Sec Head of Department. You are ordered to hand over all information and prisoners." Ordered. God, he loved that word. "Prisoners?" "We know where the information came from." Well, that was Manos fucked. Toreth pretended to debate the decision for a moment, then shrugged. "Of course, sir. If you come with me, I'll arrange the transfers right away." The man nodded. "One moment." Another brief discussion with his number two Toreth caught the words 'begin the arrests' before the Internal team broke up into groups and headed into the building. Most of the crowd moved off ahead of them, not wanting to attract Internal's attention. It didn't matter; they'd served their purpose. So far the plan couldn't have gone better. All that spoiled it was the nagging worry from last night. As they walked to his office, Toreth asked, "Do you want me to stay on and help with the investigation?" He wasn't sure what he wanted the answer to be. "That won't be necessary. We'll debrief you, and then you can return to New London. I've already booked a flight for you and your colleagues for this evening." Ransome smiled a brief crack in the facade. "Sorry to spoil your little holiday, Para-investigator, but I think we can handle this on our own from here." ~~~ They were halfway across Europe, with the setting sun painting the clouds below them a vivid pink, when Toreth remembered that he'd never had Sara make a statement about the overheard conversation between Karteris and Nikoletta. Sloppy casework, because it was the only evidence they had that Nikoletta had any involvement in, or knowledge of, the scam. On the other hand, he didn't see why he should do Internal any favours. They'd only want to drag Sara in for an interview and she wouldn't thank him for that. Forget it. "Want the dessert, B-C?" Toreth offered the investigator the triangle of airline cheesecake. "Thanks, Para." Toreth contemplated rounding out the tail end of the investigation expense account with as much alcohol as the plane carried. Probably not a good idea to turn up to Warrick's flat paralytic, if he could manage to go through with it at all. Why the hell hadn't Warrick called to say what had happened? "Sir?" Toreth looked up to find a steward offering coffee. Caffeine was probably an even worse idea, but he accepted a cup. B-C had tea, and that made Toreth think of Warrick again. Coffee for relaxing, thinking or waking up, tea for disasters. Must've been drinking a lot of tea over the last few days. "Para?" B-C sounded concerned.

"Um?" Toreth looked round and frowned. "What's wrong?" Pause, then he noticed a quiet bump and B-C's seat jerked slightly Nagra nudging the seat from behind. "I was going to ask you that, Para. You hadn't even started pulling in resisters when Vassilakis called Internal. No one's going to blame you us for them getting involved." "I know they won't. In fact, that was the whole point." Toreth grinned, briefly cheered by B-C's expression of confusion. "Why do you think I went to see Vassilakis? What do you think I told him? To call Internal, before I did." "You weren't going to oh." B-C's face cleared, and Toreth heard a suppressed snort of laughter from Nagra. He bet she'd guessed even before she put B-C up to asking. "Sorry," B-C said. "Stupid of me. So now we're flying home and Internal will make all the arrests and take all the flak." "Got it in one." "But if that's what you wanted . . . ?" Then why do I look like I'm flying to a funeral? Abandoning his coffee half drunk, Toreth reclined his seat and closed his eyes, deciding to risk the possibility of nightmares. "Wake me when we land."

Chapter Nineteen
Warrick had apparently placed Toreth on the 'unwelcome' list for the main door to his building. Toreth tried the system a dozen times anyway, hoping he had simply made a mistake with the code. The failed attempts must have registered in Warrick's flat, because when he'd given up and was staring at the comm screen, trying to pull together the courage to press the button, Warrick's face appeared. He looked as though he'd been asleep on the sofa hair tousled, shirt creased and unbuttoned at the neck. Toreth rushed the words out before Warrick could speak. "Warrick, I came to explain." "Explain." Flat voice, giving nothing away. Slight change of tack required. "I mean to to try and apologise. Look " He glanced round. "Let me in. Please. If I'd wanted to do it over a comm, I'd have called from Athens." "I was angry when I spoke to you this morning." The cool overarticulation might have made an amusing contrast to his sleep-rumpled appearance if the topic had been different. "I'm still angry now. However, not so much so I won't concede that you may deserve a chance to put your side. Since you've come such a long way to do it. Come upstairs." Toreth spent the journey up in the lift trying not to think too hard. Should he disabuse Warrick of the idea that he'd come all the way from Greece just to say sorry? Did that look too desperate? Probably not half as desperate as he felt. Once Toreth closed the door behind himself, Warrick stood, arms folded, waiting. Toreth considered asking if they could go through to the sitting room, or better still the kitchen, but he couldn't face the refusal. Where the hell to start? Toreth took a deep breath. "Is everything . . . ?" The temperature lowered another degree or two. "The damage has been contained, yes." "Who " Oh, fuck. "Who knows?" "Various people in the security department know the details of the investigation." Warrick's expression didn't alter. "I have no doubt that the contents will find their way into the office gossip system in due time. I had to tell Asher and Lew, of course. The head of security presented the report to them. I wanted them to know I hadn't concealed anything. Not my most enjoyable directors' meeting." Of course Warrick would've been there he wouldn't hide in another room while it happened. An image formed of of Warrick, face like stone, staring at the wall as he listened to the report being read out. 'The client has requested . . . ' Asher and Lew. The rest of the time Toreth didn't give a fuck about either of them, but the idea of meeting them now that they knew he'd . . . and that wasn't the worst part. "And what about . . . " Toreth couldn't bring himself to say the name. Warrick's mind-reading skills seemed to function in non-fucking situations too. "Yes. However, he decided that it didn't impact in any significant way on his study and that it wouldn't be necessary to mention it in his report. Which, from Carnac, is a more significant concession than you are probably capable of appreciating." So much for Carnac's vaunted fucking honesty when it was Warrick asking for something. Toreth

supposed he ought to be grateful to Carnac if the report had been fucked up, Warrick might've had SimTech security waiting outside the building to shoot Toreth on sight. Grateful to Carnac. Carnac, who now knew everything. The humiliation choked him, a thousand times worse than when he read the report in Greece. If Warrick hadn't been fucking Carnac before, he had every incentive now the bastard had saved SimTech. Was that it? Was that why Warrick hadn't tried to contact him? Carnac had already made a move and . . . He'd kill Carnac before he'd let him take Warrick. He'd kill Warrick. Rage spiralled up, frightening in its intensity. Dead he'd see both of them dead before he'd even think of them together. He took a step back towards the door. "There's no point my fucking staying, I can see that. You can tell Carnac " Toreth turned away, fumbling with the security. "Oh, for God's sake." An exasperated sigh, then Warrick said, "Toreth, this one time you will listen to me, or there won't be another opportunity." His voice was quiet and absolutely serious. "Now or never again." He forced himself to turn, to look at Warrick. Don't think about it. Don't think about the two of them "Okay. I'm listening." "Very well." Warrick gazed at him steadily, his voice as dispassionate as if he were recounting a dull day at work. "Arranging the surveillance in the first place was bad enough. Continuing to conceal it when you knew that we were investigating the incident was far worse. If you'd told me, I could have called Security off with minimum fuss. As it is, you have damaged me professionally and deeply embarrassed me in front of my friends and colleagues. Worst of all, you endangered SimTech at a critical time something you knew full well could happen when you embarked on the enterprise, because I had explained the situation to you." Endangered SimTech. All you fucking care about in the first place. However, the anger felt hollow now, a thin shell around the core of fear. Tempting to try another apology to fill the silence. After the cold, calculated listing of the damage, 'sorry' didn't seem like much of a counter-offer. "We both know that I'm not intolerant or unreasonable," Warrick continued. "However, some things are completely unacceptable. Much as I . . . " Warrick glanced down briefly, frowning, before he looked back. "No. What I mean is that I have no wish to to finish things like this. But the possibility of a future repetition of this behaviour would make it impossible for me to continue our association. Can you understand that?" Meaning there was a chance this wasn't the end? Hating himself, Toreth grabbed at the thin thread of hope. "Jesus, I said it once already. I'm sorry. I'm really, really fucking sorry." "To be perfectly honest, I don't care." No softening of Warrick's expression; no sign that he might relent. "Whether you regret it or not, it happened. What I need to know is that it won't happen again. I make " Warrick hesitated. "I make very few demands of you, but I think I am entitled to make this one." Could it really be this easy? "I won't do it again. Nothing like it. Ever. I promise." Silence, as Warrick looked at him measuringly. He forced himself to meet Warrick's gaze, trying to transmit sincerity rather than fear. Whatever it takes. Please.

"Very well." Warrick nodded. "Then the incident is closed?" "Yes." Toreth stood, waiting for another comment, for Warrick to tell him to leave. The idea of a reprieve felt so unlikely. The silence quickly overcame his self-control. "If you want me to go . . . " "No, I don't think so." "Oh . . . okay." Warrick raised an eyebrow. "Unless you'd rather go, of course." "No!" His cheeks heated slightly at the speed of his response. "I mean, if you want me to stay, that's great. I just " He shrugged. "I thought you probably wouldn't, that's all." "When I said the matter was closed, I meant it. Over, finis, never to be mentioned again." Silence for a moment, then Warrick added, "I've had a hell of a few days and, since you're responsible for them, I think the very least you can do is try to make up for it." Was that a joke? Hard as it was to believe, there was a small crease at the corner of Warrick's mouth. Relief flooded him. He turned away and ran his hands through his hair, composing himself. When he looked back, Warrick hadn't moved. "Sure," Toreth said. "Fine. What do you want to do?" Now he was sure of the smile, catching it as Warrick turned and began to stroll down the hall towards the kitchen. "Well, first of all, you can watch me make dinner. I came back from SimTech and fell asleep before I could eat, or do anything else. And after we've eaten, I'm open to suggestions." For the first time Toreth could remember, the kitchen was less than immaculate the remains of a half-eaten breakfast sat on the table. Toreth picked up a plate, realised he had no idea what to do with it, and put it down as subtly as he could. "Do you have to return to Athens tomorrow?" Warrick asked as he tidied up. "I doubt it. Could happen, but Internal Investigations took the case away." "Ah." The conversation had a brittle edge. "Is that bad?" "Depends on who you are. Not much fun if you work at Athens I&I. And technically, for I&I as a whole, it's a bad thing too. In reality, it's probably good. For me, anyway." There would be plenty of fallout to come, he was sure of that. However, at the moment Athens seemed a long way away. "Too early to tell, really. I'll let you know when it's all shaken down." "I&I internal politics?" "Int-Sec internal politics bigger version of the same thing. How " He couldn't help pausing, even though Warrick had said everything was back to normal. "How is the thing at SimTech?" Warrick turned away to open the fridge door. "The official report isn't complete. However, Carnac indicated to me that we had satisfied the concerns expressed by his employers." "That's fantastic!" Slightly more enthusiastic than the comment really warranted. "Indeed it is. Barring the unforeseen problems that always arise, there's nothing between us and the start of the first production run. Fame and fortune beckon." Toreth watched as Warrick rifled through the fridge. From the look of the ingredients stacking up on the countertop, omelette was the most likely suspect for the meal. Not his favourite. Not, however, a problem. All Toreth had to do was activate his standard backup plan: distract Warrick, exhaust him, order something delivered.

"Have you got a copy of the shadow tape?" Toreth asked. A soft thump as Warrick dropped a block of cheese on the work top. "Ah, yes, I think so." "We can watch that later. In slow motion. You can point out all the really clever parts that I was too fucking turned on to notice the first time through. I must've missed plenty, with you in chains to concentrate on." Warrick stood by the counter, ingredients ready, knife laying on the board. He didn't reply. Toreth moved over, put his hands lightly on Warrick's waist, his fingers tingling at the contact. "Or we could watch it now." "Or we could watch it now," Warrick repeated, his voice a little distant. Almost dreamy. Thinking about the shadow fuck, no doubt. Toreth bent his head and pressed his face into Warrick's hair, inhaling deep and slow. After Warrick's long day it didn't have the freshly washed smell that always went straight to Toreth's cock, but it was still . . . inspirational. Watching the recording suddenly seemed like an unnecessary complication to the plan. "Do you know something?" Toreth murmured into Warrick's ear. Warrick sighed, melting back against him. "A great many things. Which one do you have in mind?" "We've never fucked in here." "Really?" Warrick lifted his head from Toreth's shoulder. "I can't believe that." "We've done every other room in the flat, and I sucked you sat on the table once, but we finished that one in the living room. So, never in here. It's true." "Mmm . . . no, not quite." "What? When?" Toreth couldn't believe he'd forgotten. "What you mean is, we've never fucked in here before today."

Epilogue
The comms unit running highly illegal encryption code chimed only once before Nikoletta answered it. "Report." Nikoletta had no more idea of the name behind the man's voice than any of the other resisters who had heard it. "It's finished." Nikoletta's own voice rang oddly in her ears, translated smoothly and instantaneously into the measured male tones of the leader of cell beta-one-forty-seven of the Hellenic resistance. "Alexandros was flawless I've seen the transcript. Internal Investigations are here, the paras are being arrested." "And the rest?" "Some from the exposed cells will definitely be arrested too." The awful price of breaking Political Crimes' corrosive hold over the Attican resisters. "We couldn't warn everyone in time, unfortunately." "Unfortunate indeed." No emotion. "Although on the larger scale, perhaps it is for the best. If everyone disappeared it would lead to too many questions on the part of the authorities." Another consequence of the inevitable arrests struck her. "And you'll be able to persuade the remaining cell leaders that we have to pull back and regroup. They'll have to agree now, with all the turmoil." He ignored the comment. "And you, my dear. Are you yourself safe?" The endearment gave her a twinge of fear. Despite her precautions, could the outsider know her sex? And if so, what about her identity? "As safe as I can be. Alex doesn't know my name, Theo and Karteris are dead, and as far as anyone else is concerned I never knew anything about Grant or the blackmail. The New London para might've suspected, but he's gone now." "Karteris's disposal went smoothly?" "Exactly like we planned." She smiled, thinking of the deeply satisfying expression of shock on Karteris's face as the men closed around them in the quiet alley. So busy watching them, ready to make a fight of it that it had been easy for her to use the injector. "The hardest part was persuading him to come down to Piraeus for the evening. Although it wasn't easy getting him to the boat. We should've just shot him." "Then we would have had to provide I&I with a guilty party for execution. Complications of that nature are always best avoided. There have been no questions about the death?" "No. We waited out there for long enough for the drug to clear from his system, just like you said." Fading curses from the water as they towed the stolen boat away, leaving him floundering. She'd felt a twinge of guilt then more than a twinge and if she'd been alone she might have turned back. But she couldn't show weakness in front of the men there with her. "Can you be connected to it?" "The people who helped me were from a secure cell. They won't be pulled in." "Then everything is well. An unfortunate incidence of mass corruption which I&I will be eager to have closed as soon as possible. All to the good for us. Did you know," the man continued conversationally, "that admins have the highest proportion of convicted resisters of any grade within

Int-Sec? Still a tiny percentage, of course, but it's a wonder that Internal Investigations don't pay more attention to them." Somehow, Nikoletta kept her own voice even. "Really? I wouldn't know. If there's nothing else, I think we should end. Even this secure system is a risk." "Good luck. And goodbye, my dear." She sat, staring at the comm, suddenly cold in the stifling air. An unmistakable threat, a warning to keep in line. A threat against which she was utterly powerless. All she could do was trust and hope.

Gratuitous Kink
Silence at the table, while all around them the caf buzzed with conversation. One of their regular places not too far from the edge of the Int-Sec complex, on the side nearest the university. During the summer, the caf expanded out onto the pavement. The striped awning overhead provided relief from the hot sun, and the chequered tablecloth flapped gently in the breeze. Even if it was a bust, they'd still had a nice lunch out of it. Toreth forked through the remains of his pasta, dividing his attention between the plate and the man opposite him. Not surprisingly (since he hadn't said flat-out no), Warrick was taking his time thinking about the proposal. Toreth waited, braced for a refusal. Not that it really mattered. When the invitation had arrived, he'd nearly deleted it without a second thought. Only a whim had made him call Warrick and set up lunch to ask him. "Do you really want to go?" Warrick enquired at length. Toreth shrugged, noncommittal. "I thought it'd be different, that's all." Warrick smiled slightly. "And the answer to the question?" "Yes. I'd like to. It'll be fun." Warrick closed his eyes for a moment, tilting his head back. When he looked back at Toreth, his expression was serious. "Very well. But on the understanding that we'll leave if I don't enjoy it. Both of us will leave." "Of course." "And that you also understand that's probably what will happen." "Sure. I know." "I don't want you to be disappointed, that's all." "I won't be." Then, as Warrick's eyebrow quirked, he added, "Of course I will be. But I won't go on about it." "Perfectly acceptable. One other thing I'm assuming that, the Shop being the Shop, there will be a certain amount of sexual activity going on." Toreth smiled inwardly at the tone. Warrick's best sim fuck research voice. "Yeah, probably." "So, if that proves to in fact be the case, the options are that neither of us will have any contact with anyone else, or that both of us can if we decide we want to, of course. The point is that I have no intention of escorting you to an all-you-can-eat fuck buffet and standing on the sidelines, watching you fill your plate." Toreth noticed a silence at the next table and glanced round, slowly and deliberately. The three young women coloured furiously, and looked away when he smiled. Now it was his turn to think something over. Saying 'neither' would put a terrible crimp in Toreth's own evening. On the other hand, the idea of Warrick . . . even the idea of the idea of it banished the warmth of the caf. 'Neither' was by far the safest. But on a third hand, Toreth would be there with him, to keep an eye on whatever went on. Odds were Warrick wouldn't want to anyway he didn't like doing anything in public.

Suddenly he thought of a compromise. "Start off with neither. Then if either of us changes our mind in mid-party, let the other know and then it'll be either." Then Toreth could fuck whomever he liked, as long as Warrick didn't see. Better yet, if Warrick did catch him, it would still be inside the rules Toreth could just claim he'd meant to tell him when it was over. Perfect. Warrick regarded him thoughtfully for a long moment, and Toreth had the uncomfortable feeling that he'd been seen through. He held his ground, keeping the suspicion off his face, until Warrick nodded. "Very well." He lifted his glass. "To an interesting and unusual Saturday evening." ~~~ "I thought I said don't get dressed until I arrived?" Not that Toreth really minded, because Warrick in black and white was his next favourite thing to Warrick naked. Fuckably irresistible, dressed or undressed. The guilty party turned round from the bedroom mirror, where he'd been tying his bow tie. "I'm sorry. I thought it would save some time, since we're running late. Didn't your invitation say formal?" "Yes. But that's formal for the never mind. For me. You have to wear these." Warrick's eyebrows disappeared up under his fringe as Toreth opened his bag and handed over the contents. Black leather although not a great deal of it and a short length of chain. Taking the things, Warrick laid them out on the bed. Leather wrist cuffs, locked together by the chain. A key for the chain, on a fine plaited leather string, long enough to wear round the neck. Leather collar. Leash. A thong that redefined skimpy. He contemplated the assortment for a while, and then shook his head firmly. "Where did you get this?" "Fran found it for me. She thinks it's all your size." "Helpful woman." To be honest, Toreth didn't rate his chances of persuading Warrick to do this part. He'd been antsy enough about the mere idea of a party at the Shop, and Toreth had been deliberately vague about the details. Deliberate bordering on deceptive, in fact. However, the idea of maybe having the power to make him do it, and of showing Warrick off, of marking him so clearly as his, compelled him to try. "You'll look great," he said. "Mm." Warrick picked up the thong, dangling it from his forefinger. "Is this compulsory?" Not at all, unfortunately. "In a way. It's traditional for the anniversary parties so Fran said." He smiled, hopefully disarmingly. "There'll be plenty of other people wearing the same kind of stuff." From Warrick's expression, that wasn't a helpful argument. "I don't suppose that under the DJ is an option?" "Nope. Not in the spirit of things." "Of course not." Warrick dropped the handful of leather on the bed, and then sat down beside it. "Come here," he ordered. Really not in the spirit of things. Still, Toreth went over obediently. He did try to salvage something by pushing Warrick back onto the bed. Caught by surprise, he went down easily, and Toreth knelt over him, straddling his chest, pinning his wrists above his head.

"Yes?" "It's a question of what I enjoy," Warrick said, as calmly as if he were the one on top. "I enjoy domination. I like to feel controlled to feel a loss of self. To that end, I like pain. What I don't want or need is public humiliation." "Humiliation?" Warrick sighed. "Off." One eyebrow arched. "I mean it." Toreth clambered off, and Warrick sat up. "You put it on," he said. "I don't think " "Obviously." He offered the thong. "Put it on." About to refuse, Toreth changed his mind. Warrick was betting he wouldn't, and then Toreth would have to drop the whole idea. Not a chance. He stripped quickly, under Warrick's appreciative gaze, and donned the leather thong. It wasn't uncomfortable, but he had to admit there really wasn't a lot to it. As he turned round, he heard metal jingling. Warrick was unlocking the leather cuffs from their chain. "Give me your wrists." Toreth held them out. "There we go." Warrick fastened the straps and then pointed to the mirror. "Over there." Seeing himself, Toreth had to acknowledge that it looked very peculiar. Especially with Warrick standing beside him in full evening dress. "Kneel," Warrick said, slightly husky. His eyes were bright, and it was only then that Toreth remembered. Yes, Warrick would enjoy this. Step two of his plan had always been to get Warrick hot enough to agree despite himself, and this would be as effective as anything else he'd had planned. In fact, he'd be willing to bet that he could pull it off now. Twenty euros says I can make him do it, he thought as he dropped to his knees. He tensed his muscles slightly, watching the results in the mirror. Not bad at all, even if he did say so himself. Grinning, Toreth shook his head, aiming to mess his hair a little. It was only after that, glancing to the side to see what effect it was having, that he noticed the collar and leash in Warrick's hand. "Hang on a " Warrick's finger, laid across his lips, silenced him. "Shh." A second's hesitation, then Toreth lifted his chin, offering his throat. He watched Warrick's face as he fitted the collar, a tiny frown creasing his brows as he fumbled with the buckle. Maybe, Toreth thought, they should skip the party and spend the evening here. Then Warrick clipped the leash into place and straightened. "What do you think?" Returning his attention to the mirror, Toreth contemplated his reflection. To be honest, it looked ridiculous on him, anyway. On Warrick, it would be mouth-watering. Warrick wrapped the leash around his hand and pulled gently, until Toreth's head lay against his hip. "Well?" "It looks fine."

"You'd be quite happy to wander around like that, exposed for everyone to see?" Toreth shrugged, watching his shoulders flex. "Sure," he said. "In public, at a party full of strangers? With a collar? On a lead?" Another shrug, purely for the effect, giving most of his attention to the play of his muscles under the skin, tensing his stomach to complement it. Made all that time in the gym seem worthwhile. "Yeah, why not?" "Very well." Warrick dropped the leash. "You can wear it, then." Toreth blinked at his reflection, and then saw himself smile at the expression of shock on his face. Neat trap, Warrick, but it wouldn't work. "I " Come on, think. There's an argument somewhere. "I don't want to." Oh, yes, very convincing. "No? But I'm sure you just said you wouldn't mind." Warrick's voice, silky smooth, held a note of unfortunately justified triumph. "Didn't you? Or did I mishear?" "Yes. No. I mean . . ." "And I thought you said that it was traditional. Surely one of us ought to wear it? Wasn't that what Fran told you?" Maybe if he called his bluff, Warrick would give up and behave. "Fine. I'll go like this." To his surprise and discomfort, his acquiescence generated a broad smile. "That's settled, then." "But " Finger on his lips again. When he'd quieted, Warrick ran his finger over his chin, down his throat, over his Adam's apple and along the line of the leather below. Toreth swallowed, finding his eyes drifting closed. He forced them open. This was not part of the plan. Warrick traced a line out along his shoulder and back again, and then slipped his finger under the collar. He tugged gently upwards and Toreth rose. Warrick glanced up at him, and then turned his attention down to Toreth's chest. The finger ran downwards, outlining his muscles, flicking over his nipples. It seemed to take a long time to get anywhere, but the general trend was downwards. By the time it skimmed once inside the upper edge of the thong, the stitching was being put through its paces, and Toreth's breathing had a ragged edge he couldn't control. Get him too hot to object, he thought vaguely. "I must say that it's convenient," Warrick murmured. The teasing finger returned, running back and forth, and he couldn't help rising on the balls of his feet, trying for more contact. He gasped as Warrick's finger brushed the tip of his cock and then withdrew. "However " Warrick looked at his watch. "We ought to get going." Toreth shook his head again, this time to clear it. "Don't be stupid. I'm not going like this." "Really? Why?" Because . . . because . . . Pathetically, the only thing he could come up with was, "What am I going to wear down to the car?" Warrick smiled, with a distinctly malicious edge. "What did you plan for me to wear?" "I, uh . . . " Bastard. In the end, he had to confess, "I hadn't thought about it." Warrick picked the chain up from the bed and dropped it into his pocket. "Well, then, I suggest

you think about it now." ~~~ For once the entrance to the Shop wasn't entirely anonymous. Large, elaborately filigreed metal lanterns hung on either side, one gold, one silver, and the door itself was covered by a thin screen displaying a large '21' in shifting metallic shades on a dark blue background. The age of the Shop, Toreth guessed. Inside, the reception desk had turned into a cloakroom desk. Toreth stripped off his shirt, trousers and shoes, handing them to a staff member he vaguely recognized. The woman took them without any surprise, although Toreth earned a lingering glance before she turned away. That made him feel slightly better about the stupid costume. Then he remembered. "Oh, shit. Hang on." The attendant turned back, and Toreth retrieved his trousers and pulled a blister strip out of the back pocket. "Thanks." He swallowed a couple of tablets and offered the strip to Warrick. "Want one?" "What is it?" In the unofficial I&I pharmacopoeia, it was listed under 'fuck drug'. "Very long name, but Sara says it gives you a golden glow. Speeds up alcohol clearance, too." In view of the arrangement, it seemed better not to mention its main purpose of stamina-boosting. "Mm. All right. Just one, thank you." That was a surprise, because Warrick didn't usually indulge. A promising sign for his getting into the spirit of the evening. After dispensing the tablet, Toreth went to put the strip in his pocket and stopped, dismayed. Warrick smiled. "Would you like me to look after that?" He tucked it into his jacket's inside pocket, and then took hold of the leash. "Come on." Opening the familiar door, they paused at the top of the stairs. Instead of the cool silence of the Shop, noise rose to envelop them, muffled and distorted by distance. Voices, music, and laughter it sounded like quite a crowd. As Toreth took a step forward, Warrick held up his hand to stop him. "Before we go down are you quite sure about what we decided?" "Either or neither?" "Exactly so. Because I have no special preference." Now it came down to it, Toreth wasn't sure. However, it was also too late to back out and did he really want to waste the evening hanging around exclusively with someone who didn't fuck in public? If Warrick was asking again, that probably meant that he had no plans to play away and wanted to hook Toreth into saying a firm 'neither'. "What we agreed's still fine by me," Toreth said. "Start with neither, see how it goes." Warrick nodded. "Very well." However, he didn't move. Toreth nudged his shoulder. "Well don't just stand there." ~~~ The noise rose as they descended, and Warrick began to have second thoughts. Still, he had the promise to leave, and besides it would be unfair in the extreme to drag Toreth away before they'd even

seen the cellar. He stole a glance at Toreth beside him, padding down the stairs on bare feet, apparently as relaxed as if he were wearing his dinner jacket. Warrick slipped his hand into his pocket, fingering the chain, wondering whether Toreth would agree to put it on. The idea, as always, set his heart thumping, even though the reality had never worked out satisfactorily. Before now, however, they'd always tried it in private, where it eventually had to lead to something a change of scenario, or submissive sex that Toreth didn't particularly enjoy. Here, where it could stay an image, a living picture, Warrick thought it would be different. Perhaps he was going to enjoy the evening, after all. As ever, when he pushed through the curtain and entered the first room Warrick paused to check if the rack had been sold yet. It hadn't. Lengths of chain decorated it, sprayed gold and hung with silvery lights. As ever, he got as far as thinking, "I could buy " and then stopped himself. He couldn't. It was ridiculous. It was completely over the top. It was insanely impractical. It simply wouldn't fit in Toreth's flat and if he had it at home well, if Dilly saw it, she'd have him committed. It was, in short, impossible. Every time he hoped it would be gone, to remove the temptation for good, and every time he was pleased to see it still there. Impossible he'd thought that about Toreth once. He knew that if he tried, he could get round the problems, and sometimes he wondered why he hadn't done so yet. Then, welcome distraction, Fran appeared beside them. Her usual outfit of multi layered dark blue and silver had been embellished with a trailing gold scarf in fine silk and a silver '21' badge pinned to her chest, presumably in honour of the event. For the first time ever, she looked openly surprised when she saw them, and it took him a moment to realise why. By the time he did, she had recovered. "Welcome to the party. I hope the chain didn't break?" she asked. "He's got it." Toreth nodded towards him. "Everything's fine. Luckily, it's one size fits all." "Indeed. Well, I must say that you make a very decorative addition to the evening." Warrick couldn't have agreed more. Always open to flattery, Toreth grinned. "Thanks." He looked Fran over and added, "You've changed your hair. Looks nice." It always surprised Warrick when Toreth did that, considering that on a personal level he cared so little about casual acquaintances. Looking more carefully at Fran, Warrick still couldn't see the difference, but she smiled agreement. "Thanks." While they'd been talking, more guests had descended. Fran stepped back and addressed the group. "A very warm welcome all, from Shel and myself, to our twenty-first anniversary party. The Shop comes of age tonight." Smattering of applause, and Warrick joined in. "Thank you. Please, make yourselves at home. There's food towards the back, drinks to the left, pharmaceutical pleasure to the right, somewhere, although the volunteers were looking a little hazy when I last saw them. You can pick out the staff by their badges. Staff with black collars are available to fetch plates and glasses, take messages, and supply toys. Staff with red collars are additionally available for extra requests, at their discretion. Other guests are guests, and I couldn't possibly generalize about them." She waved them forwards into the cellar. "Enjoy."

With Toreth close beside him, Warrick moved off into the crowd. "Do you think she's wearing a collar?" Toreth asked as they left the entrance room. "Fran? I didn't notice. I suppose she could have been, under the scarf." "Yeah. I wonder what colour it is." Warrick glanced at him. "Is that an 'either' already?" "What?" Toreth looked at him blankly before understanding dawned. "Fran? God, no. Too fat for me. I was just curious." The Shop had certainly gone all out for the event. Except for the distinctive low-vaulted rooms, it was hard to recognize. Sparkling strings of small lights in silver and gold, like the ones on the rack, interspersed with brighter spotlights, replaced the usual dim ceiling lights. The doors in the outer walls, always kept closed, were now mostly open, spilling light of various colours out into the main area. Although the majority of the merchandise had been packed away somewhere, the large pieces of equipment, too bulky to move easily, remained in place. The Shop being the kind of place it was, they were in full working order. The multi-drawered cabinets still lined the walls, although thin, flexible screens displaying abstract designs concealed most of them. Stare at any one screen for long, and chains, cuffs, and more exotic items seemed to swim into focus out of the patterns. Look away and back, and they were gone. A few cabinets had been left bare, draws unlocked, and Warrick caught sight of guests liberating the occasional toy. On their previous visits, there had never been more than a dozen customers on the premises. Now the place was packed, with a broad cross-section of the ethnic mix of New London. Dress ranged from dinner jackets and formal evening gowns to leather, rubber, metal, fur just about every material from which it was conceivable to create clothing. There was also a great deal of skin on display, some elaborately decorated. The normal, nerve-shivering scent of age, steel and leather was still there, but overlaid by warm bodies, alcohol and a light, pleasant, but impossible-to-identify incense. Warrick thought he recognized the occasional face, but as he rarely perhaps never spoke to other customers, he wasn't sure whether to greet them or not. They wandered for a while, getting their bearings. Eventually Warrick ground to a halt at a small group gathered in one of the edge rooms. Guests and occasional staff seemed to be taking turns to recite poetry. Primarily poetry with a lot more sex involved than Warrick remembered from school, which was the last time he'd had much to do with anything that rhymed. Clearly impromptu, rather than any form of organized entertainment, Warrick found it oddly engaging. People having fun, without caring what anyone beyond the group thought. When his presence registered, a couple stepped aside, making a space for him, then turned their attention back to the current speaker. "Do you really want to listen to this?" Toreth demanded from behind him. "I wouldn't mind. For a little while." "Okay. I'll go get us some drinks." Without waiting for an answer, Toreth began to shoulder his way through the crowd. Warrick watched him go, wondering whether he'd be back or if this was the start of his probably inevitable exploration of the fuck buffet. Then he dismissed the thought and returned to the recitation. ~~~

Toreth had expected to find his unplanned costume rather cold, but the air in the cellar had been warmed by the presence of so many bodies. Only the smooth stone flags under his bare feet were still cool. So many bodies. He examined the crowd as he worked his way across the cellar, gratified to draw so many interested and openly admiring looks in return; probably there were more than he would have drawn in the DJ. He wasn't the only one modeling the minimalist slave look, although in his opinion he was one of the most striking examples. As he waited for a space at the makeshift bar, Toreth felt a prickle down his back. Someone watching him? A safe bet, really, but when he turned, he spotted the source of the scrutiny at once. The boy was certainly eye-catching. He wore a skin-tight black-furred outfit with a white patch on the chest: a literal cat suit, complete with white-tipped ears, curling white whiskers and gloves showing the gleam of claws at his fingertips. He also had a long tail, with some kind of control system installed it held itself in a curve behind him, the white tip flicking from side to side like a metronome as he strolled over. Even close up, the short glossy fur looked so natural it could've been growing from his skin. The suit was a dark chocolate brown rather than true black, with the faintest of tabby markings; it looked like Bastard in strong sunlight, if Bastard had been around one-seventy-five with a lithe, late-teens body. And, unlike Bastard, someone had collared this cat a silver band bearing a nametag. The cat mask was beautifully crafted, and thin enough to show the expression beneath. It swept down beside the boy's mouth and along his jawline, leaving bare his lips and chin. Apart from that, the mask hid everything except his eyes a vivid and unnatural green with wide pupils. With the air of someone trying out a line for the first time, the boy said, "If I said you had an incredible body . . . " Then he dried up, the visible parts of his face and throat flushing. Even if it was deliberate, which Toreth half suspected, it was still irresistible. The voice light, with a distinctive hissing lisp also confirmed his guess as to the boy's age. One white-tipped ear flicked in irritation, and he started again. "If I said " Toreth shook his head. "Don't bother, I've heard it before. It's old enough to have whiskers." The emerald eyes widened. "That was clever." "It's practice, that's all. You can have another go if you like try something original." "Okay. Do you know why cats scream when they fuck?" Well, that won points for a fresh approach. "Go on." "Because the toms have spines on their cocks. They tear the queens inside the pain makes them ovulate." He sighed. "I don't have spines, though. Not yet. I'm saving up for implants." Toreth winced. "That'll limit the available field." "I'll find someone." He cocked his head, disturbingly catlike. "How was that?" "Awful. One more go." "Mmm." Twitch of the tail. "Can I lick your cock?" Toreth grinned. "Much better. Although suck is more traditional." "Most people prefer me to lick." For the first time, the boy smiled, revealing the source of the lisp. In the face of the spectacular display of ice-white fangs, Toreth nodded. "Lick it is. Although, to

be honest, I'd rather fuck you." The tail lashed enthusiastically. "Sounds great. I bet you wouldn't need spines to make me scream. But . . . I can't." He stroked his flank. "I'm stitched in. Zips spoil the lines and nothing else holds it tight enough. I haven't had anything to drink since this morning." It sounded spectacularly pointless from Toreth's point of view, although he wished he'd thought of it for Warrick's costume. "Why come to the party at all, if you can't fuck or drink?" "I like it here. It's a great place to play. Besides, my owner'll let me out later . . . if I'm a good kitty. See?" He flicked the tag. "I have a home to go to. It's great, having somewhere to roam from." Reaching up, he stroked the back of a claw round Toreth's own collar. "You know, you don't look like something that lives on a leash." "Not usually, no. I lost a bet." "With your owner?" "With myself." The tail curled into a question mark. "Can I ask you something else? Something personal?" "Go ahead." "How old are you?" "Thirty-five," Toreth said, which was still true for another couple of weeks. "Really? You don't look it." "Thanks. Why do you want to know?" Another fangy grin. "Curiosity. Well?" A pawful of claws raked very lightly down his chest, then batted at the trailing end of the leash. "Can I?" Curiosity of his own prompted Toreth to ignore the request and take hold of the boy's hand, examining the claws more closely. The backs of the gloves were furred, but the palms were dark brown leather. The claws showed through slits in the fingertips. "Watch," the boy said. He flexed his wrist back, and then curled his fingers. As he did, the claws extended, sliding smoothly out of the leather. They gleamed in the gold and silver lighting, long and obviously sharp. "Aren't they great?" Toreth shifted his grip, feeling the fingers through the glove, but found no tangible sheath. "Implants?" He nodded. "The second big thing I had done, after my eyes. Do you like them?" Not having an opinion one way or another, Toreth settled for saying, "They're very realistic." That provoked a delighted meow. "Thanks. I think they're just the best." Another flex of his fingers, and the claws retracted. Then the boy stroked him again, this time using the back of his hand. The fur shivered Toreth's skin into goose bumps. "Can I?" the boy asked. "Please?" "Be my guest. But " Already kneeling, the boy froze and looked up. "Just watch what you're doing with those teeth. And claws. If I need a tetanus jab afterwards, I'll neuter you." "I promise." He rubbed his head against Toreth's thigh, whiskers tickling and the fur silky soft. "Not a scratch."

Unhooking the thong, he took Toreth's cock in both hands, the palms of his gloves beautifully smooth. "Mmm," he said, and began to lap busily, his paws stroking in a matching rhythm. It was a peculiar technique, but perfectly adequate for Toreth's drug-primed system. He narrowed his eyes, enjoying the attention, but not entirely letting his vigilance lapse Warrick could be along any minute, and this was as compromising a position as could be imagined. It was far too early in the evening to ruin the plan. Glancing round, he noticed gathering spectators hardly surprising, considering they were on the edge of a busy space. However, even so most people around them were intent on the bar, or concentrating on carrying drinks away. Odd to be able to do this so publicly to feel the hands and tongue on him and not to be remarkable. Toreth looked down at his feline companion, although he tried to keep his gaze away from the glints of claws. The boy clearly hadn't been faking his enthusiasm for the idea of sucking licking him off. As Toreth watched, he wriggled his hips, dropping a hand briefly to tug at the front of the suit. With a new sympathy for the problems of erections in tight leather, Toreth shifted his weight and pressed his shin forwards between the boy's legs. With a throaty purr, he began to rub against it. He had a cat's physical coordination, at least, because he didn't falter in his attention to Toreth's cock. As time passed, Toreth found himself clenching his fists, resisting the reflexive temptation to drive forwards, to grab the boy's head and thrust deep. He didn't have to fight it back for long as the flicking tongue carried him over the edge. Not the slightest prick of teeth as he came into the fanged mouth. A very good start to the evening, he thought hazily. To his surprise, the boy stopped moving and looked up, licking his lips, obviously asking permission. Toreth nodded, too breathless to speak, and the boy grinned. "Yesss!" Furry arms slid round his waist, half steadying him and half providing support for their owner. The boy pressed his face against Toreth, his claws pricking lightly into the small of his back as he rubbed faster. His tail lashed from side to side in a frenzy. "Scratch my ears," he panted. Bemused, Toreth considered the options, and then chose the ears moulded into the top of the mask. They twitched as he touched them. A dozen or so hard scratches at the base, and the boy yowled ecstatically, thankfully not digging in his claws as he ground his hips hard against Toreth's leg. After a minute, Toreth disentangled the arms from around him and helped the boy to his feet. "Thanks." Once upright, he shifted, gingerly rubbing the thin fur above his crotch with his knuckles. "Oh, man. That is going to be so disgusting." "Serves you right for being a bad kitty." Flash of sharp white teeth. "But it was great, it really was thanks ever so much for playing." He leaned forwards and licked Toreth's shoulder lightly with the tip of his tongue, then grinned again. "See you later." As Toreth watched the swaying hips and flicking tail disappear into the crowd, he heard a voice behind him say, "What happened to the drinks?" Toreth remembered to look down before he turned thankfully, unlike Bastard, the cat-boy had

mastered the art of closing access points behind him. "I ended up talking to someone." Warrick raised a politely disbelieving eyebrow. "Oh?" "Yeah. We were comparing collars." As effective a distraction as he'd hoped. Warrick looked at his throat, then down to his wrists. What the hell since he was wearing the gear, he might as well give Warrick the benefit of the full effect. "Do you want me to put the chain on?" Toreth asked. "That would be . . . yes, I do." "Front or back?" he offered, before remembering that they were supposed to be finding drinks. Ah, well, he could wait for a while. To his relief, Warrick said, "Front." After he locked the chain into place, Warrick stepped back and looked him up and down. "Well?" Toreth asked, although the result was obvious in Warrick's smile. Worth playing the game just for that and for the thought of what he might be able to extract in the future as payment for this indulgence. Maybe he hadn't lost the bet, at that. Finishing his examination, Warrick shook his head. "Rather better than that. Now what would you like to drink?" Toreth lowered his gaze. "Whatever you think I ought to have." ~~~ Warrick was enjoying the party more that he'd anticipated. Of course, a great deal of that could be assigned to the scene in his flat at the start of the evening and the near-naked man beside him but, beyond that, the atmosphere wasn't as he'd imagined. Clothing aside, and sexual license aside, it wasn't so very different to any other social gathering where all the participants had at least one thing in common. The crowded rooms had the same friendly, open atmosphere as a conference. Talk to anyone, and the Shop unified, even where kinks diverged. All the guests, as far as he discovered, were customers of at least a year or two's standing. Assumptions, made and subverted, formed a substantial part of the entertainment. Their respective costumes were a clear cue to those they met, despite Toreth's endearingly unconvincing attempts to stay submissive. People addressed him, not Toreth, and it was so different to their normal visits to the Shop that Warrick found himself wondering about the cues he must give off at other times. It was all part of the fun, of the otherworldly strangeness of the evening novel and a little disorienting. To his surprise, Toreth didn't seem to mind his demotion to silent partner. Playing the game a gift, and a much-appreciated one. Every glance at the cuffs sent a thrill through him, and several times he even caught himself looking for a dark corner. Later, he told himself. He had plans for that. They had been wandering through the rooms for over an hour when the thing he'd worried about ever since the first visit to the Shop finally happened. "Doctor Warrick? I didn't know you came here." A woman's voice. Dreading who it might be, he turned slowly. In fact, it took him a long few seconds to put a name to the face, partly because of the distracting

leather outfit, which consisted primarily of studded straps, concealing nothing at all. However, the plump brunette was definitely familiar and, just as he thought he would have to ask, he realized who it was. Funny that he'd earlier been comparing the party to a conference, because the last time he'd seen Eve Sanderson had been at a nerve manipulation trade show, where she and her husband had been pushing Peripheral Induction Technology's latest products. Of all the people he might have expected to meet here, Eve would have come nearly at the bottom of a list of guesses. From her expression, she might have said the same thing about him. Warrick paused briefly to thank God that he hadn't suffered a brainstorm and worn the thong. "Hello, Eve. Lovely to see you." Then, automatically, because he'd thought about the show, he added, "Is your husband with you?" It could, he reflected, have been so embarrassing. As it was, Eve merely shook her head. "Tim's at home. He caught some really grim stomach flu, and he's been throwing up for the last two days." "I'm sorry to hear it." "He insisted I come, the sweet old thing, instead of staying there to nurse him. Even made me promise to have fun without him. So I'm out on my own, with no one to keep me in order." That was a definite offer, and Warrick shook his head, smiling, conscious of Toreth's suddenly attentive silence. "I'm afraid I've got my hands full." She looked at Toreth, who returned the scrutiny stonily, and she laughed. "I'll bet. Listen, if you don't have anything else to do, would you like to meet some friends of mine?" "Ah . . ." "Kind of work friends. All involved with the sexual leisure market in one way or another, anyway. I'm sure they'd love to meet you SimTech is the big name at the moment, after all. Come and tell them about the sim." Warrick turned to Toreth, who hesitated for a moment. Warrick noticed him give the briefest glance in Eve's direction. Then he shrugged, doing a passable imitation of placid acquiescence. "Whatever you like, of course." Competitive submission. Eve took them to the far side of the cellar, where an open door led into a small room with, to Warrick's surprise, a thick, dark red carpet. Sturdy rings, set into the brick work, dotted the walls. A part of the Shop he'd never been into before. Half a dozen men and women sat in a circle of low chairs. Eve introduced him to the group and, as she'd predicted, his name caused a flattering stir of interest. There were two spare chairs, but Toreth sat down cross-legged on a cushion on the floor beside Warrick's chair, chained hands in his lap. As the group summoned over a collared staff member and ordered a round of drinks, Warrick leaned down and said quietly, "Thanks." Toreth grinned and kissed him. "No problem. Enjoying it?" "Yes. Yes, I am. It's . . . different." "Told you. It's doing it in public, isn't it?" "I think so. You look incredible." The smile broadened. "Good. Because I feel like an idiot."

Even though he didn't actually sound upset, Warrick said, "Do you want to take the collar and cuffs off?" "Nah. Not if you're having fun. I'll let you know when I've had enough." His smile turned sly. "You can pay me back for it later I'll think of something I want." Then, in the middle of a supposedly debauched party, Warrick found himself involved in a discussion on the technological future of the sex industry. It seemed oddly appropriate sitting on wooden chairs, drinks resting on a variety of surfaces designed more for intimacies than for refreshments, and talking about the computers that would make it all obsolete. Or not quite all, he mused, as he listened to Eve bemoaning the stresses of hunting for contracts with Administration Leisure Centres. Some things the sim couldn't do yet. Some things it perhaps never would be able to, much as he hated the idea. Without thinking, he reached out and ran his hand over Toreth's shoulders. Toreth glanced up at him, then leaned on the armrest of the chair and rested his head on Warrick's arm. Some things could never be replaced, or duplicated. The conversation went on, and more drinks were ordered. Eventually, Toreth yawned, and then stood up. "I'm going to stretch my legs. Take this bloody chain off." The first time he'd spoken since they came in here. Out of the corner of his eye, Warrick caught the surprise on his companions' faces, and he heard one indrawn breath. Breaking the role. It was much too tempting to resist. Warrick leaned back in the chair and said, "Ask nicely." To his astonishment, Toreth's expression barely registered surprise before he knelt gracefully and offered his hands, palms up. "Please," he said in a most un-Toreth-like voice. "Would you be so kind as to remove the chain?" Warrick grinned and fished the key out from under his shirt. "I could get used to this," he murmured. "Shouldn't you say 'master'?" Toreth bowed his head. "Don't fucking push it." Already reaching for the cuffs, Warrick withdrew the key. "I beg your pardon?" The glare he got in return was murderous, and it whipped the gentle warmth of the drug he'd taken up into a sudden inferno. Warrick held the key up and raised his eyebrow. "What did you say?" he asked again, trying to provoke. Of course, once he'd made that clear, Toreth had no choice in this context, not playing the role properly was tantamount to losing the game. "Nothing." The sweet, submissive expression returned, and Warrick barely held back a laugh. "I'm sorry. Please take the chains off." Pause. "Master." Enough was enough. He opened the locks, and Toreth dropped the chain into his lap, then leaned forwards. Warrick felt his hand in his jacket pocket presumably filching more golden glow. "I can see I'm going to have to remind you how the game works," Toreth breathed into Warrick's ear. "When we get back to my flat, I'm going to chain you to the wall, on your knees, and make you very, very fucking sorry for that." Warrick jumped in his seat as Toreth's tongue flicked into his ear. Then Toreth stood up and vanished through the door, back into the crowd.

After his departure, Warrick found his attention wandering from the conversation in progress. He felt strangely lightheaded, and wondered if it was a reaction to the drug or to Toreth. Or perhaps just having had more drinks than he usually did on an empty stomach. After a while he excused himself from the group and went in search of something to eat. He'd passed through two rooms in the general direction of the buffet when a flash of gold attracted his attention and he turned, catching his breath unconsciously as he saw the couple. A blonde woman in a golden floor-length gown the source of the reflected light leaned against the wall, one leg bent at the knee. A hip-high slit at the side of the skirt gave easy access for Toreth's hand, the metallic cascade of fabric shimmering as his arm moved. With his free hand, he kept his companion's wrists pinned above her head, and judging by her expression Blonde was having a very good party indeed. Warrick had to acknowledge that it made an impressively erotic image: the gold of the woman's hair and dress catching the light, the clean, sculpted lines of Toreth's virtually naked body broken by the black stripes of the thong and collar. Toreth's head was bent down beside hers, his hair a shade darker, and, over the music, Warrick could hear the tone of his voice, if not the words. Even under these circumstances, it sent a thrill through him. With the boy, he'd arrived at the end of the proceedings. Here things were definitely still in the middle. The woman's lips moved, and although Warrick couldn't hear the words, he could read them. "I want you." For a moment, he thought that they'd spot him as they changed position, but Toreth didn't look round and if Blonde noticed him, she didn't say anything. Well, she was hardly the naturally shy type, was she? The woman lifted her leg higher, thigh pressing against Toreth's hip as he eased into place, and started to thrust. He ought to go, Warrick thought. He really ought to go. Instead, he stayed where he was, watching, just this once. This was what Toreth did with his time alone. The time he needed to keep apart so that, in the end, he could stay. One more anonymous fuck in the middle of a very long line that stretched back through the past and inevitably out into the future. Their future. Soft voices. "Yes. Hold my wrists." Snatches of words. " like silk. Like fucking silk." It was something he'd thought about, from time to time. Rather a lot at certain points. How would he feel if he actually found Toreth with one of his casual partners? The answer turned out to be, slightly annoyed. Of course, this evening wasn't a fair test he'd been prepared for it. They'd agreed things before they arrived, although Toreth had broken the agreement almost immediately. No more than Warrick had expected, but still irritating. However, now he had seen it . . . it could have been a lot worse. Without waiting for the finale, he resumed his search. Eventually he came across a quiet corner room the only other person there was Fran. The Shop's co-owner was struggling with an apparently recalcitrant coffee maker and swearing under her breath. Beside it stood a tall rack of cups and saucers, and a small table set with plates of cakes and

biscuits. The sight seemed oddly mundane for the party, a out-of-place corner of corporate hospitality. Grateful for the distraction, Warrick asked, "Can I help?" Fran yelped and dropped a cup and saucer. Amazingly, the cup bounced on the stone floor and rolled to a stop at Warrick's feet. The saucer, less lucky, smashed into pieces. "Oh, bother," Fran said fervently. "Sorry." Warrick picked the cup up and offered it back. Fran inspected it and shook her head. "Not a chip." Then she gestured to the floor. "I need to find a dustpan before someone steps on that lot and cuts themselves." She looked up at him. "I don't suppose " "I'll wait here and warn off the barefoot." "Thanks." As she hurried away, Warrick took a cake and then turned his attention to the coffee maker antique and beautiful. Far too large for a home machine, it must have been made for a long-closed caf. Glass and blued steel, with chrome trimmings that were unfortunately worn in places. After a little effort, he located the source of the problem and finally persuaded the machine to produce coffee, which was excellent. Taking a cupful for himself, he set the machine to fill the four large, elegantlycurved glass jugs nestling in niches at the front. He was still admiring it when Fran returned. "Do you like it?" She knelt down and began to brush up the shards. "Shel brought it back from an auction trip. Went for antique branding irons, came back with a coffee machine Shel isn't always very reliable for things like that." "It's a classic design." "Temperamental is the word I'd use. There." She stood up. "Oh coffee!" She sounded genuinely surprised. "Well done!" "Would you like some?" he asked. "Why don't you sit down?" "Well, I " She looked round. "Why not. But I'm hyped enough without the caffeine. Herbal tea, please. The stuff in the purple jar on the left." She abandoned the dustpan and sank into a nearby chair heavy dark wood with wrought iron restraints. "They can manage for ten minutes without me." Warrick opened the jar, amused by the sudden role reversal between host and guest. "Ah you're a life-saver," Fran said when he handed over the cup. He dragged over a three-legged stool that had no obvious sinister function and sat beside her. Once settled into place, he found himself remembering Toreth's question from earlier. Trying not to stare too obviously, he examined the scarf around her neck. She must have noticed the scrutiny because she smiled and lifted the scarf to reveal her bare throat. "If I took requests of any kind I wouldn't have time to do all the things I'm supposed to do. Although I'll definitely make an exception for offers of tea." She took a deep lungful of the rising steam and sighed. "I was about willing to kill for this. You've definitely earned yourself a discount on your next purchase. So are you enjoying your first party?" He'd wondered if she remembered him, but clearly she did. "Actually, yes, I am." "Didn't I say you would?" She blew on the tea. "Are you surprised?" "A little. It's not really my . . ."

"Your scene." She nodded. "That's fair enough " As she hesitated, he realized that she'd never used his name. "Keir Warrick." She snapped her fingers. "Oh! Of course." "What?" "Oh dear." Surprise turned instantly to embarrassment. "I'm afraid I've just been terribly rude, although you might not have noticed. I recognized you, and we have a strict policy that our customers' lives outside the Shop are absolutely private. Please forget I said anything." "I don't mind." He did, a little, but he was also intrigued. "Where do you recognize me from?" "I went to a lecture at the university a few months ago, on computer simulation. I only managed to get a seat at the back, or I would've realized who you were before and not said anything. It was very interesting you spoke very well." "And I don't tend to say much here?" "Perhaps that's it." She shook her head slightly. "Shel would dock my pay, and quite rightly, but . . . may I ask you something?" "Go ahead," he said with a certain degree of trepidation. "Can it really do everything you described in the lecture?" "The sim? Certainly." He couldn't remember exactly what he'd said at the event, but it had been years since he'd needed to pad talks with future work. "Amazing. A whole other world. Worlds." Her voice was a little wistful. "Yes, it is. Amazing I never get used to it. You must come and try it." Then a vision of trying to explain to the technicians at SimTech how he knew her almost made him wonder how to retract the offer. However, her face had lit up. "Oh, could I? That would be wonderful." Dismissing the doubts, he said, "I'll arrange something. May I ask a question in return?" "Of course, as long as it's not about another customer." "No. I was wondering how much Toreth paid for the tickets." He swept his hand round to indicate the whole cellar. "It's rather more extravagant than I imagined." She shook her head. "The evening is free. Shel's idea. A thank you to our loyal customers. We put a percentage of profits aside, every month, and use them for the party." Sound customer relations, if expensive. He wondered if she and Shel were simply very generous, or if the Shop was more profitable than he'd imagined. "Is everyone invited?" "Oh, no, not at all. Shel sends out the invitations." However, she didn't expand on the selection criteria. "I didn't actually think that you had this many customers," he said. "You tend to come in at our quiet times. Saturday afternoons are always slack. We're busiest in the evenings. Actually, Shel thinks we have too many customers at the moment, but at the same time our policy is not to turn people away for that reason only, so we're stuck." "Stop advertising?" "We never started. We're not even commercially listed. It's all word of mouth." She smiled wryly. "Too many satisfied customers."

He wondered if Toreth had been spreading the word. "Do you have many from I&I?" "No . . . in fact, Toreth's the only para-investigator or interrogator amongst our customers. We've turned away several; you might almost call it a rejection criteria. There were some unfortunate incidents in the early days. As a group they're not good with rules, and we have a number of those. More than Shel would like." "So what made you take Toreth?" he asked, curious. She narrowed her eyes. "If that falls under customer confidentiality, I'm sorry." "No. In this case, I can probably stretch a point. He came here looking for a gift for someone else for you. That was unusual enough for Shel to investigate more carefully. Of course, that applies to all our customers." "Oh?" "Yes. We carry out a full credit and background check after the first visit. It's policy. You see, with our particular retail philosophy that's Shel's description, by the way we have to be certain that our new customers are . . . suitable. We match the people to the Shop, you might say." "What about me? You didn't even know my name." "Toreth vouched for you, so we have no personal details about you at all." "Vouched for me?" That was news to him. "Because I'm his " He stopped, uncomfortable with any of the words he might have put there. "No, not at all. Relationship and role are irrelevant." She sipped her tea. "And I try not to make assumptions on either score, although sometimes I still do." "And sometimes it's obvious." Then he remembered the couple he'd seen on his very first visit here. He'd made assumptions and in the end been left with no idea at all. "At least, I imagine that it is with us." "Well, I made a guess and I admit I would've been surprised if I'd been wrong. But I'm regularly wrong and regularly surprised, so I try to remain open-minded and treat people equally." "You never spoke to me." She smiled. "Ah, but you never spoke to me." His first thought was that he must have done, but thinking back, he couldn't produce a single instance. "No, I suppose I didn't. A very fair point." "Customers' self-imposed boundaries are far more important to us than any we might be forced to apply." "Shel again?" She nodded. "Shel would prefer to lift all the limits on what can be done in the Shop. So far I'm managing to hold the line against the idea." Shel no pronoun given, with apparently deliberate care. Ask or not? In the end he decided against it. "How does vouching for someone work?" "We would never disclose the identity of any customer, at least not voluntarily, but people may require more protection than that to feel comfortable here." She took the trailing end of her scarf in one hand, twining the end through her fingers. "Shel wanted to dispense with the background checks altogether, to avoid excluding those people who perhaps needed the Shop most in the first place. The

compromise is that a customer who has disclosed their name may vouch for a small number of others who have not, accepting full responsibility for everything they do on the premises." Toreth hadn't said anything about it. Of course, he wouldn't have. She smiled again, a little self-deprecating. "More than you wanted to know, I expect." "No, it's very interesting. I'd never considered the practicalities of the business before. SimTech has . . . well, some related problems, if not quite the same. Choosing volunteers for trials especially the sex-based trials. Ensuring there's no possibility of junior staff being abused by those in positions of power." "Yes, of course. I must admit, I did think of that at the lecture. In fact, I tried to ask a question on those lines." "I'm sorry I didn't have time to answer." She shrugged. "As I said, I was right at the back." They drank in silence for a while, and Warrick helped himself to a handful of biscuits. From all around the Shop came the sounds of people enjoying themselves in the widest variety of ways possible. For most people, limitless pleasures meant only excess, but it seemed very like the Shop that there would be a bar, drugs and also tea. Eventually Fran said, "If you don't mind me asking, do you still have the cabinet?" "Yes," he said and inhaled a mouthful of crumbs. When he'd finished coughing, Warrick waved away Fran's concern and asked, "Why wouldn't we?" "Oh, we've had it returned several times." She settled back in the chair. "In fact, it's probably spent more time in the Shop than out. You've had it a long time now, relatively speaking. People seem to find they don't like it after all, or that they like it too much." "Mm. I think I can see that." He thought of the first months, how stupid he'd been about the whole thing, and despite that, he still couldn't resist the shiver of excitement that ran through him at the thought of it. A twinge of phantom pain in his wrist rattled the cup in the saucer. She was still playing with the scarf. Silver threads which he hadn't noticed earlier caught the light, flickering hypnotically. Thinking of the beautiful, impractical dream in the entrance room, Warrick said, "We should buy something else. A contribution to the party budget for next year." Fran nodded, releasing the scarf as her manner changed subtly to saleswoman advising a client. "I would suggest the rack," she said. He stared at her, astonished, and she smiled. "Someone offered a price for it last week. I turned them down." "Not enough?" What if they came back? "On the low side it might have been acceptable from a different customer, but they wanted it for display, not for use. Besides, I'm saving it for someone." "Who?" he asked, before he remembered the privacy policy. "You." Temporarily speechless, he covered the surprise with a sip of cooling coffee, but he didn't imagine for a moment that she hadn't noticed. "Why?" he said eventually. "I saw you looking at it the first time you came here. I thought then that you wanted it. We're

willing to wait, for valued customers Shel insists, in fact. It takes some people a long time to make up their minds." "I don't want it." "The customer is always right, of course." That seemed to be the end of it, as far as Fran was concerned. He'd rather hoped she would argue, so he could resist for a while and then admit it. Now he was afraid that his blunt statement might make her sell it to the next interested customer. "That is . . . I don't know whether I'd like it or not." The change in position went unremarked. "If you'd like to try it, you're more than welcome. I could arrange to have it moved to one of the side rooms if you'd like some privacy." Unfairly tempting. "It's not very practical." "Large pieces of genuine antique torture equipment seldom are." That gave him pause. "I hadn't considered it in those terms," he said eventually. She nodded. "The idea makes a lot of people uncomfortable. It's different to many of the things we have here it was designed to kill, to maim, and it has done. It's hurt a great many people and been responsible for a great deal of misery. But, to my mind at least, that doesn't mean it can't now bring pleasure to someone." Some metaphors, he reflected, have the subtlety of a punch in the mouth. "I don't like to limit things, or people," Fran continued. "I'm not as fanatical on the subject as Shel, but it is our fundamental philosophy here. Have you heard the saying, 'An it harm none, do as you will'?" "No." "Aleister Crowley, I think. We have some of his books in the middle room. As a general philosophy it's terribly impractical, in my opinion anyway, but I think that for sex it works very well." "But Shel wants to live like that?" She shook her head. "Shel does live like that, and it's " She looked away, past him. "It's not a safe way to live, in this world. There are too many laws that violate that one law. I worry that . . . " She sat up, and out of the corner of his eye he saw a leather-clad staff member waving discreetly. "I'm sorry disaster somewhere, I expect. Thanks for fixing the infernal machine." "My pleasure." She set the cup down and paused. "Shall we keep it?" She didn't mean the coffee maker. He considered, seriously, swirling the dregs in his cup. In all honesty, he didn't want to own the rack, but neither did he want it sold. He'd wanted it, somehow, to be possible. Now he had to make a decision, and that was something of a relief. "No," he said finally. "I won't say I'm not tempted. But . . . Toreth wouldn't like it. It's too . . . too impersonal. He " He needs to know that he's the reason why it's so good. That I need him. "He likes to be the main attraction." Fran nodded. "Then I'll take it off the list." He hadn't meant to say so much partly because he hadn't pinned down the source of his reluctance before. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't say anything about it to Toreth." She smiled. "Of course not."

~~~ Overall, Toreth thought, the evening had more than lived up to his expectations, despite the fact that there had been none of the careful stalking of prey that he usually enjoyed before a fuck. This kind of easy availability would bore him eventually but, as he'd said to Warrick, for one night it was different and fun. He'd started off keeping track of how many times he'd broken their either-neither agreement, but he lost count somewhere around the fourth partner. Or had it been the fifth drink? Thank God for the golden glow, anyway. Eventually, Toreth chanced across Warrick again, still looking every inch the immaculate, welltailored corporate. He stood with a group of people watching a couple doing, in Toreth's view, some rather eye-watering things with large hooks and lengths of chain. Warrick wore a distant expression one that Toreth had seen before. He worked his way silently around to Warrick and slipped his arms round his waist. Warrick didn't even look round, merely leaning back against him and folding his arms over Toreth's. "Hello again, slave," he murmured. He knew it was me, Toreth thought, getting an unexpected kick from the idea. "Thinking of adding it to the sim?" Toreth asked. "Indeed. Coding in my head as we speak." "I guessed." He stood for a while, watching the performance, wondering idly how it could possibly be anything other than unpleasantly painful, and what level waiver he'd need to do it at work. However, most of his attention was occupied by Warrick, by the soft scratch of fabric against his skin. Good, but less clothing would be far better. The feeling coalesced into a plan: take Warrick home, fuck him, and then pass out until Monday morning. Sounded good. "We could try it in the real world sometime, if you'd like to," Toreth said eventually. "Mm . . . no, I don't think so. Too much tissue damage. And think of my poor carpets." "Plastic sheets?" Toreth suggested, secretly relieved. Warrick laughed, warm and lazy. "Not very romantic." He sounded drunk not too drunk, but enough to make Toreth wonder whether he might be persuaded into a fuck here. He slid his hand into Warrick's jacket pocket, fished out the strip, and took another one of the diminishing stock. He offered the strip to Warrick, who surprised him again by taking a tablet. "Been having fun?" Warrick asked after the tablets were back in place. "Yeah, lots. You?" He paused as Warrick freed himself, turned round, and kissed Toreth just as if they weren't in the middle of a crowd. It went on for a long while, Warrick's hands roaming freely over him, and when Toreth touched him in return the fact that Warrick was fully dressed was maddening and incredibly arousing. Toreth ground against him and Warrick hummed appreciatively into his mouth. Okay, Toreth thought, as Warrick traced the thong down between his buttocks. Definite revision of the plan. Fuck him here, then take him home. Would Warrick be willing to play along? "In a very virtuous way," Warrick said when he finally broke the kiss. For a moment, Toreth thought it was an answer to his unspoken thought. He shook his head to clear it. "Huh?" "I've been having fun, in a very virtuous way." Warrick began walking, away from the couple and

towards an invitingly empty alcove. "Mending coffee machines for our host." "And I've been saving myself for you," Toreth said with his best heartbreaking innocence. Warrick smiled slowly, not looking round. "Oh?" "Yeah. Haven't touched anyone all night. Just looking. I've been so good, it hurts." "Does it really?" Now Warrick looked at him and licked his lips, one eyebrow raised. Toreth nodded, surprised and delighted by the offer. Before he could lean against the wall, Warrick took his arm and turned him round. Toreth heard the chain, and helpfully placed his wrists together behind his back. Cuffs secured, Warrick pushed him gently forwards. "Back there a bit. Where it's darker." Nerves humming with anticipation, Toreth stood where he was bid. Pressed against the painted brick work, the links of the chain made a line across his buttocks, and there was something else there too, in the small of his back it felt like a hasp in the wall. Never mind. This probably wouldn't take long enough for things to get uncomfortable. Warrick took off his jacket, folded it carefully with the lining outermost, and then knelt on it. "Hard floor," he explained. "Not the only thing." Warrick laughed and slid his hands up Toreth's thighs to frame the front of the thong. "So I can see." He'd expected Warrick to rush, to get the treat over with before anyone spotted them. However, he didn't. For all the calm, unhurried concentration he put into it, they might have been safely back at the flat. Toreth shifted his feet on the floor and braced his shoulders, pushing forwards into the spinecurlingly wonderful enclosure of Warrick's mouth. "Mmh. That's good," he murmured. Keeping his voice down, for Warrick's sake. Toreth barely even registered the clink of metal on metal as Warrick fastened the chain between his wrists to the clasp on the wall. So that was why he'd moved him. Toreth smiled, not opening his eyes. Not caring. If Warrick kept doing that with his tongue, he could chain him to any fucking thing he wanted to. The warm flush of the fresh drug, working beautifully, sharpened the need. How many times this evening? He couldn't remember, only knowing that he ached, so ready, and he thrust forward again. Warrick shifted his hands to his hips, gripping hard, pinning him back. Get on with it, Toreth begged silently. Please. Get Noise penetrated the dizzying tide of sensation. Voices and laughter, loud and close, and he forced his eyes open. The deserted alcove was deserted no longer. People surrounded them. A small crowd, in fact. Spectators. "Warrick." He tugged on the chain then nudged Warrick's chest with his knee. "Warrick." Warrick lifted his head, the rush of his mouth withdrawing quickly proving almost too much. Oh, God. Why had he said anything? Warrick would To his astonishment, Warrick glanced round, then smiled up at him. "Do you want me to stop?" Intending to think about it, Toreth found himself shaking his head fervently. "Very well."

He moaned as Warrick renewed the assault, choking the sound back as best he could. How much noise had he made already? It took a minute or so before the change in technique registered. Warrick had been playing with him before, stretching things out. Teasing. Now, the teasing had slipped into outright torture. Too light, too shallow. It would have provoked a sinking feeling, if his nervous system had possessed the spare capacity. Once oh, God, a long time ago now Warrick hadn't been quite so good at this, at least not in the real world. Never bad, never even average, but not as incredible as he was right now. He didn't know whether it was the drugs, or the evening, or the people watching (and he couldn't help looking down, just to see Warrick on his knees in front of an audience), but this was good. This was better than the sim, which considering Warrick didn't need to breathe in there was pretty fucking . . . Then Warrick's head dipped forwards, taking him all the way in before pulling back quickly, and Toreth couldn't stop the moan. He bit his lip, eyes squeezed shut, head back against the wall. Clenching his fists, he tried to concentrate on the shapes the bricks made, pressing into his back. Not here. Warrick wasn't going to make him do it here. In the sim, yes, and sometimes in the real world, but never when anyone else could hear. Things he didn't tell Sara. Why had he taken another one of those bloody tablets? "Please." Christ, that was loud. Had it been him? Couldn't have been. That was him, though, panting for breath. He licked his lips and tasted salty sweat. It seemed as if the crowd heated the space around them and sucked the oxygen from the air. It had to be soon, or he was going to . . . he was . . . "Warrick, please." Trying to keep his voice low. Was that a muffled chuckle in return? The plea certainly earned him a few sweet seconds of deeper, firmer suction, before Warrick pulled back. Toreth had never previously imagined circumstances under which you might regret teaching someone to deep throat. There was . . . such a thing . . . as being too good a teacher. Still, at least it left no doubt that this was quite deliberate. No doubt as to what Warrick wanted. Toreth could say the safe word. Warrick's safe word he'd never needed one of his own before. Or the sim cut-out word that might work. If he'd thought of it five minutes earlier, he might have tried it. Now, desperate messages from his cock seemed to be short-circuiting the neurons he needed to articulate the words. "Please." He didn't have any trouble saying that, though. What Warrick wanted. Oh, God. All he had to do was ask and who the hell cared if there were people watching? Not him. He only cared that they were listening. He couldn't. He gritted his teeth. No, not couldn't. He wouldn't. 'What I don't want or need is public humiliation'. This was exactly Warrick's idea of suitable payback. Unfair, when Toreth hadn't even A noise pulled him back to greater awareness. Whimpering, escaping through his clenched teeth. Oh, God. Was that as bad as begging? Worse? Did it mean that now he finally could ?

Fight it. Keep fighting it. "Jesus fucking Christ, Warrick, please. Finish it. Please. Mmh, yes." Deeper with every word, Warrick's mouth moving faster. Worth any amount of humiliation, and even as he paused to think that, he felt Warrick draw away again. The chain snatched at his wrists as he reached to stop him. "God, no. Don't stop. Please. Keep it . . . don't stop. Keep going. Let me. Let me, please. Don't. Keep . . . more. Yes, Warrick, please. Please. Please." On and on, stumbling over the words, dimly aware that he wasn't making much sense, and that it didn't matter because even if Warrick stopped, it would soon be far, far too wonderfully late Now. Toreth arched against the wall, bound hands scrabbling at the smooth bricks as he felt Warrick's mouth tightening round him, swallowing. The desperate effort not to scream as he came made him certain his head was about to explode. Moaning aloud anyway, through the aftershocks, until it was finished. He felt the chain give as Warrick unclasped it from the wall, and he slid gratefully to his knees, leaning heavily against his tormentor. Warrick's hands caught him and steadied him, stroking down his back. Inhale. Exhale. Suddenly very complicated. Toreth couldn't manage to keep his head upright he pressed his face into Warrick's shoulder, panting for breath, the applause from the audience sounding dull and distant. Christ, it felt so fucking good: golden haze of the drug, the flood of endorphins and Warrick's delicious, unmistakable smell. "You bastard. You complete fucking bastard," he whispered once he could speak. "Me?" Warrick said in mock surprise. In the background, the applause had fragmented and stuttered into a hum of conversation. Just another ten minutes' entertainment. They didn't even bloody care. "That wasn't fucking funny." "I thought you enjoyed it." Warrick kissed his collar. "You could've said stop." "No, I couldn't." "So, was it worth waiting all evening for?" Warrick sounded so smug that Toreth was tempted to tell him he'd done nothing of the kind. Bit late to change the story now, though. He took a deep breath. "Know what?" "What?" "I hate you." He tried again, struggling for conviction. "I absolutely fucking hate you." "Really?" "No." Another breath, his heart finally steadying. "Have they gone?" Warrick's shoulder shifted as he looked around. "No one's particularly watching us, if that's what you mean." Toreth sat back on his heels, fully intending to be furious just as soon as the treacherous, mellowing effect of the orgasm faded. Tuesday, maybe. "What time is it?" he asked inconsequentially. "Ah . . . a little after half past two."

That late? Toreth tried to add up the hours they'd spent there, and failed. He struggled to his feet. "Let's go." "Very well." Warrick stood too, picking up his jacket and brushing it down. "But first . . ." "What?" "Well, the entertainment this evening has been rather one-sided." Warrick looked round the room. "And we did agree either, if either of us wanted to." The chill Toreth had felt in the restaurant settled over him again. "I haven't touched anyone else." "Your going first was part of the arrangement, was it?" "Y no, it wasn't." No way would Warrick genuinely forget something like that. "In any case, I think the blonde in the gold dress and the boy with the cat mask have rendered the entire question somewhat moot." Warrick's tone didn't change in the slightest. "Along with, I imagine, various others." Oh, fuck. "How old was he, incidentally?" Warrick asked. "I " Toreth swallowed, trying to work up some saliva. "I have no fucking clue. Old enough to have had all his jabs and be let out at night." "I see. Anyway, I think that the 'either' phase of the agreement has been thoroughly invoked." Another survey of the cellar as he put on his jacket and straightened it meticulously. "If I can find anyone willing, that is." If? He looked at Warrick, once more perfectly irresistibly dressed. Dark hair only slightly disarrayed, thoughtful expression, lips still a little moist and . . . Jesus, they'd be trampled in the stampede. Trapped by his own plan, Toreth stood chained in miserable silence, watching as Warrick eyed up the crowd with every evidence of serious intent. All his own stupid fault for making assumptions. He wanted to say, please, don't. To beg again, if that was what it took. Anything so he wouldn't have to watch Warrick being pleasured by someone else. Hear him coming for someone else. Why the hell had he been so sure Warrick wouldn't want to? He could walk away and wait for Warrick to do it and find him afterwards, but that would be even worse, because then he wouldn't know what or who. The picture built quickly in his mind someone just like him, tall and blond but fifteen years younger and hung like a horse. Warrick against the wall, or kneeling, or Toreth took a deep breath. "Come home and I'll fuck you." Even if it took extra chemical assistance, which after that it might well. Warrick turned back to him, shadowed eyes unreadable in the dim light. "Mm?" "I'll fuck you. Or you can fuck me. I'll do whatever you want. Suspension fuck. Gag and blindfold. Fist fuck. Hours in chains. Anything." The things Warrick wouldn't do here, not even in a private room. At least Toreth hoped not right now he wasn't so sure. "I'll wear this fucking collar all night, if you like." After a long moment, Warrick returned to his survey of the room. "I have a confession to make." Please, God, no. Not already. Toreth waited, not wanting to hear it, until the silence forced him to ask, "What?" "I called the Shop and asked Fran about the dress code."

Taken completely by surprise, Toreth stared. "You did what?" he asked eventually. Warrick turned back to him, a smile twitching the corner of his mouth. "For some unfathomable reason, the request to wait until you arrived before I dressed made me suspicious. So I decided to establish the ground rules for the evening from source." "Hang on. You knew all along I was " lying, " wrong about it?" "Quite so." "But you didn't think you'd tell me?" "Also true." Toreth looked down at the thong, and at the leash trailing down his chest. "So you got me to " He looked up sharply as the logical conclusion hit him. "You never meant to fuck anyone else, either, did you?" "Now, that I hadn't quite made my mind up about." Then Warrick smiled. "But no. Not since we arrived." "You . . . " You bastard. "After all, with you here, I'm hardly likely to find anyone who appeals more, am I?" The sheer relief and outrageous flattery did a lot to cancel out the anger, and the knowledge that Warrick must have been counting on that didn't make the slightest difference. Still smiling, Warrick rested his wrists on Toreth's shoulders, linking his hands behind his neck. After a long, thoughtful inspection, he said, "So . . . still think you need to remind me how to play the game?" Toreth laughed, a little unsteadily, not yet entirely believing the reprieve. "No. You win. This time." "Mm. And do I get a prize?" Oh, yes. Oh, very definitely yes. He didn't need to say anything, and after a few seconds, Warrick dropped his gaze and shivered. "If you turn round," Warrick said, "I'll undo the cuffs and we can leave." Not a bad attempt at steadiness, but Toreth knew him much too well to be fooled. "Sounds good to me." As Toreth turned, the hasp in the wall caught his eye. He smiled, thinking of the chains back at his flat, or of the cabinet at Warrick's planning a suitable reward for such a comprehensive victory. They hadn't played like this for a long time. After Warrick unbuckled the cuffs, Toreth turned back slowly, rubbing his wrists, and then held out his hand. "Let me have them." Warrick surrendered the bonds, the links rattling as he shivered again. Toreth took a step closer. "Take off the collar, too." A brief hesitation one last, lingering look at the collar in place then Warrick obeyed. It was, Toreth thought, nice to be off the leash again. "Good. And now . . . " Toreth darkened his voice, drawing out the pause as he watched Warrick's eyes widen, his lips part. "Now you put it on."

Gratuitous Epilogue
Even though he couldn't move, it was a lovely dream. All his limbs heavy with the paralysis of sleep, but nothing frightening about it. Usually, not being able to move in a dream made it a nightmare. This was nothing of the kind. He couldn't run, but that was okay, because he had no desire to do anything of the kind. "Mmm. 'S nice." Toreth had no idea where he was, or what time it was, or even what day it was. In fact, he had no idea who was kissing his chest, licking his nipples, nibbling gently along the curve of his ribcage, but he thought they deserved some encouragement. "'Gain." He shifted a little on the bed was it a bed? It felt pleasantly warm and soft, whatever it was. Why had he wanted to move? What had he meant to do? Open his eyes? Lift his head? Reach out and touch whoever was Then he gasped, deliciously surprised as the lips he had lost track of touched his cock. He squirmed again, sighing, feeling himself hardening under the gentle mouthing. Careful, clever, caressing tongue. Mmm. Alliterative, too. Clever, caressing tongue, carefully coaxing his cock to . . . to . . . Toreth ran out of words. He appreciated the care, though, because now he'd inched that much closer to waking, he didn't feel too spectacular. It wasn't the slow, thrilling sucking oh yes please more nothing at all wrong with that, but the rest of his body began to send in complaints for central processing. Cotton-wool mouth, slight headache, a bit queasy, aches in his back, shoulders, thighs and calves. What had he been doing? Maybe later he'd remember in more detail if the night before had been worth the morning after. Yes, probably, because he definitely remembered fucking. Lots and lots of fucking. Bright green eyes. Leather and chains. Of course the Shop. Vague recollection of pills too, so it was probably nothing more exciting than the come-down from those that left him so washed out and exhausted a not-so-golden afterglow. However, it was impossible to concentrate on the not very nice while the very nice indeed was still happening to him. Neither did he want to think about things too much. If he wasn't careful, he might wake up, and he'd hate to miss the end of the dream. Hands and mouth on him, body moving more urgently against his, someone two someones? moaning. One of them sounded like him. Someone was whispering some very complimentary things about him, and he tried to mumble a thanks. Everything all mixed together and it didn't seem to matter that he still hadn't moved. Someone sitting astride him, hand on his cock, then shifting forwards and down, impaling themselves on him and ah, God yes that was good. So right and wonderful and perfect. After that, Toreth rather lost track of events until the sweet rush of completion, hearing himself crying out to the distant accompaniment of the mystery someone gasping his name. They sounded to be having fun too. Good. Maybe they'd do it all again in a bit. All quiet now.

Hm. Was he awake yet? Probably. A heavy weight still pinned his hips, so it was either a very tangible incubus, or . . . finally, he managed to force open his eyes. Warrick, of course, which he'd known all along if he'd been awake enough to realise it. "Good morning," Warrick said, panting somewhat. "Or rather, good afternoon." Toreth blinked up at him, trying to remember how to focus. Usually happened on its own, he thought. "Afternoon?" "Mm-hm." He blinked again. The light in the room did seem wrong for a morning in his own bedroom. Looking round, he discovered that he lay on the sofa in Warrick's flat. "Uh, what time is it?" "Four o'clock." Warrick took a deep breath and looked at his watch, which led Toreth to notice the bruises on his wrists. "No, it's quarter past, now." Fifteen minutes. Was that how long it had taken? Toreth frowned, looking again at Warrick's wrists. There was something he ought to remember, something to do with why he was here instead of in Warrick's very comfortable bed. What had happened last night? They'd come back from the Shop and in the end they'd settled on a suspension fuck, after Warrick had asked nicely. Very nicely. By the time he'd finished begging Toreth wrenched his mind away from that memory, pursuing the course of events. Warrick in the cabinet. Then Toreth had gone somewhere . . . he'd left Warrick in the chains and gone to get a drink of water because the glow had started to fade and the effects of several hours of drinking and fucking had begun to slop over the top of the pharmaceutical dam. What next? Standing in the hall, looking at the glass, wondering if he ought to take another tablet, then distracted by the sickening feeling of the night rushing up to hit him, and then . . . and then nothing. Blank. Didn't take fifteen years' experience at I&I to work it out, though. "Oh, shit." Warrick raised an eyebrow. "Yes?" "I just remembered. I'm so sorry. No, really I am." Warrick shook his head. "The timers opened the cuffs after three-quarters of an hour or so. No harm done. I was a little concerned about you, but when I found you in here the snoring sounded healthy enough. You didn't seem interested in regaining consciousness for long enough to get to bed, so I covered you up and left you." "I needed the rest." Well, Warrick genuinely didn't sound too upset, which saved a lot of tedious apologizing. Toreth's arms seemed to be responding again, so he stretched and yawned. "I don't think anyone's ever fucked me in my sleep before." "I did try to wake you first. Hourly, in fact, since eleven. However, I can only wait so long." Warrick grinned sheepishly. "I tried wafting coffee under your nose several times, but even that didn't work. So in the end " He shrugged. "God. You're " What was the word he wanted? Warrick would know. "What's that word? The one that you are." Warrick's smile widened. "Insatiable?"

"That's the one. You're it." He pushed ineffectually at Warrick, in a way designed to suggest that he could stay there all damn day if he wanted to. "And it's not even as if you'll get the I&I death-inservice money after you've fucked me into an early grave. I signed that over to Sara years ago." "Sorry," Warrick said, not sounding it. "If it's any consolation, there's plenty of hot water for the shower, and headache tablets, fresh coffee and bacon sandwiches, all ready for you." He smiled again, with a wicked edge. "So you can get your strength back for later." Toreth closed his eyes, because sometimes, like now, Warrick was too much to look at. It felt too ... Had he ever had such an enjoyable hangover in his life?

Then And Now

Toreth had been quiet all day in the morning, at the gym, at the restaurant they'd had lunch in. So the question, asked out of the blue as they sat reading in Warrick's living room, surprised Warrick. "Warrick, have you been in the sim lately?" Warrick looked up to find Toreth still slumped in the chair, one leg resting over the arm. Warrick bit back a comment at least he'd taken his shoes off. The screen Toreth had been reading lay flat on the back of the chair. "Not recently, no." He thought back. "Not for about six weeks. The last time was with you, in fact. I've been too busy with other things, and since we suspended the Yes programme I don't have a direct involvement with testing any more." Toreth nodded, frowning slightly. Then his expression changed to one of determination. "How many men have you fucked?" It was such an an uncharacteristic question that Warrick couldn't believe he'd heard it correctly. However, the phrasing left no room for misinterpretation. Toreth was looking at him expectantly. "I beg you pardon?" Warrick asked, playing for time. "You heard me. How many men have you fucked?" Toreth tilted his head, then grinned suddenly. The effect wasn't reassuring. "I'm not planning to hunt them all down and kill them for not psychically deducing that however many years later you'd be fucking me." Warrick raised his eyebrows, and Toreth swung his leg down and sat up. "Oh, come on," Toreth said. "Melissa's still alive and well, and I know where she lives." "Do you?" "Yeah. Flat seventeen, Symphony-Parker Building, corporate four. With her husband and their shiny corporate kids." "How the hell do you know all that?" "It was in the SimTech investigation file. Ex-wife, former shareholder, that made her a pretty unlikely but potential suspect. The address stuck in my mind. Come on, how many?" "Why do you want to know?" "I'm curious." Perhaps that was all, but Warrick doubted it. For one thing, the question was too sudden and too out of character for a man who usually cared little for anything beyond the immediate here and now. For another, Toreth making a joke of jealousy meant he was hiding something about which he felt even more uncomfortable. Warrick closed his hand screen and patted the sofa beside him. After a moment's hesitation, Toreth joined him. "Very well," Warrick said. "I will tell you, if you tell me why you want to know." Toreth stared at him, clearly trying very hard for an expression of puzzlement. Then he equally clearly realised Warrick didn't buy it, because he looked away and ran his hand through his hair. When

he spoke again, all the studied casualness had gone and his voice was tight with anger. "Who's Tom?" Warrick stared. For a moment, the name genuinely meant nothing to him. "Because I woke up this morning," Toreth said as if he'd asked, "and you were still asleep and when I reached when I moved, I touched your arm and you turned over and said 'Tom'. And some other stuff that made it pretty clear you've done more than code with him. So who the fuck is he?" Daylight and recognition dawned. "A name from the very distant past. He was, in fact, the first man I ever had sex with. Or boy, I should probably say." Toreth's gaze searched his face, then the tension suddenly drained out of him and he flushed slightly. "Okay." Warrick rested his elbow on the back of the sofa and leaned closer. "You know, you could just have asked me." "Yeah, well . . ." He shrugged. "I'm a para-investigator. 'Just ask' isn't the way it works." "Do you want to search my bedroom for evidence while you're at it?" "'Course not I trust you." Toreth looked at him more closely, then closed his eyes briefly as Warrick raised his eyebrow. "Fuck. How could you tell?" "I've found things moved from time to time. Mostly it was a guess. You turned the place over the very first time I left you here alone, so I assumed you'd done it again since." Toreth flushed. "You could have fucking said something." "Why? It doesn't matter." He didn't keep much in the flat that he minded Toreth seeing, and if the security on the study was good enough to satisfy SimTech, then it was good enough to keep Toreth at bay. "So what about the answer to the other question?" Warrick asked. Toreth blinked at him. "How many men? Do you still want to know?" "Oh. No, not really. Or rather " Toreth stood up abruptly and walked over to the window. When he turned, the light behind him hid his expression. "Yes." He didn't sound at all sure. "Mm. In that case I'll just say that, excluding professional contacts in the sim, you'd probably find it a reassuringly small number. I could invite them all to dinner, along with their female counterparts, and have no problem fitting them round the dining room table." "Yeah?" Toreth sounded cheered, as Warrick had expected. After all, it wasn't a very large dining room. "Too busy with SimTech?" "Quite so." Simple agreement was easier than attempting to convey to Toreth the alien concept that a constant stream of casual sex wasn't everyone's idea of fun. Warrick hoped Toreth would drop the conversation. And, indeed, he didn't say anything straight away. After a moment, Warrick expanded his screen and started reading again. However, he couldn't concentrate on the words. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Toreth strolled over to the mantlepiece and picked up one of the ornaments a small copper sculpture of a hissing cat and turned it over in his hands, apparently absorbed in study. Warrick looked deliberately down at the screen. He invited Toreth here, he wanted him here. He had to accept that Toreth touched things, and not always with what Warrick considered a proper degree of care. Most of the time Warrick coped perfectly well. He no longer even minded that Toreth only remembered to pick up towels from the bathroom floor two times in three; looked at from the

correct perspective, a sixty-six percent success rate was something of a triumph. Some things still bothered him, though, even after all this time and despite his best efforts. The ornaments was one of them. Warrick didn't have many, and every one meant something they were gifts from close friends and family, or things he had bought because he liked them enough he couldn't help it. "This is pretty good," Toreth said, running his fingertip over the delicate whiskers. Warrick supressed a wince. "It's one of Cele's pieces. Actually, it's a copy of a much larger bronze. I saw the original in her studio and asked if she could make another, but unfortunately the purchaser had commissioned it as an exclusive piece." "So what was this? A model for it or something?" "Not quite. She made it as a surprise for my birthday. Because it was a gift in a different size and material, it slipped through a loophole in the contract. Or so she said." He vividly remembered opening the box to find the tiny, perfect miniature copy glowing in its nest of tissue. "Actually, I prefer it to the larger one the copper is so beautiful." After a minute, Toreth set the cat down again, out of place on the wrong end of the mantlepiece. Warrick knew it wasn't deliberate; it simply didn't occur to Toreth that it mattered exactly where the cat stood, and of course he was right. It didn't. It was a purely decorative piece of metal. Now with fingermarks that would need polishing off before the copper tarnished. Warrick bit his tongue. He could clean the cat later and put it back in the right place. A little disturbance was good for him. "So tell me about Tom," Toreth said. "Was he good?" Warrick sighed and snapped the screen shut. He'd known that the topic wasn't closed. "He was a friend. Of Dillian's first, so he was a year younger than me. He had a sister who was two years older. Than me, that is three years older than him. I had an absolutely hopeless crush on her." Even now, the memories brought a twinge of something, a shadow of the blind intensity of desire. "You know how Dillian and I share a strong family resemblence?" Toreth nodded. "Well, Tom looked nothing like his sister at all. Dark where she was blonde, rather skinny while she was " He looked past Toreth, unfocusing his gaze to sharpen the image in his mind. "Athletic. She played tennis to a fairly high standard." "Sounds nice." "Extremely." He looked back at Toreth. "Poor Tom was really no competition. However, he lived in the same house as her, which was a good enough reason to visit him. She'd barely even speak to me, of course, but I'd get to spend some time with her. She'd tolerate our presence, if she didn't have anything better to do." "And?" "Well, I'm sure you can imagine how a few hours in the presence of someone who put all my glands into overdrive left me." "And he was a handy fuck." Toreth sounded thoroughly approving, which made Warrick uncomfortably aware of a dynamic he'd often felt guilty about. "He was always very accommodating, yes. Because " He hesitated, then ploughed on. "Because, I suspect, he felt about me the same way I felt about Tamara. I treated him very badly without thinking anything of it, as one does at that age. Once she went to university, I stopped going round to see him. I've wondered since if he knew why he must have done, I suppose."

"No one tied him up and forced him to fuck you." Toreth paused. "Or did you?" "Good God, no. Nor he me." That was a conversation he didn't want to pursue right now, so he looked for a distration. "Who was your first " He shied away from the word 'lover' just in time. "Fuck?" Toreth shrugged. "I don't remember." "You must do." "Honestly, no." He went back to his original chair, lounging back into his original position. "And anyway, it depends what you mean by first. Handjob, blowjob, fuck, what?" He hadn't considered that for Toreth the acts would be so separate from any kind of relationship. "Well, any of them." "Okay." Toreth rubbed his nose. "Well, when I was thirteen, I was sent to a Retraining Centre. Juvenile prison, really. It'd be in my security file you must have seen it?" Warrick nodded, despite a sudden chill of premonition. "Right. I was there until I was sixteen, so the first time I did pretty much everything, I did it there." He closed his eyes. "Blowjob, giving, that would be one of the guards. Same for a handjob. Getting both of them would be one of the other kids in there. Fucking . . . being fucked, guard again. Fucking a grown-up was with one of the teachers, although I maybe did some of the other kids before that. I don't remember for sure. And I don't remember any names, except for the teacher: Gee Evans, who was a complete fucking fruitcake, but other than that not a bad bloke." He opened his eyes. "That was all men, of course. Women were later, after they kicked me out for being bright enough to dress myself. Well, to pass exams, actually." Toreth paused, watching Warrick expectantly, waiting for a reaction. Warrick had the sudden feeling of a test in progress. He had read the words Retraining Centre in Toreth's file, but he'd never stopped to think through the possible consequences. If he had, this conversation would never have happened. However, he'd asked Toreth to reciprocate, so it was up to him to live with the results. "It must have been " Warrick ran up against a locked-down security door. What the hell would it be like to be Toreth, at any age, whatever was happening? He did know that getting the wrong answer would, at best, lead to an awkward weekend, if not a full-scale vanishing act. Toreth still hadn't said anything. "It must have been very boring frustrating being locked in a secure facility." "Yeah." Toreth sounded surprised and possibly relieved. "Very. Maybe that's why I like walking everywhere, huh?" "Possibly." After a brief silence, Toreth shook himself, shedding memories like water, and said. "I can do the first time I fucked a women, if you'd rather. I can even remember her name. Or at least I can remember the name on the card, which was 'Chastity'." He snorted. "Talk about false advertising. Good, mind. Value for money. She was about the only time I've ever paid for it, as well." "Why did you then?" "Practise. I like to do things properly and it's a hell of a lot easier to do intensive training with someone you're paying." Warrick laughed, and Toreth frowned slightly. "What's so fucking funny?"

"It's " It took a few more seconds to rein in the amusement. "'Intensive training'. A very practical approach." Now Toreth grinned. "Yeah. I've been spending too much time on training courses at work. The jargon creeps up on you and the next thing you know you sound like some management tosser. God, did I tell you about the course last week? Nothing you don't want to hear about. It was 'Safety in the office environment'. Don't trip over chairs, don't fall down stairs which bastards from outside always have to make some crack about, like we haven't heard it a hundred times before and don't run with scissors. Talk about a bullshit waste of time." "Unfortunately, they're a legal requirement. The staff at SimTech are no more enthusiastic, I can assure you." The conversation moved on to other topics, leaving Warrick to wonder briefly if Toreth would ever mention the retraining centre again. ~~~ Warrick couldn't sleep. There were too many images competing for his attention, crowding each other. Half were memories of Tom and Tamara, all vivid pictures, scents and sounds and remembered feelings. The others were created scenes, purely imaginary. He had no idea how Toreth had looked as a teenager; Warrick couldn't imagine him as anything other than his tall, well-muscled, physically confident self. And if it was hard to create a picture, it was flatly impossible to place him in the role of victim, to conceive of him being forced into things. Dominated and taken against his will. Somewhere deep inside, a dark, dirty thread of excitement twisted, looping round his guts and tying almost painful knots. He felt sure that if he could really imagine Toreth being hurt like that, the thrill would vanish. But as it was, shadowy pictures, unreal and strangely compelling . . . he pushed the feeling away, sickened. Toreth's voice in the dark startled him. "Are you awake?" "Yes." Warrick rolled onto his side, facing Toreth although the room was pitch black. "Wide awake." "Me too. You made me think about it about the RC. I haven't thought about the place for years." Toreth sounded reminiscent more than anything, certainly not distressed. The kind of tone Warrick associated with old university stories. "The beds were fucking awful. Hard as bricks. The real psychos were in single cells, but the kids they could trust not to strangle anyone in the night were in dormitories. Mind you, there were still cameras and they never really switched the lights out, just turned them down, so they knew what we were up to." The bed shifted. Judging by the new position of his voice when he spoke, Toreth had rolled over onto his stomach and propped himself up on his elbows. "Funny how it all comes back. There's other stuff. Like, there were a dozen of the guards who did most of the fucking. With the others it was every now and then, if they had some tension to let off." "Mm?" Warrick said, trying to make the sound noncommittal, but encouraging if that was how Toreth chose to take it "Yeah. Someone would turn up in the dormitory, that was the routine. Go along the beds. They'd strip the covers back if they wanted you to go out with them. Kids used to hide under the sheets anyway. Under the beds, sometimes. Not me, though I used to sit up and wait. There was a rec room they used a lot. Sometimes they'd pull some of the real basket cases out of their cells, just for a

bit of extra fun. Oh, God, that was usually " He snorted quietly, then stopped. "I expect you don't want to hear about it." Selfishly, he kept quiet, because he didn't want to hear and he had no idea what to say if Toreth went on. However, it was rare enough for Toreth to mention anything about his childhood. Rejecting the offered confidences outright would be cruel. Toreth shifted, and when he spoke again, his voice was different, almost muffled. Cradling his chin on his hands, perhaps. "Some kids hardly got touched by anyone. And then there were the other kids, the ones they all wanted: the better-looking ones, the ones they could tell what to do and who'd understand in less than fifteen minutes, the ones who weren't so fucked in the head they'd bite their dicks off just because." Toreth must have fallen into all three categories. "Some of the kids used to fight every single time. And then the guards would kick the crap out of them every single time until they cooperated. They had bruises every day they were there: black eyes and broken noses and whatever else. No one cared. I never saw the point, though going along with it hurt a hell of a lot less. It was just fucking, anyway, and I've always liked it." "Always?" "Yeah, most of the time. Sometimes, okay, it wasn't fun. Pretty fucking grim, I suppose. But most of the time . . . I'll tell you what the real difference was who you went along with." He sounded more insistent now, with an edge of defiance. "I did the guards and the couple of teachers, but after the first few months none of the kids touched me unless I let them. None of them. And I had to do some real damage to make that stick, but it did. By the time I left, I was one of the ones who could take first pick of the new kids if I wanted them." It was odd he knew what Toreth's answer would be, but he had to ask. "Even though it had happened to you?" "That's how the world works, isn't it? Food chain. If you're not on the top, you're on the bottom." "Figuratively speaking." "What? Oh, right, yeah. Anyway, that's more or less it. Just thought you might be interested. That's what I was doing when you were letting Tom suck you off while you thought about his sister's tits." "Good God," Warrick said without thinking, because that was literally true. It had probably been on some of the same evenings when he'd "What?" Toreth at fourteen, learning lessons about sex and control while Warrick had been exploring the power of imagination and discovering that all it took for people to believe was an illusion that felt good enough. "What?" Toreth asked again. "It's . . . the idea suddenly made it seem a lot more real." Toreth chuckled. "Yeah? You want real, you should have been there. God, you'd have gone mad with boredom. I nearly did sometimes. But it was still better than being at home." Sudden silence. Warrick felt so tempted to comment, but there was nothing guaranteed to make Toreth leave faster or in a worse temper than trying to discuss his family. Even or especially after he'd brought the topic up.

Another test, perhaps. Warrick breathed quietly, listening to Toreth's breathing in the dark, trying to judge what to say. Considering that they lay in the same bed, the distance between them felt unclosable. He put out his hand and stroked slowly down Toreth's back. A muscle twitched at the base of his spine, and Warrick imagined the panther at the zoo. There was no glass here to save him from making a mistake. 'It'd tear your fucking throat out . . . That'd teach you not to feel sorry for things that don't fucking need it.' Although Toreth certainly didn't need his pity or understanding, and possibly didn't want them, Warrick couldn't help himself. Something had to be said, to break the silence. "I don't . . . " I don't think of you any differently, knowing about it. True, and maybe even what Toreth wanted to hear, but perhaps not the best phrasing. "It doesn't matter. It was a long time ago and you did what you had to do to survive." He half expected a furious explosion. That Toreth simply ignored the comment told him he'd guessed right about Toreth's motive for resuming the conversation. "Let me fuck you," Toreth said suddenly. The peculiar phrasing caused a near-disastrous hesitation. Warrick covered it by sliding over to Toreth bringing them together now sex had made it permissible. "Of course," Warrick said, his mouth against Toreth's shoulder. "Anything you want." How truthfully and how broadly he meant that disturbed him, for as long as Toreth allowed him to think about it.

Friends In The Right Places

"Do you want another one?" Ali asked. She was pressed against him under the duvet, legs entwined, and the naked heat was made all the better by the fact that he was missing an afternoon lecture to be here with her. It felt illicit, like a real affair, although as far as Greg knew she wasn't married. Greg kissed her and then shook his head. "Don't forget what we're doing this evening." She laughed. "I think we can stick up a few posters even if we're stoned." "But we have to do it without being caught." Sometimes he worried that Ali didn't take their antiAdministration acts seriously enough. She'd only been involved with the group for a few weeks, and she was only college serving staff, not a student, but it didn't take a Cambridge undergraduate to work out that putting up idealist posters wasn't safe. She opened the plastic bag and shook it invitingly. The earthy smell of dried mushrooms mixed with the warm smell of sex and some kind of incense she'd brought along. God, he hoped that incense was all it was. The college took a dim view of students fumigating their rooms with illicit substances. He shook his head again, and she sighed, mock-pouting. "Two's enough," he said. Actually, two hadn't done anything much for him, but he wanted a clear head for later. "What shall we do instead, then?" she asked, and her hand slid down between his legs. He laughed, breathless, letting his eyes close as she touched him, his cock hardening quickly. God, she was good. Not just good in bed, but funny and kind and sometimes he wondered if he'd fallen in love with her, short as the time had been. Pity his parents would never let him make anything more formal out of it. She was too much older than him, too far down the social scale, too The door opened and a calm male voice said, "I hope we're not interrupting." "Greg!" Ali yelped, pulling away from him and wriggling under the covers. Greg yanked the duvet up over them and rolled over, trying to make out the shapes backlit against the corridor. He didn't recognise the voice and he was sure he'd locked the door. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded. The main light came on. Two men stood just inside the open doorway both blond, both tall, one slightly older and broader across the shoulders. Both wore black, and Greg's mouth dried. "Do you recognise this uniform?" the older man asked. Greg nodded. "You're " He cleared his throat. "You're from I&I." "Yes. My name is Senior Para-investigator Toreth, this is Investigator Barret-Connor." He closed the door. "Get out of bed, please." "What?" "Your security file doesn't mention a hearing defect." Slowly, Greg slid out of bed. He couldn't take the duvet with him without stripping Ali, so he left it. Embarrassingly, he was still half-hard, although that problem was curing itself rapidly as the situation sank in. I&I. Shit, shit, shit. Were they just here for him, or did they know about any of the

others? How in God's name had they found out? Hard as he tried, he couldn't stop the flush that rose as the para-investigator examined him. "Looks like we were interrupting," he said. Greg looked towards the door, where his dressing gown hung. The para-investigator shook his head. "Leave that for now. Stand there." Greg moved to the indicated spot. "Right, now you," the para-investigator said. "Me?" Ali asked. "Funny thing about the uniform it seems to make everyone deaf. Now move!" Ali cringed back, and with an exasperated sigh the para-investigator started for the bed. Heedless of the second man, Greg lunged forwards and grabbed the para-investigator's arm. "Leave her " Then, somehow, he was face-first against the wall, his right arm pinned painfully behind him. He heard Ali gasp. "Don't be an idiot," the para-investigator said. His tone hadn't changed. "Now, you can behave yourself, or I can break your arm and we can start all over again from there. Choose." He made an abortive attempt to struggle free, which ended with his clenched fist pulled a few centimetres further up towards his shoulder blade. He stilled. "I'll behave." "Good. Are you right-handed? Of course you are it says so in your file. But do you wank right-handed too?" Without warning, he twisted Greg's wrist upwards again and he couldn't help a gasp of pain as his tendons stretched it fucking hurt. "You, in the bed get out before I put him in a cast and up your workload. No, leave that behind." Greg heard movement behind him: cloth shifting, then the soft thump of bare feet hitting the floor. The para-investigator released his hold and stepped away. "She's your type, B-C, you deal with her." Greg turned his back to the wall, rubbing his wrist. "I'm " "I know exactly what you are. Stand there and shut up." Without another glance at him, the para-investigator crossed to the dresser and started opening drawers. Greg breathed a silent thanks that he hadn't taken charge of the posters this week. There was nothing in the room that could incriminate him. "ID, please, Ms . . . ?" the investigator said. "Alison Rice," she whispered. "And I I don't have it with me." "You are aware that's a category one offense?" From the investigator's stoic expression, he might have dealt with naked, frightened women every day. Maybe he did. "Then you can give me your address and ID number." Poor Ali was trying to cover as much as she could with her hands. Greg looked away from them, burning with second-hand humiliation as the investigator took her details. "Well, well, well. Look what we have here." The para-investigator was holding up the bag of dried mushrooms. Greg groaned he'd forgotten all about them in the worry over other things.

"Interesting," the para-investigator said as he returned. "And very helpful of you." He produced a drug screener from his pocket. "I'm sure you know how it works. Good lungful, hold for five seconds, slow even breath until you hear the beep." He held the unit up. Greg set his mouth, and the para-investigator sighed. "Or we can do a screen back at I&I. I really don't care which; you're coming back anyway and 'failure to cooperate' will do just as well for an initial charge." Greg breathed in, held, and blew. After the beep, there was a silence in the room as they all waited. Eventually, the para-investigator tapped the screen and smiled. It didn't make him look any friendlier. "Do you know how many legal recreational pharmaceuticals there are, B-C?" he asked. The man standing by Ali smiled slightly. "No idea, Para." "Should hope not taking drugs is a disgusting habit. But there are a lot. Hundreds. Apparently not enough for our little corporate heir, though." Suddenly, everything felt more real. Not that Greg wanted to use his family to get out of this, but the knowledge that he could had held off the urge to panic. At the back of his mind he'd known that whenever he wanted to he could drop the Ballester name and watch the arrogant bastards back off like it was a hand-grenade, probably apologising to boot. He'd seen his parents do it often enough. But if the man knew, and didn't care . . . The para-investigator changed the mouthpiece on the analyzer. "And you, beautiful." "I took them too," Ali whispered. "I'm very glad to hear it now the machine wants to hear it. Nice deep breath I think we'll all enjoy that." Greg watched, cursing himself silently. If he couldn't protect himself, what could he do for Ali? Part-time college bar staff probably didn't have any claim on college protection. The para-investigator checked his watch. "Right, get dressed, both of you." Greg took the time to find clean clothes, picking out a suit. Looking as grown up and corporaterespectable as possible couldn't hurt. As he dressed he tried to recall what names the unwelcome visitors had given when they arrived. The para-investigator had called the younger man B-C just now he'd been Barret or Barnetsomething. The para-investigator himself he couldn't remember at all. Greg could hear his mother's voice in his mind. 'Always take the names of officials, Gregory. Then they know that they can be held responsible for their actions'. Of course, how far that applied to I&I was a different question. ~~~ At least, Greg thought on the way from his room to the gate, they hadn't been handcuffed. Then he realised it might have been better if someone had seen them, they might be able to warn the others. At the college lodge, a dark-skinned woman in the same black uniform as the investigator stood behind the porters' desk. The three porters on duty looked at him unhappily. "I'm sorry, Mr Ballester," Mills said. Greg nodded to him slightly, not wanting to draw the para-investigator's attention to the man any more than was necessary. "Any trouble, Mistry?" the para-investigator asked. The woman shook her head. "All quiet. You're just in time, though. Political Crimes will be here

any moment. They " She stopped speaking as a dozen more I&I officers entered the lodge from the street. The man leading the group stopped them, spoke quietly to the woman beside him, then came over. He had the same uniform as the para-investigator, with the same logo on his shoulder and the same unfriendly eyes. However, his hair was only a shade lighter than the uniform, combining with his olive skin to give him an all over look of dark menace. Alison edged closer to Greg. "Christofi," the para-investigator greeted the newcomer. "Toreth? What the what are you doing here?" "Picking up a suspect." Toreth. Greg repeated the name to himself, fixing it in his mind. Christofi looked more closely at Greg and Alison, then his eyes narrowed. He expanded a hand screen and glanced at it. "Gregory Ballester. He's " "Part of a General Criminal IIP. He's in my custody." Christofi took a step closer only the two para-investigators and the prisoners heard his next words. "I don't know what you're trying to pull, but I want him handed over, right now. He's mine." The para-investigator lowered his voice too. "I was told to pick him up. I was told exactly what time to pick him up. And I'm just doing what I was told. You can call my section head if you don't like it; I'm sure Tillotson will explain." After a moment, Christofi nodded. "I'll sort it out when I get back." "You do that I'll keep him safe for you. Anyone else you want, you're welcome to them." He nodded to the porters gathered in the lodge. "I'm sure the loyal citizens over there wouldn't do anything to impede an investigation, but if I were you I'd leave someone in here while you round the rest up." Christofi's gaze settled on Ali. "Who's she?" Greg swallowed, fear twisting its fist in his guts again. If Ali fell under 'anyone else', his last hope of protecting her would be gone. "Alison Rice. The system says she's a casual college worker, although I bet they don't pay her for what she was doing when I found her she was fucking my suspect." Beside Greg, Alison was staring at the floor, her cheeks crimson. Bastards, Greg breathed. Talking about her like she wasn't even there. He found her hand with his, and she squeezed back. "Is she on your list?" Toreth asked. Christofi consulted the screen. "Nah. You can keep her I'm after resisters, not whores. She doesn't look that bright, anyway." He turned to his group. "Right. Just forget we saw this, and we'll get on with the pickups. Wyman, stay here." Once the guard on the porters had been changed, Toreth prodded Greg in the back. "Move." The black car stood right outside the gates, in a no-waiting zone. B-C and the woman got into the front, then the para-investigator opened the rear door. "Get in and sit down. Make yourselves comfortable." He climbed in behind them and closed the door. "It's a long drive back to New London." ~~~ All the way down the motorways into New London, Greg somehow hadn't believed it could

really happen. Then, through the tinted windows, he saw the high gates closing silently behind them and they were inside the Int-Sec complex. He recognised the fences and the vast white buildings from a citizenship class trip. They'd even been inside I&I itself: there'd been a lecture on the danger to society of irresponsible idealism, and they'd met some of the black-clad protectors of European citizenry. That had all been long before he'd met anyone who openly talked about anti-Administration feelings. Back then, he remembered distinctly and uncomfortably, he'd rather admired the smart uniforms and the monolithic stone buildings. The place had the same air of order and immutable solidity as the corporate headquarters with which he'd been familiar all his life. Now he mostly remembered how few windows there had been, and how many guards. And he remembered the stories he'd heard more recently about the things that went on in the place. What they didn't show to citizenship classes what the interrogation part of the I&I name really meant. Unbelievably horrible things, and he wished now that he didn't believe them. They drove past the towering statue of Blindfold Justice and past the double door at the front of I&I. Prisoners obviously went in by another route. Around the side of the building, the car turned in through a second gate in an even more formidable fence, and finally pulled up. "Here we are," the para-investigator said, and after a few seconds the car door opened. Surrounded on three sides by the towering white stone walls, the area they stepped out into was shadowed and cool. The para-investigator led the group into the building, scanning his ID at an unmanned security station. Then they were inside and door closed behind them no loud, ominous clang, just the disappearance of daylight and a change to fluorescent lights that made Ali look even paler than she had outside. B-C and the woman from the porters' lodge went one way, escorting Ali with them, leaving him to go another way with the para-investigator. The slightly stale, recycled air had a faint tang that he couldn't identify. Greg was rather hazy on the details of arrest, still less arrest by I&I, and he wished he'd thought to look them up. He had expected hoped for some kind of official processing, maybe even a chance to call his parents or a corporate lawyer. Instead they went down a long corridor, through another two doors, and into a small, pale grey room. The only furnishings were a table and two chairs, and a large screen on one wall. He sat, uninvited, and the para-investigator sat opposite him, still not speaking. Greg cleared his throat. "Have I been arrested?" There was a nervous edge to his voice that he didn't like. "No. You're here informally. Assisting with our enquiries." It struck Greg forcefully that if there was no official processing, then there would be no evidence that he'd ever been brought here. Surely a corporate heir couldn't simply disappear? The porters had seen them taken away didn't that mean something? He sat up straighter in the chair, trying to dismiss the fears. More likely, someone at I&I maybe this 'Tillotson' whom Toreth had mentioned knew Greg couldn't be arrested but thought a few hours at I&I would be enough to scare him into being a loyal citizen. Well, they were wrong about that. From his pocket, Toreth produced the bag of mushrooms and dropped them on the table between

them. "Why are you messing around with this shit?" He poked the bag. "There are a thousand perfectly legal drugs, if that's what you want." He took a deep breath. "The legal recreational pharmaceutical trade is an oppressive tool of the Administration, used in collusion with the corporates to drug the population of Europe into passively accepting the illegal secret dictatorship of the Departments." Then he sat back, his mouth dry and his heart pounding. Whatever reaction he'd expected, laughter wasn't it. It took a good minute for the parainvestigator to get himself back under control. "I never knew there were idealist drugs." He shook his head, still chuckling. "No wonder the resisters I meet are all so fucking miserable." Greg had no idea what to say. That kind of thing never failed to get an angry rise out of his parents, his father especially. "Do you really believe that crap?" Toreth asked. "Of course." "And I thought you were supposed to be smart. Or did you parents buy your way into Cambridge?" He ignored the goad. "They'll get me out of here, you know." "Or Christofi might get to keep you." Toreth leaned back in his seat. "But you're probably right. It doesn't matter to me it pays the same either way." Greg tried to read his expression. As he did so, he realised that he'd never really looked at Toreth before. Since the door to his college room had opened, he'd seen only the uniform; even in the car on the way down, he'd been more worried about what might happen to Ali. Now Greg was trying to find the man, and failing. It was like looking into a well a cold, empty darkness, showing fractured glimpses of something almost human, a long way beyond his reach. He shook his head slightly. God, this place really was freaking him out. As if to prove that, a soft chime sounded, making him jump. Nerves, he chided himself. The noise was the para-investigator's comm. He listened to his earpiece in silence for a while, then finally said, "Yes, sir." He stood. "Come on." ~~~ "Are there so few serious crimes in the city that you have the time spare to spend chasing children for taking a few illegal substances? I wish to know the names of everyone responsible for this outrage. Who carried out the arrest, who ordered it, who gave them permission. Everyone." Greg didn't remember seeing his mother in such a magnificent temper for a long time. His parents must have been out somewhere; his mother was dressed in her favourite long fur. She was beautiful everyone always said so, although Greg didn't often notice it. Right now she looked like a sleek, angry she-animal a mink defending her cub as she faced down the looming parainvestigator. Greg's father stood nearby with his usual air of coiled watchfulness. His parents were like fire and ice, and Greg couldn't believe how glad he was to see them. The para-investigator was listening patiently to her diatribe, his face still unnervingly unreadable. "Ms Ballester," Toreth said finally, "the Political Crimes section arrested several of your son's associates tonight in connection with an investigation into active recruitment of resisters,

premeditated sedition, and the wilful dissemination of anti-Administration materials within the university. All serious criminal offenses." That stopped his mother dead. "Gregory? Is this true?" "They came to the college, yes. I don't know who they arrested." Who had been picked up? Not everyone, surely? His father stepped forwards. "Answer the question, Gregory." He dropped his gaze. "Yes, it's true." "Did you have anything to do with it? With the political part?" Greg looked up at his father and squared his shoulders. "Yes." There was a long silence before his father said, "Para-investigator, might I have a word with you in private?" The two of them moved to the other end of the room, leaving Greg with his mother. Now came the exercise of privilege, Greg thought. The word in the right place from the right person which could put people above the law. He'd written leaflets denouncing it, but much as Greg hated the whole thing, he had to admit a sneaking relief that he'd be out of here soon. The low voices continued. "Are you all right?" his mother asked. "I'm fine." He thought about telling her about Ali, maybe asking for help for her now didn't seem like the right time. Toreth tapped his comm. Almost at once, a guard opened the door. "Take the prisoner back to the interview room," Toreth said. When the man hesitated, Toreth pointed to Gregory. "No need to cuff him." "You can't do that!" Gregory's mother said. "Ms Ballester, I can. And I am doing. Your son isn't under formal arrest not yet. Senior Parainvestigator Christofi will speak to you when he returns. Until then, if you have any further questions I'm sure the section head of Political Crimes will be delighted to answer them." Numb with surprise, Greg accompanied the guard out of the room. ~~~ "Sit down and wait," the guard said when they reached the room. Then he went back into the corridor and closed the door. It looked to be the same room, but there were probably dozens exactly like it. The door was locked. The table and chairs were secured to the floor. The screen had no obvious controls. Greg sat and waited, wondering what had happened to Ali and how long it would take his parents to get him out. 'Your son isn't under formal arrest not yet'. 'Not yet'. It couldn't happen. His parents wouldn't let it happen. His watch said an hour had passed when the door opened again. Toreth entered, alone, and sat opposite him. "What's happening?" Greg asked.

"Christofi's back and he still wants you transferred." Toreth yawned and checked his watch. "And I should've gone home half an hour ago. Other than that, nothing that concerns you." "Sorry to keep you here." That failed to draw a smile. "Want something to watch?" Toreth asked after a moment. He expanded his hand screen. "I've got to wait until everything calms down, so I might as well entertain you." The wall screen came to life, divided up into sections. Greg looked between the faces, not for the people that were there, but hoping that there were some that weren't. He felt sick. Now he knew what 'several of your son's associates' meant. Everyone. They had everyone. Even Tam's new girlfriend. He couldn't remember her name she'd only come along to the last meeting because she and Tam were going somewhere afterwards. She'd spent the time writing an essay. He wondered if telling the parainvestigator that would do any good. Only Ali was missing, and he didn't know if that was good or not. Did they think she wasn't involved, that she was just sleeping with the corporate heir? Or was she somewhere else? Somewhere worse than the interview rooms he was allowed to see? Toreth touched his hand screen again, and sounds joined in with the pictures. Feeds from each interrogation, one at a time, moving slowly through the rooms. A minute with one friend, a minute with another. Almost everyone sounded to be talking. What they had done leaflets posted around campus, meetings, 'net discussion sites and anonymous mail-outs. He caught his own name mentioned, but not yet Ali's. After they had cycled through everyone once, Greg put his head in his hands. "Shut up," he whispered. "Shut up." Toreth laughed, short and cold. "Enjoy the show I'll be back." This time he was gone for only five minutes, during which Greg tried and failed not to listen to the collapse of the fledging resistance group. He could look away from the screen, but he couldn't ignore the sounds, and putting his hands over his ears would be childish. If the other rooms were on camera, this one could be too, and he wouldn't give them the satisfaction. Tam was talking about his girlfriend trying to excuse her involvement and digging them both in deeper with every word. Greg had met Tam's parents once, when they'd come up to take Tam out to dinner on his nineteenth birthday. They'd been awed by the college and so proud of their son: that he'd won the scholarship that had got him there at all, that he was doing well academically, that he was fitting in. That he'd made respectable friends. Neither of them was the kind of person Greg was used to mixing with, but they'd been good people. Good citizens. This would kill them. Greg didn't look up when the door opened and closed, until the smell of coffee made him lift his head. "I brought you a drink," Toreth said as he sat again. "I doubt it's what you're used to, but it's all there is." The coffee was revolting, but at least it was hot, and it gave him something to do other than watch his friends betraying each other. When he'd finished the coffee, the sound feed switched back to Tam's interrogation. He was crying now, looking down, fighting the sobs like a child trying to hide tears he's been told he'll be punished for.

'If you don't stop that noise, I'll give you something to cry about' had been a favourite threat of Greg's great-grandmother, although she'd been far too soft-hearted to ever carry it through. Suddenly, he couldn't bear it any longer. "Will you please, would you switch it off?" The para-investigator smiled faintly. "Of course." The screens went blank. "It was just posters, that's all," Greg said. "That's the most we ever did." "You were breaking the law, though. You were spreading sedition. You knew that, didn't you?" He tilted his head, curiosity surfacing, like a man contemplating a mildly interesting puzzle. "Yes." Something about the scrutiny compelled him to try to explain. "But we didn't . . . we didn't mean any harm, not really. It wasn't serious. It was hardly even ideological, just sticking two fingers up at the college at authority. It was only . . . " "Only a game?" He nodded. Toreth drained his own coffee and stood up. "Come on. I want to show you something." ~~~ They went down three levels in the lift. When it stopped, Toreth pressed the hold button. "Sorry about this, but I have to cuff you. No unsecured prisoners on the interrogation levels." Greg held out his hands, and he couldn't stop a shiver as the metal closed round his wrists. Toreth smiled slightly. "Okay." He pressed another button and the door opened. The first thing that hit Greg as he stepped out was the smell a harsh, chemical grace note to every breath of air, without even a pretense of perfume to cover it. It brought back vivid memories of his great-grandmother's last days in the hospital. She had been his father's grandmother, and right to the end she'd been too proud to take a cent of his mother's family's money. The Administration-run basic care facility had had this same smell, and he wondered if all Administration buildings used the same disinfectant. A pair of security guards sat in a glass-enclosed reception booth beside a heavy security door. Toreth showed his ID. "Transfer, Para?" a guard asked. "Little tour for a guest," Toreth said. The guard grinned, unpleasantly feral. "Try one-six-seven. They're six hours into a level eight." "I know, if that's Don Chevril." The man checked a screen. "That's right, Para." The door opened, and Greg hesitated. "Move," Toreth said quietly. "Where are we going?" Greg asked as they started down the long grey corridor. "To see the place you'll end up if you keep playing fucking stupid games." Greg didn't ask. It was very quiet, the grey plastic flooring dulling their footsteps and killing echoes. They'd taken a turn that put the entrance out of sight when a door a little way ahead opened.

As they drew level Greg caught a glimpse of a white room and movement before a woman dressed as a medic stepped through and closed the door. She looked round and saw them, and her face lit up. "Toreth!" "Oh evening, Mandy." She glanced at Greg. He saw her gaze light on his cuffs then lift dismissively away. "Do you have a moment, Toreth? If you're not busy." "Not at all." Toreth's voice had become warmer, more conversational. "What can I do for you?" "Did I hear that you've been given a second junior para post on your team?" "Good news travels. There's still some paperwork, but I'm planning to pick out a fresh one in October." He raised an eyebrow. "Any particular reason?" She smiled. "Yes, of course. Someone I know has a son finishing his training this year. Joel Starr. I was hoping you might be able to give him a chance at a place." "Send the name to Sara and I'll have a look at his training records." Toreth held his hand up. "No promises, mind." She nodded. "I understand completely. Thanks. See you around." She headed off the way they had come going home, perhaps, and Greg envied her. As they started walking again, he realised that after the initial scrutiny she hadn't even glanced at him again. It was as if the cuffs had made him invisible. They met a few other people, including a couple more medics, but mostly men in black suits like waterproof overalls. No noises came from the rooms they passed the security doors probably muffled most sounds. They also passed corridors, both crosses and T-junctions. After half a dozen turns, Greg was thoroughly lost. The doors and corridors were labelled in numbers and letters, but he couldn't catch the pattern. 'C' was prominent; he was still trying to work the rest out when Toreth stopped by a door labeled 'C167-O'. "Here we are." He swiped the door, and it opened. Greg recoiled at the choked scream which shattered the silence of the corridor. An expert push sent him stumbling through the doorway, and he reflexively tried to bring his hands up to cover his ears. The crossbar of the cuffs caught him hard on the mouth, and he tasted blood. The door closed behind him and he turned sideways, against the wall, trying to find a hiding place from the awful noise. The para-investigator grabbed his upper arm and forced him round. "Look." It took a few moments for the glass to register. The window filled most of the left-hand wall of the small room. The space they stood in was unlit, but the much larger area beyond the glass was bright white. A woman, strapped into a solid chair, threw her head back and screamed again. Her short hair, matted with sweat, was brunette. Her face, under the bruises and blood, might once have been young and pretty. The black-uniformed man beside her, his back to the window, stood out shockingly against the harshly-lit white. He had something in one hand something Greg had never seen before, made of black metal and plastic. "God," Greg whispered. A second man, short and grey-haired, sat at a table, reading something on a screen. Greg had to

look twice before he could believe it he was wearing earplugs. The man by the chair moved, fast and precise, and another scream, hoarse and horrifying, came through the speakers. Greg cringed away again and the fingers digging into his biceps tightened, pulling him away from the wall and up to the glass. When he was only a few centimetres from it, the para-investigator released him and stood behind him, blocking his retreat. "Can she see us?" Greg asked. "No." The relief was as strong as it was ridiculous. The woman didn't look capable of noticing anything, but he couldn't bear the thought of her knowing that she was on display, like an animal in a cage. It's not for me, he told himself. It's not just a lesson for me. It was happening anyway. The guard said so. Six hours. (God, six hours.) She isn't here because of me. Ali might be, though. Somewhere in the building, Ali might be in a room like this because he'd dragged her into a stupid, pointless show of rebellious bravado without thinking that she didn't have a rich family or the protection of a corporate name. He heard a movement behind him, then the sounds from the room cut out. The para-investigator's hands landed on Greg's shoulders, and he felt the warmth of a body too close behind him. "See that?" the para-investigator asked unnecessarily. Greg nodded, unable to speak. "Being in that room doesn't depend on what you've done it depends on what we think you've done. It can take a long, long time to convince us we're wrong. And sometimes even that isn't enough. Sometimes telling us everything you know isn't enough either. That girl she's going to die in there. She doesn't know it yet, but that's what will happen." "Why?" "Good question." He sounded approving. "She helped embarrass someone. A friend of hers tried to blackmail . . . well, let's just say someone who wouldn't be too worried about pissing off your parents. She was the one who got the blackmailer the information he needed." "She won't give you his name?" "Oh, no." A soft, obscene chuckle in his ear. "She gave up the name. And once Chev's decided she hasn't got anything else left to give, he'll also make sure she can't embarrass anyone ever again with what she knows." He leaned even closer, body solid against Greg's. Greg fought to keep still the only place to go was forwards and the idea of touching the glass made him feel sick. He was sure it would be warm, like skin. "How much did your suit cost?" Toreth asked. For a few seconds, surprise made him almost forget the scene in front of him. "What?" "Come on, it's an easy question. Not like the ones she doesn't know the answers to. How much?" "I don't know. My " Greg felt himself flush. "My mother and I went shopping, we went into the shop, they measured me, they made it up. I never asked what it cost." "Doesn't surprise me: nice fit, pricey material." He rubbed circles over Greg's shoulders with his thumbs. "You've got a cushy life, corporate-boy. Your parents protected you this time and they didn't even know they were doing it. The name was enough. They'll do the same thing the next time, maybe

even the time after that. Then, one day, when you've done something stupid enough, they'll have to choose between you and their corporate standing. What do you think they'll do?" Greg fixed his eyes on the thin trail of blood running down the leg of the chair. He wanted to say, they'll choose me, of course they will. But something that had been a certainty all his life seemed suddenly hollow. Outside at home in college he would have been sure. Not here. Not underground, in this soundproofed room with a woman he had never met before screaming the last hours of her life away beyond the glass. Had she been someone friendless, like Ali? Had she had protection, like him, which hadn't been enough? The grip on his shoulders tightened. "Well?" Hands. He tried not to think about the things those hands had done. "I don't know." "If I were you, I'd think about that when I was back at college, while I was looking for a new set of friends. Seen enough?" "Yes." Greg closed his eyes. "Yes, please." ~~~ Toreth didn't speak for the whole journey back upstairs, not even in the lift as he unlocked the handcuffs. Greg breathed deeply, concentrating on every breath. As the lift rose it felt like leaving Hell behind the fading stink of disinfectant playing the part of brimstone. To his unutterable relief, when the interview room door opened Gregory saw his parents waiting for him. The relief was strong enough that he didn't even object when his mother hugged him and kissed him. However, when she turned to Toreth, she was all arrogance again. "We will take our son home now," she said in her best 'speaking to lackeys' voice. "We have spoken to your superiors and cleared up the misunderstanding." "Ms Ballester, there was no misunderstanding involved. Your son committed a crime a very serious crime. If he wasn't who he is, or, more to the point, if you weren't who you are, he would be under interrogation right now. As it is, he's being given a second chance." For a moment, Greg thought it would set her off again. Earlier, it had been funny. Now he couldn't shake the memory of the woman below them. Still there. She would still be there, in that room, if she wasn't dead yet. 'Someone who wouldn't be too worried about pissing off your parents'. It could happen. Rarely, even important corporates might be arrested if they stepped out of the shelter of corporate privilege and acceptable levels of corporate sabotage, and into out-of-control vendettas or political crimes. And as dead sure as he was that neither of his parents would contemplate such a thing for a nanosecond, Greg wanted to grab his mother and warn her to shut up. Riches or prettiness wouldn't have any effect on the para-investigator if he had her down in that interrogation room. Don't push him. Don't you know what he is? "I'm sure Gregory has learned his lesson from this," his father said smoothly. "Haven't you?" Greg glanced at Toreth, who raised one eyebrow slightly. It looked almost like a challenge. "Yes. I won't get mixed up in anything like that again, I promise." It was the sensible thing to say the only possible thing so why did it feel so much like cowardice?

"There you are," his father said. "Is that good enough for you?" "Of course," Toreth said blandly. His mother cleared her throat. "I apologise for my earlier manner, Para-investigator. I'm grateful for your efforts to keep Gregory's name clear of this unsavoury matter." "We're here to protect respectable citizens, Ms Ballester. Even from themselves, if we have to." ~~~ Toreth accompanied them all the way to the main reception. Greg felt almost giddy with the relief of escaping from the place. It wasn't until they were actually outside, waiting for the car to arrive, that he remembered. He walked a few metres away, trying to avoid his mother's gaze, and beckoned Toreth over. "What . . . what will happen to Ali?" he asked in a low voice. Toreth looked at him blankly. "The girl in my room." "Oh. That depends on whether the others implicate her. Will they?" Greg bit his lip. It meant implicating her himself, but what else could he do? "They might." Toreth spread his hands. "Then she'll be interrogated. What happens after that depends on how good a rep she can afford." "Please, can't you . . ." What the hell could he ask, or offer? Nothing for it but to see how much of a Ballester he was. He squared his shoulders and looked Toreth right in the eyes. "She was never really involved, Para-investigator. If you could find a way to get her out of it, I'd be grateful. I might not have a great deal of personal power now, but I will have, and I'll remember this evening." To his surprise, Toreth seemed to consider the request. At length he said, "Are you going to stay out of trouble?" "Yes." God, yes. He smiled, and this time Greg thought he caught a touch of genuine warmth in his eyes. "Then I'll see what I can do for her." He half turned, as if to go, then paused and touched Greg's arm with his forefinger. "Don't fuck it up, corporate-boy." Greg nodded and the para-investigator turned away, back through the I&I doors. "Gregory," his mother called. "The car is here." ~~~ The main door closed behind Toreth, and he sighed. A Friday evening wasted nannying idiot corporate brats when he should have spent it fucking Warrick against a handy vertical surface until they were both too knackered to do anything except eat takeaway and surf through Warrick's weirder porn channels. Some of that stuff raised even Toreth's eyebrows, not to mention occasionally crossing his eyes. He took the lift up to the fourth floor, wondering idly if Warrick claimed the porn subscriptions back on corporate expenses as sim-fuck research. As he'd hoped, Toreth found Christofi in his office. The general office outside was empty, the admins long since departed. Good. He wanted to keep things smooth with Political Crimes, but he didn't want an audience for the apology. He knocked on the half-open door and went in. Christofi looked up. There was a moment of tension before he waved Toreth over.

"Sorry about that," Toreth said as he sat down. The Political Crimes senior shrugged. "I know how it goes. Someone gets twitchy over a big name, and they want to cover their arse. I already got a bollocking from Ravi about not pointing out to him that Gregory Ballester was a scion of the Ballester-Hodders-Simone Inc dynasty. I wonder if he even reads the bloody IIPs." Toreth nodded. "Ravi must've had a word with Tillotson. Tillotson told me to pick the lad up and hold him for something anything until the rest of them were safely locked up." "Always the bloody same. Don't touch the corporates, and then they wonder where the resisters get their money." Christofi sighed. "Is he gone?" "Yeah. Off in a corporate car with mummy and daddy. They got here before you did, but when I explained why he was here daddy asked me to give him a scare. I took him down to level C." "Good." Christofi smiled grimly. "Maybe it'll teach the little bastard not to do it again and waste my surveillance budget." "Want a drink?" "Sure." Christofi checked his watch. "Give it ten, and Roth will be along. I hear you had a proper eyeful of her." Toreth grinned. "I had to send B-C up to the pharmacy for tranquillisers when we got back; he can't cope with that kind of thing. If she's a sample of the undercover agents you send in, I'll start plastering level five with anti-Administration posters myself." "You'd probably get Wyman he's next up on the rota." "Wyman? Could be worse. Roth's not going back into the college, then?" "Nah." Christofi waved to the screen, where the collection of pictures taken during prisoner processing made a pitiful group. "They're just a bunch of student losers waste of her time and mine. Half of them will go for reeducation, half will get lawyered out of it. We got a couple of names of contacts outside the college which we might chase up. But 'Alison' will send in a resignation tomorrow. I need Roth on real cases." "Yeah?" Toreth grinned. That should work out beautifully. He could buy Roth a drink, apologise for the 'take a deep breath' crack, and ask her to drop an in-character note to Gregory which would win him a nice set of brownie points with the brat. It was always handy to have friends in the right places.

Smoke & Cameras

Toreth examined the map on the car's screen, trying to work out where the hell it was going. The streets outside were unfamiliar he'd left the heart of New London behind and moved out into one of the industrial zones. No obvious destination sprang to mind. Toreth shrugged to himself and sat back. Warrick's instructions had said evening wear, which he had on, and he'd been more or less ready when the car arrived so he'd be on time. There was nothing more he could do except wait. Eventually the car drew up at a formidable gate, which gave access through an equally formidable wall. An armed guard stepped out of a security station, and Toreth had a moment's unease before he spotted the SimTech logo on the man's shoulder. He looked at the car, cross-checked something on a hand screen, then tapped on the window. "ID, please, sir," he said when Toreth opened it. Toreth handed it over, fairly confident now of where he was. The ID was evidently acceptable, because the man nodded. "The car will take you up to reception, sir. Please don't stop the car before then, or try to get out. If the car stops by itself at any point, please wait in it some of the security systems are a little overzealous at the moment." Toreth sat back as the window wound up, wondering what 'overzealous' meant and how fatal it was likely to be. Beyond the fence was a large, rectangular building with a discreet SimTech logo on the side. There was, interestingly, no visible entrance. After ten metres the car turned left, directly towards the building, and the road dipped down into a short tunnel. At the far end a pair of heavy security doors opened, and the car drove into a plain room and stopped. The doors slid silently closed behind him. Get out here? However, there was nothing in the room except the doors behind, another pair of doors ahead, and an assortment of electronics on the walls above. Jesus. He couldn't remember ever being anywhere with such tight security, not even the high security section of the detention levels at I&I. After a minute, the door ahead opened and the car moved off. When it pulled up again, it was beside yet a third set of doors, these were sized for people rather than vehicles. A sign above them announced them to be the entrance to SimTech Production Visitor Reception, so Toreth opened the car door and climbed out. He half expected a pack of slavering Dobermans to materialise. Instead, the doors opened and a SimTech-uniformed security guard stepped through. "This way, please, sir." After the ominous approach, the mundane office reception area beyond was both a mild surprise and a disappointment. Expensively decorated, though, and obviously new no routes worn into the SimTech-blue carpet, or impressions on the seats of the grey leather chairs. A receptionist he recognised from the university campus SimTech building handed him a security badge with his name and picture a rather flattering one, and Toreth wondered for a moment where Warrick had found it. Of course, it could easily have come from the sim records. He

clipped it onto the lapel of his jacket and nodded to the guard. They passed through two more sets of doors secure access but no longer so heavily built then into a lift up to the ground floor. When the lift doors opened, a hum of voices met them. Toreth stepped into an open space surrounded by half a dozen rooms, partitioned off with glass walls. The expanses of glass would opaque for privacy; all but a couple were currently clear. The suite of rooms had all been decorated for the party, but Toreth guessed that in their real lives they were meeting rooms and places to entertain visitors. A thick grey carpet, with the SimTech logo woven into it, covered the floor, and in the centre a disconnected sim couch stood on a matte grey metal pedestal. Deeply upholstered blue sofas and low tables in the same material as the pedestal surrounded it. Expensive people in expensive clothes occupied the rooms, filling them with a background noise of cultured voices and perfectly pitched laughter. Corporate animals relaxing in the comfort of a herd of their peers. Light glinted from champagne glasses and jewellery. Toreth breathed in alcohol, food, perfume, aftershave. Money. Funny how it was possible to smell it. Even the faint new-building smells of carpeting and paint had a classy touch, a richer edge. "There you are." Toreth turned to find Warrick beside him, smiling warmly. "Okay, what's the occasion?" Toreth asked. "We finished the first production run today. The units are in the warehouse right now " he gestured to the right-hand wall, " waiting to be shipped out. Except for that one in the middle that was the very first one completed." "Great. Do I get a drink to celebrate?" Warrick laughed and beckoned over a waiter. Once Toreth had acquired a glass of champagne, he raised it to Warrick. "Well done. Fucking excellent." "Yes, it is." Warrick grinned, looking happier than Toreth could remember seeing him in any context that didn't involve sex. "Absolutely fucking excellent in every possible way." Then he looked across the room, and lifted his hand to someone. "One moment. I'll be back directly, I promise." Toreth nodded, not believing him for a second. After Warrick had departed, Toreth had another drink and looked more carefully around the crowd, recognising many of them. Asher Linton and her husband Greg, Lew Marcus, Dillian, a sprinkling of the senior staff all the usual suspects for a major SimTech event. He spotted familiar faces amongst the sponsors too, including Marc and Caprice Teffera. He'd never seen so many corporates looking so happy even Lew Marcus was smiling. Although that was hardly surprising when there were so many young women with trays and short skirts. An evening for high-powered sponsors and employees only. And him. Even after all this time, it occasionally surprised Toreth how much he'd grown used to these events. Forays into the corporate world with nothing to do but enjoy the free food and alcohol and try to amuse himself. There would usually be, somewhere, a group of other peripheral people, the spouses and partners of guests, and Toreth would kill time talking to them. And occasionally a little more than talking, although he did his best to be discreet about it. Nothing put Warrick in a worse mood than catching him swapping numbers with a sponsor's wife. Except, possibly, if it were a sponsor's husband instead. In this case, Toreth realised quickly that he'd met the other halves in the crowd before. All had

already proved unattractive or unavailable, except for the two women and one man previous conquests who determinedly avoided his eye. However, buoyed up by the infectious atmosphere of excitement and triumph, Toreth didn't mind. Time passed. Champagne flowed freely, helped down by delicious canapes. Toreth flirted idly with one of the waitresses and watched the guests. Eventually Warrick appeared again, this time holding a glass of what was probably iced water he'd be staying sober to ensure things went smoothly. There was a brief pause as Toreth conveyed to the waitress that her presence was no longer required, then he turned to Warrick. "Everything going well?" Toreth asked. "Perfectly, I would say." Warrick checked his watch. "We've got a little time. Come upstairs I should show you round the place, since you're not likely ever to need to come back out here." Toreth nodded easily and followed Warrick back to the lifts, acquiring a fresh glass of champagne on the way. He didn't particularly care about a tour of the offices, but upstairs sounded promising. ~~~ For a production facility, the lift was certainly plush, with a carpeted floor, and mirrors on the upper half of the walls that gave Toreth some interesting ideas. He watched the floor numbers tick smoothly past two, three, four. Of course, customers might make it into this part of the building, and SimTech would want to impress anyone who could afford The lights went out and the lift dropped sickeningly, then juddered to a halt as the safety systems caught it. Toreth stumbled, keeping his glass miraculously upright, reaching out with his other hand and finding nothing to grab. "What the fuck?" he exclaimed. The lift remained pitch dark, except for a small green square of light, reflecting back and forth from mirror to mirror, away into infinity. In the blackness, it was oddly hard to judge how far away it really was. Combined with the sudden drop, it left Toreth disoriented. Something bumped his forearm, then a hand closed round it. "Don't worry," Warrick said. "We've been having problems with the power all week. The emergency system will cut in soon." They waited. "Or not," Warrick added. "Be careful if you move I spilled some of my water, and probably the ice. I'll put the glass down by the wall." He released Toreth's arm, and the green square disappeared, reflections and original, obscured by Warrick's body. "The lifts are comms shielded," Warrick said. "In fact, everywhere in the building is. But there's a link to security somewhere over . . . here. Hello?" A pause, then Warrick said, "Yes. This is Doctor Warrick. I'm stuck in one of the lifts. Can you " A much longer pause. "I see. Very well. No, no, concentrate on the guests first, naturally. Thank you." The emergency panel closed with a metallic click, and the green square reappeared. "Well?" Toreth asked. "We've lost power to the office end of the building. They have no idea why, as yet, but for some reason part of the emergency system has shut down too. The drawbacks of highly automated systems.

It will take at least twenty minutes to bring the generators on line manually, assuming whatever's wrong with the system will allow them to do it." "And if it doesn't?" "They'll need to find the fault and fix it. No telling how long that could take. Damn." Toreth moved over carefully towards the light. Now his eyes had adjusted, it was bright enough to reveal Warrick as a dim shape. "Well, as long as it isn't anything serious," he said. "But it is. Everyone else, including the sponsors, are as much in the dark as we are." Warrick sighed sharply. "So much for a celebration." "Oh, they'll love it." Toreth reached out and found Warrick. Judging by his voice, it must be his front. He slid his hand up Warrick's arm, then moved round to stand close behind him. "Bit of excitement, people will remember it. Give them more of a reason to talk about it tomorrow." "Mm. I suppose so." Toreth drank some champagne, and offered the glass to Warrick. "Security will find torches or something, and it doesn't take electricity to open bottles. Pity we didn't bring more to drink." Toreth lowered his head, and his voice. "We'll just have to think of something else to pass the time." Warrick sipped the champagne. "If I didn't know it was impossible, I'd think you'd arranged this." He pulled away, but not very far, and added, "There are cameras in all the lifts." "They don't have any power. Not for twenty minutes." "Unless the systems power up by themselves. There's always a chance they could come back on any moment." Toreth slid his hands down, pulling Warrick's wrists behind him and pinning them. Warrick still held the glass by the stem, twisting his fingers round to keep it upright. "And what, exactly, are you going to do to stop me? Run? Nowhere to go. Scream? Who the fuck will hear you? Fight? I'd like that." Warrick drew his breath in, then let it out on a long, slow sigh. Toreth released his hands and took the glass from him. "Strip." Warrick turned, his face lit faintly from the side. "No." "If you don't, I'll tear your clothes off." "Toreth, no." Then, as Toreth took a step forwards, Warrick held up his hands. "Yes. All right." Toreth took the items one by one and folded them. A requirement for fast dressing wasn't unlikely. He glanced up towards the blinded camera and the familiar thrill of danger, of the risk of discovery, of being seen with Warrick, shivered down his spine. Naked, Warrick's body showed far more clearly in the lift, shadowing dimly in the surrounding mirrors. The darkness still hid Toreth himself, and he savoured the thought as he set the clothes down in the corner. "Put your hands behind your back. Close your eyes." The pale gleam of the whites of Warrick's eyes vanished. Toreth dipped his finger in the champagne, bubbles tickling, and then rubbed the tip over Warrick's nipple, feeling it harden. He repeated the wet caress on the other side, then bent down and licked. Warrick hissed, flinching

minutely before pressing back against Toreth's mouth. "Keep still." He moved to the other side of Warrick's chest, savouring the dry tang of champagne on his tongue and a faint hint of sweat, probably from the shock of the lift dropping. Toreth straightened and put the glass to Warrick's lips. "Drink. Finish it." Warrick tilted his head back, and Toreth heard him swallow. When the last champagne had gone, Toreth stroked the glass over Warrick's cheek, then down his chest, over his stomach, barely brushing the cool glass over his skin. Up again, skimming over his ribs, to finish by drawing a line down his other cheek. Quick, quiet breaths sounded loud in the silence of the lift. How rare, Toreth realised, to be somewhere both indoors and completely free of electrically generated noises. "Kneel." A hesitation, and he thought Warrick might protest again, but instead he knelt and bowed his head. Probably wanting to get this over with quickly. Toreth checked his watch and smiled. "Better." He set the champagne glass down beside Warrick's glass of water, then stood in front of him. Dark changed to pale as Warrick looked up. Toreth pictured the scene, how they would look on a monitor somewhere as the lights came on. Guards anxiously watching to see what kind of a mood the director was in. The position reminded him of something they'd done a long time ago, during the early days, only a few months after Tanit's death. When they'd been exploring and pushing boundaries, something they didn't do enough of anymore. It had been light then, because he'd wanted to watch Warrick's face as they talked. Now he knew him well enough that he didn't need to see it clearly. "Are you hard?" Toreth asked. "Yes." He knelt in front of Warrick, as close as he could be without touching him. In the darkness, he caught a hint of movement from Warrick's eyelashes, but before he could say anything, they stilled. "Tell me why," Toreth said. "The way you held my wrists. The threat. When you touched me with the glass, I imagined it was broken. Your voice." Warrick's own voice was tight, strained. "Being naked when you're dressed makes me feel vulnerable and that's very arousing. Uncertainty, because we haven't done anything exactly like this and I don't know what you're planning to to do to me. What you want from me." "I want you to tell me why all that makes you hard." Warrick's head bowed. "No," Toreth said. He twisted his left hand into Warrick's hair, forcing his head up, then releasing his hold. "Let me see your face. Now, tell me why." "I don't know," Warrick said after a moment. "If there's an explanation, it's biological, or it's so far back I can't find it. It frightened me for a while. A long while, even though I didn't allow myself to think about it. Now I know it's part of me. There is no why. Toreth " His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. "Touch me again. Please." He laid his hands lightly on Warrick's shoulders, feeling him twitch, then spread his fingers, running his thumbs up and down Warrick's throat. Warrick's lips parted, barely visible. This was where they'd stopped the conversation before, all that time ago. Even now the temptation to kiss Warrick, or to stand up and fuck his mouth to take him, to possess him unequivocally almost

overwhelmed him. He stroked gently along Warrick's collarbones, and Warrick shivered. "There are drugs that give men erections no matter what," Toreth said. "We use them at work, for prisoners with the right psych profile. Mix it with something else, so they don't know we gave it to them. Scares the hell out of some prisoners to get that kind of response to being hurt. They'll talk to stop that as much as to stop the pain." Warrick tensed under his hands. "You know I don't like to hear about I&I." Normally, that would have closed the conversation, but in the darkness, Toreth felt oddly confident that he could press on. "You're right, I do know. You hate I&I, you fuck me. So how does that work?" "I fuck you, not your job," Warrick said, cool and precise. "So you say. You don't, though, do you?" "Meaning what?" "Meaning that it matters." He paused. "Touch yourself." The muscles under his right hand shifted and after a moment Toreth heard the soft, slick whisper of skin on skin. "It matters that it's me," he continued. "It matters that I know how to restrain prisoners. How to hurt them. How to read it. How to tune it. If people at work could see this, Christ, they'd take the piss. Do you know what an interrogator junkie is?" "I think I can guess." Warrick's voice had turned to ice, but his shoulder still flexed beneath Toreth's hand. "So guess." A hesitation, then Warrick said, "Someone who's sexually excited by the idea of interrogators or interrogation?" "Spot on." "I'm not. Not in the least." "I know. Which is why I asked. So, how does it work?" "I haven't the faintest idea about that, either." A hint of warmth crept back into his voice, or at least his tone changed to the more measured tones of Warrick pursuing an interesting observation. "I suppose I can't deny there's a significant thrill from the knowledge that I cannot stop you, if you choose not to stop. So, from that point of view, the fact that you're an interrogator isn't important per se. Any kind of training which meant you could overpower me would be equally as effective." He shivered, back arching slightly. "It all it all feeds back into the fundamental desire to be possessed: your physical superiority, the chains, the cabinet, being hurt." What the hell was that? Toreth lifted his hands and rocked back on his heels. Looking round, he saw nothing new. "Your forcing me to do damn stupid things like strip naked and masturbate in a lift in the middle of " "Warrick, stop." Hard to see in the dim light whether he had obeyed, but the soft sounds vanished. Toreth sniffed, hoping he was wrong. "I think I can smell smoke." Warrick's eyes opened. "What?"

"Smoke." Toreth stood up. "Something burning. Can't you smell it?" A pause, then Warrick said, "Yes, I'm afraid I can." "Fuck." Not good. Not at all good. Warrick stood too. "And it's getting stronger. Where are my clothes?" "In the corner. Hang on a minute." Toreth opened the panel by the green light. Inside, a row of buttons glowed. He pressed the manual override on the emergency lights and the interior of the lift lit up, seeming bright after the darkness. Reflections sprang up, distracting Toreth with a multitude of naked Warricks. Blinking at the light, Warrick smiled, then bent to pick up his underwear. "I wondered if you'd seen the panel." "No, I just guessed. Not my most brilliant deduction. All lifts have battery " He stopped dead. Smoke curled into the lift through the air vents, writhing in front of the strip of emergency lighting. "Bollocks." Warrick looked up from pulling on his trousers. "What . . . ah." Toreth wrenched the panel open again and hit the fire alarm button. Nothing. "I imagine the detectors would've set the alarm off, if the system were functioning," Warrick said. "Try the comm again." Toreth took his earpiece out of his jacket pocket and fitted it. He pressed the link into the building's secure comms half a dozen times before he admitted failure. "Dead too. Fuck." Warrick slipped on his shoes. "Stay or try to get out?" Toreth reached up to snap the air vents closed. "I don't know. What's above us?" "One more floor and the roof." Warrick paused, thinking. "If I remember the plans correctly, there is a ladder running the height of the lift shafts, with exits to the floors. And there should be an entry to a fire refuge room on the floor above us." "All mod cons." "If they are working," Warrick said as he shrugged into his shirt and jacket, not bothering to button them. "If we had a better idea of where the fire was, we'd know which way to try first. There's a sprinkler system, of course, but if the alarms are out it may be safer to assume that's nonfunctional also. I think we have to go." Toreth reached up and released the catch for the hatch in the lift roof. As soon as he lifted the corner, smoke flowed through the crack, making him cough. "Close it," Warrick said. "Look, we need to " Toreth stopped, watching as Warrick opened a second panel. It revealed a fire extinguisher and beside it a thin fire blanket, which Warrick took and spread out on the floor. Warrick produced his gadget-crammed penknife and cut the fireproof fabric in half diagonally, then stopped. "Oh, hell." "What?" "I didn't think. What are we going to do if the fire spreads to the manufacturing sections?" Warrick frowned, the dismay almost comical. "In the clean rooms even smoke would be a disaster. It would set everything back months." Toreth nearly laughed, but a sharply indrawn breath set him coughing, and the amusement

vanished. "Warrick, there are more pressing problems than SimTech's fucking production schedule." "Of course." Warrick shook himself and folded one half of the blanket, damped it with the remains of the water in his glass, and tied it over his mouth, then offered the second half to Toreth. Not a bad idea. This time, when Toreth opened the hatch, the smoke stung his eyes but he could breathe. Warrick boosted him up through the opening, and then he reached down to pull Warrick up behind him. "Close the hatch." Warrick's voice was muffled by the cloth. "If we have to go back, there's no point having it full of smoke." When the hatch snicked into place, darkness wrapped round them. Dull gleams of light marked emergency exits, but the light they cast was too feeble to make it into the body of the shaft. Toreth tightened his grip on the lift roof. "Hang on," Warrick said and Toreth was embarrassed how much of a relief he found Warrick's steady voice. "There we go." A thin beam lit up the smoke, reaching through it to pick out the far wall. It made the smoke seem thinner, and Toreth's breathing eased. Purely psychological, but still welcome. The light came from Warrick's penknife. "It really does do everything, doesn't it?" Toreth said. "Everything except cook and fuck." Warrick stood up. "There's the ladder." Toreth followed the light. The gap to the recessed ladder wasn't wide only a single step but . . . he glanced over the edge. Cables led down and far below he caught a glimpse of the roof of the second lift through the smoke. He couldn't judge the distance, but it was certainly far enough for a fatal fall. Light dipped down past him, then away again. When he looked round, Warrick was shining the penknife upwards. "I think the smoke is thicker up there," Warrick said. "Shall we go down?" Without waiting for an answer, Warrick crossed the lift and stepped over the gap. "Let's not hang about." Toreth adjusted the mask to cover his nose more tightly, and followed. He'd never been bothered by heights, and while the prospect of burning or choking to death didn't appeal, there didn't seem to be an immediate danger of either. Nothing to panic about just yet. He pulled on the ladder firm and secure, as something in a newly constructed building ought to be, with a safety cage around the back, leaving a gap at the sides for access. Warrick was already climbing, the torch shining upwards to light the ladder for Toreth. Without looking down, Toreth stepped over and followed him. It wasn't far before they reached a door beneath a muted emergency exit sign. Toreth waited on the ladder, eyes watering from the smoke, as Warrick stepped onto the narrow ledge. After a moment, rattling echoed in the shaft. "Get a fucking move on," Toreth said. "The door won't open." Warrick tried the handle again, then said, "Wait while I try to find a card slot." "There won't be a locked access on a fire escape." "There might. Parts of the building have a dispensation from the relevant safety regulations. Commercial sensitivity. Ah got it." Silence. Was the smoke thickening? "Well?" Toreth asked.

"It won't open. The system must be out, along with the rest." After a brief pause, Warrick said, "We'll have to go up." "What fucking good will that do?" "The fire refuge won't be locked; the security there stops you leaving the room, not entering it. Even if the door out into the rest of the building won't open, we can wait in there until they bring everything back on line." Toreth climbed slowly, wondering for the first time about the source of the fire. An accident, or possibly corporate sabotage? In the latter case it might be no coincidence that it had started when they were in the lift. With deliberate arson there was no telling how much of the building might be involved. "How secure is the refuge?" he asked, keeping his breathing shallow. "Theoretically the rest of the place can be gutted and it will remain safe and survivable as long as the building doesn't collapse. Even then, it's on a reinforced structural core so it should hold up. They're hellishly expensive; most of them were put in for data storage and critical computer systems. You should be there now." Toreth reached out and found empty air, then a floor. He climbed up onto it, and Warrick's shoulder brushed against Toreth's calf as he came further up the ladder. "Pass me the torch," Toreth said, bending down towards him. Under most circumstances, it wouldn't have mattered. Warrick released the penknife a fraction before Toreth took it, and it slipped from both their hands. Toreth let it go, but Warrick grabbed once, twice, then lost his balance. "Toreth!" The tumbling knife swept fading stripes through the smoke; reaching blindly in the darkness, Toreth caught one of Warrick's flailing hands in his. The safety cage rattled as Warrick bounced against it, then he slipped sideways and down. Toreth went down on his knees, barely feeling the hard contact, managing to hook an arm around the ladder before he took Warrick's weight. Even so, the jolt jerked him downwards, wrenching his shoulder and jamming his knuckles against the rough wall. He couldn't stop the yelp of pain as Warrick's fingers tightened. Toreth hung on grimly, listening to the scrabbling of feet on metal echoing dully in the lift shaft, until the tension on his arm relented. One deep breath, and even through the makeshift mask the smoke choked him, sending him into a fit of coughing. "Toreth?" Warrick's grip tightened again. "I'm " He swallowed, fighting down the spasms. "It's just the smoke." Warrick released his hand. "On my way up." Toreth knelt by the ladder, ridiculously anxious, until Warrick squeezed onto the narrow platform beside him and leaned against the door. He coughed too, then swore softly. "Are you okay?" Toreth asked as he stood. "More or less. My chest. I caught something sticking out of the ladder when I slipped." Toreth reached out, finding warm stickiness, and Warrick flinched away. "Sorry," Toreth said. "I can't see a fucking thing."

"I think there may be a torch in a niche by the door." Toreth searched. "Not on this side." "Wait, then, I here it is." The light clicked on rather larger than the light on the penknife and Warrick shone the beam onto his chest. A long, shallow cut ran down the left side, blood welling in places through the dark hair. "Nothing serious," Toreth said, "but I expect it hurts like hell." "Mm." Warrick straightened. "Actually, it's not that bad. Are you all right?" "Banged my knuckles, nothing else." "Good. Now let's get the hell out of here." Toreth had forgotten the door. He found the handle, praying this one would open. The smoke hadn't grown noticeably thicker, but he was thoroughly fucking sick of the lift shaft. "Thank fucking God," he said as the handle turned and the door gave, and Warrick laughed breathlessly. The room beyond was dark, but mercifully free of smoke. They closed the door quickly, trying to keep it that way. Toreth pulled off the mask and dropped it, and the torch beam jerked as Warrick did the same. Toreth sucked his scraped knuckles blood, but not too much of it. He took deep breaths of deliciously fresh air, enjoying the relief even if it was still pitch black, until the thought of the fire intruded. The danger hadn't gone away, safe refuge or not. Toreth spotted a familiar green square a few metres away. "I'll see if the comms are working. Shine the torch over here. Keep it steady." The light danced over the panel and away, and when Toreth turned he found Warrick leaning against the wall by the door, his hands at least shaking violently. "Are you okay?" "Fine." He took a deep breath. "I don't actually like heights all that much." He'd never mentioned that before, and Toreth suspected it translated to 'I just scared the shit out of myself'. "Jesus. Now you tell me." "I didn't want to worry you. Take the light before I drop it." Toreth took the light, found the switch and clicked it off, then put it in his pocket. Rescue could wait for a moment if the lights were still out, odds were the comms wouldn't work anyway. When Toreth took hold of Warrick's shoulder, he felt Warrick make an effort to stop the trembling. Moving closer, pressing against him, Toreth kissed him. He tasted of smoke and, faintly, champagne. He rubbed against Warrick's hip, surprised by how arousing the contact was, and how quickly. Adrenaline and, for novelty value, not generated by an argument. Toreth lifted his head a fraction, meaning to ask again if Warrick was okay, but before he could speak, Warrick pulled his head back impatiently, kissing him again. Take that as a yes, then. " . . . me," Warrick muttered. Toreth missed the first word, took a guess, and ran his hand lightly down Warrick's stomach shirt still unbuttoned and unfastened his trousers. Warrick sighed, shifting against him, suggesting

the guess had either been correct or a perfectly adequate alternative. One hand still cradling Toreth's neck, Warrick slid the other down his spine, pressing them together. With his free hand, Toreth reached back, finding Warrick's hand in the small of his back. He laced their fingers together, imagining the desperate grip on the ladder holding Warrick, stopping the fall. Warrick broke the kiss briefly, panting, then returned, his mouth aggressive and demanding. A change in the room made Toreth open his eyes, and he almost spoke. Then he closed his eyes again, deciding it could wait. Unlike other things. Everything felt sharper and somehow more real than the game in the lift the hard cock in Toreth's fist, Warrick thrusting back against him, pushing his hip against Toreth's cock. It was too intense to last, for either of them. Warrick moaned into Toreth's mouth, hand tightening on his. Toreth turned his head away and gasped, "Not yet." "I can't " "Please, not yet." His voice sounded hoarse. "Not yet. Not yet. Not yet. Not ah, fuck, Warrick." The adrenaline charge from the near disaster heightened the orgasm as it burned through him. Perfect, coming perfectly together, with Warrick quiet for once, almost choking, twisting against Toreth as he pulled him close. Toreth panted for breath as the waves receded, leaving him aware of the stink of smoke in Warrick's hair against his open mouth. I could've lost him, Toreth thought, the idea shockingly sudden. He could've fallen and fucking died, and then . . . oh, Christ, what the fuck would I have done then? Unbearable. Toreth leaned his head against the wall and breathed deeply until the idea resumed its proper proportion. Something that hadn't happened, and didn't need to be thought about. Forgotten. When Toreth opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was one of Warrick's lazier, more satisfied smiles. Enough to drive any lingering unpleasant thoughts away. With his face smudged with smoke, his hair messy and his eyes closed, Warrick looked wonderfully dirty and used. There was a scratch along his cheekbone, a smear of blood drying on his skin. Without opening his eyes, Warrick said, "What was that about? You're not usually so fussy about timing." "I can see you," Toreth murmured. Warrick's smiled widened. "Mm?" "Because the light's on again." Warrick's eyes flew open. "Hell!" He looked round the room, then turned away from the camera, buttoning frantically. "And I thought if you came first you might open your eyes," Toreth continued "And then where would I have been?" "You knew?" Warrick looked up, tucking in his shirt, glaring. Then he laughed, the sound harshened by smoke. "Sometimes I could kill you." Toreth gave him the finger, only then noticing the state of his sleeve. He picked up a discarded face-mask and wiped his hand and arm. Not one of their tidier fucks. Still, with the mess they were in, Toreth doubted anyone would notice another stain. Smoke blackened his shirt, grease from the lift smeared his sleeves and trousers. Warrick when restored to semi-respectability had suffered

even more badly, probably during his slide down the ladder. As well as the smoke and grease, and a ragged flap of cloth hanging down on his left thigh, spots of blood had begun to soak through his shirt. "How's your chest?" Toreth asked. "Fine. I'll get someone to have a look at it when we get out of here." Warrick straightened his ruined jacket ruefully, then fingered a tear in the front. "I'm in a lot better shape than my suit, anyway. I'll try the door." Toreth caught his arm. "No. What if there's a fire right outside?" Warrick stopped dead, his expression halfway between horror and embarrassment. "Top of the list in the fire drill, yes. Never use a door unless you have to. Comm first." Toreth watched as Warrick opened the emergency panel and activated the comm. "Hello? Yes, this is Doctor Warrick. No, I know I'm not I'm in fire refuge, ah, one-four-c. Yes, I'm fine; the smoke in the lift was rather thick, that's all. What's happened?" He listened for a while, nodding. Judging by his expression it was good news. "Everything's under control," Warrick said when he closed the connection. "Although we caused something of a stir when the comms came back up and we didn't answer from the lift." "What happened?" "A small fire, right outside the base of the lift shaft, unfortunately for us. The cause isn't entirely clear, but they suspect that the contractors left something flammable behind. Sheer bad luck that it took out part of the power system, and then, presumably, some of the safety systems. They're sending someone up to manually override the door lock and let us out." Toreth glanced up at the camera. "They didn't know we were in here?" Warrick smiled. "No. The cameras are still out luckily for you." ~~~ Much later, Toreth sat in the reception area, drinking a large and welcome glass of brandy and waiting for Warrick. Toreth had had enough of corporate entertaining for the evening; when they had finally made it downstairs, he'd slipped away and left Warrick to face the fuss of security guards, senior SimTech staff and anxious well-wishers. Warrick had promised to follow as soon as he could; like most corporate event promises, Toreth hadn't set much store by it. When someone opened the door, he thought for a moment it was Warrick. In fact it was Dillian. "Hello," he said. "Having a good party?" To his surprise, she sat beside him. "How are you?" "Wheezy and slightly battered." He held out his grazed hand. "Kiss it better?" Surprise became astonishment as she took his hand and complied, a gentle touch of lips on each knuckle in turn. "Er, thanks," he said when she lifted her head. She smiled Warrick's familiar smile on her lips. "No, thank you." Then he realised what was going on. "No problem. Any time." Nice to be a hero, especially Dillian's. "He told us after the medic checked him over. Me and Asher, and a few of the others." I could've lost him. He could've fucking fallen and "Reflexes, that's all. Lucky grab." Dillian shook her head. "We all had to evacuate outside. I was sick with worry when they said he

was still in there and they'd lost the comms. And the strangest thing was that I was actually relieved that you were in there with him. Not that he isn't perfectly capable of taking care of himself, but it was nice to know he wasn't alone. And a good thing, as it turned out." Talk about a backhanded compliment. Toreth grinned. "See? I can make myself useful out of bed too." Before she could reply, Toreth heard a hoarse cough from across the reception area. Dillian looked down and released Toreth's hand abruptly, as though she'd forgotten she was holding it. "There you both are," Warrick said as he walked over. "Asher and Lew said they'll finish up here, so I've been excused for the rest of the evening. Toreth " As her brother stopped beside them, Dillian jumped up and embraced him tightly, with the unselfconscious ease that always left Toreth inexplicably uncomfortable. "Hey!" Warrick stroked her hair. "Careful you'll make a mess of your dress." "You idiot." Her voice sounded almost as smoke-damaged as Warrick's. "You frightened me to death." "I'm sorry." He held her for a moment, then eased away. "And there's something I forgot to tell you earlier I lost the penknife you gave me. Or rather, I know exactly where it is. It's at the bottom of the lift shaft, but I expect it's broken." She sniffed, then laughed, and Toreth wished he could see her face. "I'll buy you another one," she said. "If you promise to take better care of it." "Of course. Now . . . " Warrick disentangled himself and took her hands. "Can I give you a lift back to the city?" Toreth was willing her to say no when Dillian glanced sideways at him. He obviously didn't hide his expression quickly enough, because she smiled slyly. "No, I don't think so. I'll keep Asher and Greg company and go back with them. I'll come round and see you tomorrow, though. You aren't going in to work are you?" Warrick hesitated, then shrugged. "I doubt it." "Good. I'll well, I'll see you then, then." However, she stayed where she was, hovering. Tempting to stretch it out, but for once Toreth couldn't be bothered to do it simply to irritate Dillian. He stood up. "I'll ask reception to fetch the car, shall I?" As he waited by the desk, he watched the pair of them talking. About him? Probably, or something else Dillian didn't trust him enough to talk about in front of him. He could ask Warrick, but he wouldn't give her the satisfaction of knowing he cared what she said, even if she wouldn't know he'd asked. He was still trying to find the logic in that when he realised Dillian had gone. Warrick stood alone, staring back into the building after her. Toreth went over to him. "Ready to go?" "What?" Warrick looked round. "Oh, yes." Curiosity overcame reluctance. "What did she want?" "To tell me she's going to Mars." Warrick shook his head, looking perplexed. "She mentioned before that she'd been offered the contract, but I thought she'd decided to turn it down; I had wondered about it, because she loves off-world work. But apparently she's changed her mind and she's going."

"Women, huh?" Toreth put his hand in the small of Warrick's back just a gentle guide towards the door and started walking. "Thanks for the invitation, by the way." Warrick looked at him sharply, and Toreth smiled. "No, really. I've had a great time. Like I said in the lift it's been an evening to remember."

Sunday
"Ah, fuck," Toreth breathed into his ear. "Fuck." He'd been repeating the phrase about every thirty seconds for the last ten minutes. Warrick wasn't sure if it was an observation (in which case it was undoubtably true), information (in which case it was entirely redundant, because Warrick had noticed) or a request, in which case Toreth would have to do more than ask. Right now, Warrick had no intention of doing or saying anything which might cause Toreth to stop. He lay still beneath Toreth, paralyzed with exquisite, lazy pleasure as Toreth rocked slowly into him again and again. heaven was very probably something like this. He'd changed the sheets earlier, when Toreth had gone to make coffee, and the crisp, clean, cool cotton beneath him was an added delight. From time to time Warrick lifted his head, rubbing his cheek back against Toreth's, and Toreth would moan and sigh, and probably say it again. "Fuck. Ah, fuck." Only a dozen centimetres from Warrick's nose, a crumb spoiled the the pristine expanse of sheet. He blew at it for a few seconds before he had to admit defeat and drag his hand over to flick the crumb away. Maybe it would be more sensible to wait to change the sheets until after they'd finished eating in bed, but that wasn't possible. Not on Sunday. Sunday breakfast was one of the highlights of his week, and not because of the chance of a leisurely, well-rested hour or two in bed with Toreth afterwards. It was because the start of this particular game required breakfast in bed, so they could only play at the weekend. The rules of the breakfast game were complicated, and Warrick didn't know them all. That was a part of the game. It had started some indefinite time ago, when he'd brought Toreth breakfast in bed and, while he was eating, Toreth had picked up a strap that had been left in the bed from the night before. He'd trapped one end under his foot and started running the other through his hand as he ate. Not really paying attention, simply playing with the leather. It had been unexpectedly and deeply arousing. Warrick was never sure it that had been the start of it then, an accidental discovery, or if even that had been planned in advance. Toreth must spend a lot of time planning things for them, but he was also quick to exploit an opportunity, so either was possible. At first the rule had been single and simple Warrick could sit and watch and talk, but he couldn't touch (Toreth or himself) and he couldn't ask to be touched. Then, week by week, more rules had been added to the game. Warrick had to sit on the left-hand side of the bed. Then, a week later, it could be no closer than a metre from the end of the bed. Then he couldn't use Toreth's name. Then his own. Then he had to kneel by the bed. With his hands behind him. The rules became more complicated, and changed without notice. Warrick found out they'd

changed when a word or a movement or something else that had been acceptable the week before was greeted with a calm "You can't do that." Or sometimes he forgot a prohibition, only to discover that it has become permitted again. Sometimes it was near impossible to work out what action or omission had triggered the admonishment. And then he'd make the same mistake over and over again, until he finally found the connection and fitted the new rule into the pattern in his head. He'd never written the rules down, although he had no idea why. Toreth certainly hadn't told him not to. In fact, he refused to even admit the existence of the game. Questions about the rules, or anything else to do with it, were deflected with blank incomprehension. He did wonder whether Toreth had everything written down somewhere, whether he sat and revised and rewrote them, or whether he too kept it all in his head. In the end, if he performed satisfactorily, to whatever standards Toreth had set that day, Toreth would eventually set his tray on the floor and sit for a while, watching him. Then he would stand up and tell him where to go, what to do. "Lie down," or "Kneel there," or "Against the wall," signalling that the game was over. Warrick had won, and they would move on to a new game. The number of mistakes he was allowed to make changed from week to week as well, without any logic he'd ever been able to determine, beyond Toreth's whims. Sometimes, after more than a dozen mistakes or as few as one, Toreth would drop whatever he was playing with onto the floor and shake his head. "Christ, you're pathetic. How simple do I have to make things for you?" And then there would be a silence, until finally Toreth would sigh and say, "Come here, then," or "Kiss me," or "If you can't do that right, do you think you could manage to fuck me?" Game abandoned, they would fuck without any rules at all and afterwards they would usually fall asleep again, still entwined, wonderfully warm and intimate. Somehow, Warrick supposed, this must constitute losing. From time to time he'd tried to lose deliberately, making mistakes on purpose, doing new things in the hope they would turn out to be forbidden, or simply not trying his hardest to remember the rules. But however subtle he made it Toreth would spot his intent. "If you aren't even going to try, then there's no fucking point, is there?" Then Toreth would get up, get dressed, and more often than not, go home. So he'd given that up and accepted Toreth's rules. There was no alternative other than refusing to play at all and it was an enjoyable intellectual exercise, not to mention its other attractions. Besides, by accident or design, they usually ended up doing what he would have chosen to do in any case. This week, this Sunday, Warrick had lost. "Ah, fuck." Warrick nodded, not really meaning anything, just making a contribution when for once he couldn't come up with any words. At least not any that Toreth would want to hear. Who needed words anyway, when they had this?

First Against The Wall

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter One
Toreth shifted against the wall, trying to get comfortable. Between bruises and handcuffs, he didn't have much success. The situation, he had to admit, wasn't promising. On the first day, in the first cell, the lights had been on, the water dispenser working, and the prisoner feeding schedule still running. Then the lights went out, and things had gone steadily downhill from there. Now, he sat in darkness so absolute that he couldn't see a hand in front of his face, if he'd been in a position to check. The last time he'd been taken out of the cell it had been light in the corridors, which was something. If the power to the building failed totally, they would suffocate down here. At the moment, the air cycling was still functional, feeding chill air into the cell like the lights, the heating systems had been switched off or had broken down. He couldn't accurately estimate when he'd last eaten. A day or so probably, but he was starting to feel the effects. The water system worried him most. It worked only intermittently and the water had an unpleasant, overly-chemical flavour. The systems were failing. Something had gone badly wrong, and had continued to go wrong for so long that he'd been forced, unwillingly, to conclude that it had to have hit more than I&I. He shifted again, wishing they'd put his arms in front of him or, better yet, not bothered to cuff him at all. What the hell did they think he was going to do, locked up in one of the most secure facilities in the Administration? The answer was that they didn't think like that. Locking him in here was an end in itself. They had control of I&I and probably a great deal more and now they were taking their turn. Interrogating the interrogators. He would have talked, if they'd had any useful questions, but they hadn't. They'd asked a few things, and he'd answered them promptly, because if anyone knows how futile it is to hold out, it's a trained interrogator. Mostly they'd been doing it for fun taking people out of the cells, beating them up for a while and then putting them back. Or not putting them back, if they'd got carried away. They were kicking corpses, dead or still alive, and as far as he could tell, their plan extended that far and no further. Useless bloody amateurs. Still, they'd kill him in the end the only surprise was that they hadn't done it yet. It's easy to underestimate how much damage can be done with fists and feet. He had some cracked ribs, at least. Nothing that felt like internal bleeding, but it was only a matter of time before they overdid it. Punctured lung, that would be his bet. Not the nicest way to go. He'd thought it would be the end, the last time they'd had him out blindfolded, to add to the fun. Resisters with personal grudges to settle were looking for the people who'd interrogated them in the past, which was probably not a survivable experience. He'd stood for what felt like hours, listening to the noise around him, occasionally recognising one of the voices raised in pain or fear, squinting round the edge of the blindfold as footsteps approached him, paused, and passed on. Every time, he'd expected to hear a voice say, "Him." But no one picked him out, and he'd had nothing worse than a few casual blows before they'd put him back, into a different cell. After he'd worked the blindfold off, he could see no more than with it on. However, he'd recognised the two other voices in the new cell at once the first people from his section he'd run into since it started. They'd talked for a while, but Chevril knew no more than he did and Sedanioni

was too badly hurt to say much. Neither of them had seen Sara. In the end the conversation had faded away into the blackness. The resisters had left them alone for a surprisingly long time, now. Maybe they were getting bored. If so, they'd no doubt soon get around to shooting the survivors. If they bothered. If they didn't simply leave the three of them here, in the dark, to die in their own time. Not a thought he really wanted to spend much time with. There was no point trying to stand up in the pitch dark with his wrists cuffed and his ankles chained, he'd only trip over and hurt himself. More. So he knelt and shuffled along the floor, keeping his side to the wall. It was the least painful method of movement he'd come up with. Not much of a recommendation, because it still made his ribs hurt fiercely. When he thought he could hear breathing, he sat down again and felt out cautiously with his feet. Contact, and someone moaned. Which of them was it? "Chevril?" "Uh?" He kicked again, harder. "Chev. Wake up." "I am awake. How the hell do you think I'm going to sleep, like this?" "Where's Sed?" He heard Chevril moving in the darkness, grunting with pain. Metal clinked dully on the hard plastic coating of the floor. "Can't find her," Chevril said. "She was right by me. I told her to stay there." "Hold your breath." They waited in silence, for as long as they could manage, listening for even the faintest whisper of breathing. Toreth heard nothing but the low, steady hum of the air cycling. "Stay still," he said. "I'll look." Toreth knew how small the cell was, because all the holding cells were the same size, but in the blackness it seemed limitless, except for the always-unexpected, painful contacts with the walls. Eventually he found her, in the corner, curled up tight. She was cold to his touch, already stiff, and he could smell blood and urine, much stronger here than the general stench of the cell. Suddenly, the darkness didn't seem like such a bad thing. Sedanioni. Or, at least, he didn't think there'd been anyone else in the cell. Awkwardly, he ran his fingers through her hair, judging the length, matching it with his memory. Her, as far as he could tell. "Did you find her?" Chevril's voice, startlingly close. "Yes. She's dead." "Oh, bloody hell. Bloody, bloody hell." "Keep talking. I'm coming back." "I thought she would be, to be honest. She was shivering when they brought her in, not because she was cold. Shock. I told her she was going to be fine, which was a waste of bloody time because she knew I was lying. She kept asking for water, you know really thirsty. She knew what that meant. Ouch!" Even with the guidance of Chevril's voice, it was still a shock to find him, bumping his knee

against him. "Be careful, for Christ's sake." "Sorry." Toreth sat next to him, grateful to stop moving and frighteningly exhausted by the exertion. Every too-deep breath shot pain through his side. When he managed to steady his breathing, he asked, "How are you?" "Awful." You could always rely on Chevril for a complaint, even if for once it was justified. He waited for the rest, but there was nothing. "That's it? Awful?" "What's the point? If you're that keen to know, I think yesterday they managed to break my ankle and crack a few ribs. I got my shoulder dislocated in the takeover, but the first place they kept us was with some of the medics and one of them put it back in. Still hurts like hell, mind. I feel sick, and my kidneys feel like some bastard has been kicking them, which is a funny coincidence because that's exactly what did happen. And my head is pounding I keep hoping I'm concussed, but I don't seem to be. Passing out would be an improvement, all things considered. Feel better, now?" Actually, he did. Relatively better, anyway. There was a silence, then Chevril said, "Toreth?" "Who the hell else are you expecting?" "Could you . . . that is I'm cold. Really, bloody cold." Toreth thought about it for a moment, then decided, what the hell. He lay down on his better side, and wriggled carefully forwards until he found what turned out to be Chevril's back. He was shivering not surprising, because what shirt he had left was in shreds. He fitted himself against the other man, as close as he could. What good it would do in terms of body heat he wasn't sure, but after a while the shivering subsided a little. "Thanks," Chevril said. "No problem." Chevril must have been feeling better, because he added, "I'm just cold, you know." "I know." "Just so long as you do. Because I don't, you know . . . " "Really? Then you should watch where you're putting your hands." Chevril jerked away from him. "They're fucking well cuffed behind me! I can't put them anywhere else!" "I know, I know. It was a joke." "Ha bloody ha." He thought about getting up, but lying here with Chevril was better than sitting on his own. Marginally warmer, anyway. "A bad joke. I'm sorry." Chevril moved back, obviously still cold enough to forgive him. But he seemed to have his fists clenched. "Chev, don't worry. Even if I wasn't almost totally immobilized, I wouldn't fuck you if you were the last man on Earth."

"Oh really?" Chevril sounded sceptical. "What about that New Year party, then?" God, how many years ago had that been? "Doesn't count that was for money. Someone bet me I couldn't get you into bed. Or even on your knees in the toilets. And they were dead right." "How much?" "Er . . . a hundred and fifty euros, I think." "Bloody hell! A hundred " Chevril coughed painfully. "Oh, Christ. A hundred and fifty? Did you pay up?" "I had to. There were plenty of witnesses. You ruined my reputation, as well. I've won bets on men who would've sworn on their mother's grave that they were totally straight. Although to be fair, they're the easiest ones, sometimes." "You can't begin to imagine how much I don't want to hear about it." "You're telling me you've never wanted to fuck a man? Not even felt curious? Not even found a bloke slightly attractive when you were absolutely hammered?" "Never. Not once." Toreth tried to imagine it, and failed miserably. Individual people, that was easy there were plenty of people he'd never want to fuck, although Chevril wasn't one of them. But writing off a whole fifty percent of the planet because of one chromosome? "Strange." "Not really." "I suppose not." An idea struck him, funny because of who it was. "Would you do it for money?" "No!" A short silence, then Chevril said, "Well . . . it would depend on what, and how much. And who with." "Does it matter who?" "Yes. I mean, the whole idea's totally revolting, but there are different degrees of totally. Tillotson would need the code to the Central Bank before I'd even think about it." "Okay, say it's me." "Hypothetically?" "Absolutely." "Hypothetically, that leaves 'what', and 'how much'. 'What' I'm not even going to think about, and 'how much' is 'a lot'. Why the hell are you interested, anyway?" "I'm not. But it's passing the time, isn't it?" And it was. For a couple of minutes he'd almost forgotten the ache in his ribs. "Got anything better to talk about?" "Nothing I can think of, no. And believe me, I'm trying." He grinned in the dark. "Let me know if you do. Until then, I'll say what, and you can tell me how much." "Oh, for God's sake." Then Chevril shrugged, and hissed through his teeth. "Hellfire, that hurts. All right, go on." "Blowjob." "Bloody hell! Couldn't you give me some warning before you say something like that in my ear?" "I did. Blowjob. I get to come in your mouth. How much?"

"You don't have enough to persuade me to put it in my mouth, never mind anything else." "Chev, it's hypothetical. I've got however much it takes. You don't have to swallow." "Urgh, that's just . . . no. I couldn't. Really. I'd be sick." Toreth let the silence stretch out. Chevril and money made a reliable combination. "Ten thousand," Chevril said eventually. "Eight?" "Ten. I said ten, and I meant ten. And I'd still puke." "Okay. That was giving, how about taking?" "Um . . . God, that's almost worse." "Close your eyes, you wouldn't know it wasn't Elena. Except that I'm probably better at it." A chilly silence literally and metaphorically then Chevril said, "Leave Elena out of this." "Sorry." He wondered briefly if it was outside her repertoire, before deciding that asking would be a good way to end the conversation. "But it's not that different, honestly." "Five, then." "Five thousand? Fucking hell." "When I said 'revolting', I meant it. Whatever it felt like, I'd still know it was you." "Fair enough. How about fucking, then? Proper fucking." "Meaning what, exactly?" "I fuck you in the arse, I come inside you, and you come too." "I wouldn't." "You would. It's just reflexes. Obviously enthusiasm helps, but you'd come in the end. How much to let me fuck you?" And he had to admit he was getting more interested in the idea. What would Chevril be like as a fuck? "I'd be quick." "There isn't enough money in the Administration," Chevril said firmly. "Sure? Any amount?" Silence again, then, "Yes." "How about you fucking me?" He felt Chevril move, turning his head to look over his shoulder pointlessly, because it was still blacker than midnight. "You do that?" "Of course I do. Why wouldn't I?" "I don't know. It just seems . . . not you. I mean, it's a well understood fact in the section that you'll do anything, with anyone. But . . . I suppose I can't imagine someone so bloody competitive wanting to be on the bottom for anything." Toreth started to laugh, but pain quickly cut it short. "It's not like that," he said when he'd got his breath back. "It's something to do, that's all a question of taste. Some men prefer one or the other, some of the time. I fuck more than I am fucked, but I enjoy it both ways." "If you say so." Chevril still sounded vaguely put out by the idea spoiling his preconceptions, perhaps. "What's-his-name does it to you? Your rich corporate?"

For a moment, he was tempted to tell Chevril to leave Warrick out of it, but that would just have been tit for tat talking about fucking Warrick was a topic he always enjoyed. "Yeah, sometimes." "I heard " And he stopped abruptly. "Heard what?" "Oh, just rumours. Coffee room stuff. That he was into all sorts of kinky shit, whips and chains, and that's why he was with you in the first place. Interrogator junkie." Except when it was phrased like that. "Yes to the kinky shit, no to the interrogator junkie. I don't need to do that to get a fuck. He hates me working here." "Hates it? So why's he still hanging around?" "Because I'm the best fuck in the solar system." Chevril laughed, and then groaned. "Oh, Jesus, don't make me do that. Toreth, you can't build a relationship on sex and nothing else. It wouldn't work." Or I bet that's what Elena says, right before she tells you she's got a headache. "Suit yourself. I must be imagining fucking him and nothing else for the last however many years it is. Anyway, you never answered the question: how much to fuck me? Tell you what, I'll do myself, so you won't even have to touch my cock." "Oh, hell, I don't know. If you could get me out of here, I'd do it for free." He sounded pissed off and exhausted, so Toreth dropped it. Again, he thought about moving, but he simply didn't have the energy. No sound in the cell now but breathing and the cycling air. The quiet brought with it a new awareness of the blackness, pressing close around them. He wished that he hadn't taken off the blindfold. "Have you got any idea how long it's been since it started?" Toreth asked. "No bloody idea at all." Chevril shifted against him. "Days. I'm more worried about how much longer it'll be before someone opens the door and . . . " Silence for a moment, then Chevril said, "Do you think they'll execute us?" "Probably. Maybe. Fuck, I don't know. What do you think?" Chevril said nothing, but Toreth felt him nod. After a minute he heard a hitch in Chevril's breathing. A few seconds later he felt a second suppressed sob. However, that, to his great relief, was it Chevril's breathing steadied, although he still shook slightly. Cold, that's all. Cold could kill, though. Would kill, in the end, as surely as bullets or bleeding. Through the fog of exhaustion Toreth tried to recall the course he'd taken years ago on temperature management in detention and interrogation. All he could dredge up was that shivering was a good sign, or at least a better one than stopping shivering. How many hours had they been locked in here? How much longer would it be before they ended up like Sed? He almost didn't care he'd never felt so thoroughly miserable in his whole life. He curled up closer to the other man, the difference in their heights meaning that he could rest his chin on top of Chevril's head. He expected a protest, but none materialised. Toreth closed his eyes, shutting out the darkness. He'd been trying not to think about Warrick, but now, drifting closer to sleep despite the pain, he couldn't help it.

They'd argued, when he'd last seen Warrick, about something stupid and trivial and entirely Toreth's fault. As usual he'd been late showing up, but this time after he'd promised to be punctual. He should've made it up then and there. (Or he shouldn't have been late in the first place, but that was getting ridiculous.) He hadn't bothered to make up, that was the thing. It hadn't mattered, or so he'd thought if he left Warrick alone for a day or two, he'd cool down by himself. All it would've taken was Toreth not walking out. Then they could've rowed properly and fucked afterwards, still hot and angry, and it would've been as great as it always was. He'd still be lying cuffed on the floor of this filthy, freezing, stinking cell, bruised and thirsty and starving, with a corpse and the straightest man on God's green Earth for company, but at least he would've had one more fantastic fuck in his life. God, he missed Warrick wanted him. Just sleeping next to him would be enough right now. To have Warrick's warm body beside him, to able to smell him, kiss him, touch him, skin rubbing against skin . . . well, maybe not just sleeping, then. Why waste a beautiful bed? Imagining the unimaginably comfortable mattress and fresh sheets, clean-smelling and soft. Holding Warrick close, whispering to him, fucking him slowly, making it last for both of them, hearing him moan with every "I can feel that, you know," Chevril said. He was back in the cell, cold and aching. "It has nothing to do with you I was thinking about someone else. Move away, if you don't like it." "I'm too bloody cold. Just don't do anything with it." Sometimes you have to laugh. Even when it hurts. ~~~ "Oh, Christ, look at that!" Disgusted voices woke him, and he rolled half away from Chevril before pain stabbed through him, pinning him into stillness and leaving him gasping for breath. His ribs, his pounding head, his hip where it had been pressed against the hard floor these were islands standing out from a wide sea of pain. Beside him, Chevril tried to sit up, and fell back, groaning. "Not you, him. Get up." Toreth blinked at the light from the open door. As far as he could see, the guard was pointing to him. If he wasn't, he'd soon find out. He seemed to have guessed right, because when he finally made it to his feet, one of the guards took hold of him and dragged him out. Toreth struggled to keep himself upright, hampered by the restraints around his ankles and the agonising stiffness in his muscles. The sharper pain in his side snatched at his breathing and he fought the urge to cough. "Come on," the guard said. Too stupefied with exhaustion to think straight, Toreth muttered, "I'm coming as fast as I fucking can." He vaguely expected to get hit for it, but he wasn't. That should have caught his attention, made him wonder where they were taking him, but he was too thoroughly worn out to care about where, only how far. In the end, it was a mercifully short distance. The guards pushed him through an open doorway, sending him stumbling again, and stayed outside. An interrogation room, white and stark, and one person waiting for him.

Sara. Surprise snapped him awake. He hadn't dared hope that he'd see her again. And he'd never imagined it would feel this good, and this awful: overwhelming relief that she was alive followed at once by the fear of what might happen next. She wasn't visibly bruised, but she looked pale and terrified, her hair messy and her face smudged with dirt. When she saw him she nearly screamed, swallowing the sound before it escaped. "Toreth? Oh, God." He wanted to put his arms round her, but he couldn't. Instead, with a glance at the guards, he went over and kissed her. She'd obviously been crying, tear tracks showing in the grime on her face, and she was starting to cry again now. "Shh." He lowered his voice. "Don't make a fuss. Don't attract attention." She nodded, sniffling. Her hands were cuffed too, so he offered his filthy sleeve for her to wipe her face. "I thought you were dead," she whispered. He forced a smile. "You don't get rid of me that easily. Do you know what's going on?" "I've been locked up since it happened." She darted a frightened glance at the doorway. "They separated out the admins and took us away, by sections. They put us in one of the coffee rooms. No one knew anything much." "How long has it been?" "Four days." She frowned at him. "Didn't you . . . ?" He shrugged, then wished he hadn't. "I lost my watch. Besides which, it's tricky to look at one when you're cuffed. In the dark." "In the dark? Jesus! All this time?" "More or less. And those were the better parts, really. Did you see anything on the way down here? "Christ, yes." She shuddered. "Toreth, there's . . . such a mess. You should see the upper interrogation levels. You can't imagine. It looks like they killed . . . they killed everyone. Not just the interrogators the admins too, even the medics. Everyone. There's blood everywhere. So much blood. And God, the smell " She stopped, coughing, nearly retching. "They were still clearing the bodies away when they brought me through, down here. That's when I was sure . . . that you'd be dead too." "They got me coming out of the level two entrance. I finished the interrogation early so I was on my way to the gym. Lucky fucking break. What about the other paras? And the investigators?" "I don't know." Her gaze dropped. "There were a few with us, but they were . . . taken away. On the second day early Saturday morning." She looked up, her eyes pleading for good news. "I hoped you might've seen some of them." "'Fraid I didn't see much at all. The bastards were in a hurry to get into the main building " And massacre the interrogation level staff. "So they threw me in with a load of specialists from Corporate Fraud. Chean was telling anyone who'd stand still for five seconds that they were all nothing more than number crunchers. The resisters weren't treating them too badly, at least then." Toreth nodded down at the senior para badge on his shoulder. "I didn't think to ditch my jacket, but a few hours later they picked out the interrogators and paras whether they were in uniform or not.

After that everything got a lot less fun." "But you didn't see anyone at all from our section?" "Chevril. He's alive, but he's not good. Sedanioni was in the cell with us she died last night. Nothing we could do for her. That's everyone I know about. I left Starr in interrogation with my prisoner, so he would've been down there when " He stopped. That wasn't what she'd want to hear. "Nagra was over at Justice with B-C when it started. They'll be okay." If Justice hadn't been hit too. She still looked stricken, so he tried to think of something more optimistic for her. "There's a chance for all the others, too. If the resisters concentrated on the Interrogation levels." It was the best he could do, but he shouldn't have said it. She went pale again or rather, paler, and Toreth remembered his own thoughts earlier. Tidying up loose ends, eradicating the survivors. He was an interrogator, or at least he'd trained as one, and that was in his file. Now he was a para, and as far as any resisters were likely to be concerned, paras were as much torturers as anything else. Sara was his admin. How far was it going to go? Why had they been picked out, the two of them? It couldn't be a coincidence. Warrick. The only reason he could think of was Warrick. If whatever fuck-up had happened at I&I hadn't engulfed the corporations too, maybe he'd managed to do something. He would, if it was at all possible. Toreth hadn't doubted that at any time over what Sara said was the last four days. If Warrick could do anything, he would. If he could. Hope was dangerous, and he wasn't going to let it drive him into anything stupid. Movement by the door, and they both turned to face it. He knew at once that it wasn't Warrick, but it took a moment for his exhausted brain to recognise the tall, blond figure, then a moment longer before he could believe what he was seeing. Carnac, as large as life and about a hundred times as smug. He smiled at them calmly, as if there was nothing in the least unusual about the meeting. Toreth simply stared. "Hello, Toreth. Sara." Neurons finally fired and produced a response. "What the fuck are you doing here?" "I am organising. Planning." Carnac gestured expansively. "Directing. Creating strategy. In other words, I am doing my job. Freelance, as you might have guessed." "Okay, what the fuck are you doing here?" "Looking for you, naturally. And naturally, I have found you." Yeah, naturally. Stupid to think things couldn't get any worse. "You're with the resisters?" "For purposes of tact, you might consider calling them revolutionaries." Carnac closed the door to the room. "Us revolutionaries, indeed, for the duration of my contract." "I thought you were Administration." "Not any more. Or rather, not that Administration." So that's how it was. "I'm surprised the rabble we had in here stopped long enough to find out you were on their side." "Ah, yes. The rabble." He crossed over to them. "When one is engaged in a difficult enterprise such as this, one must use whatever tools are available. Even if those tools are dangerous and hard to direct with precision. Useful, but best used as little as possible. As we speak, the rabble are being, ah,

encouraged to return home, to enjoy the freedoms they have won. More reliable forces are replacing them." He hunted for a suitable reply, and gave up he was too exhausted to play Carnac's kind of games. "I don't suppose you could just tell us what the hell you want?" "I want you." Carnac paused, as if expecting some kind of response. "As part of my organisational duties, I have been placed in charge of dealing with this establishment. I&I is a part of the old Administration." He gestured around the room, taking in the smashed interrogation equipment. "It is also a barbaric, grotesque anachronism that symbolises that oppressive and brutal regime. A natural focus, as you have discovered, for the hatred of the populace." His delivery was as controlled as ever, but the hint of anger behind it real anger caught Toreth's interest at once. It was the first time he'd ever heard the man sound as if he cared about something other than himself. "So . . . what? You're here to finish off what your pet mob started and you thought you'd begin with personal grudges?" Carnac shook his head. "Nothing so Neanderthal. The new Administration will be . . . well, I doubt the details of our ultimate aspirations would interest you, or mean anything to you. Suffice it to say that, regrettably, your inquisitorial skills will still be required, at least for the initial period of reorganisation and readjustment." "You're going to keep Interrogation?" What the fuck was the point of the whole bloody mess, then? "Records will be examined by a tribunal to determine those with interrogation expertise most suitable to be " Carnac frowned slightly. " re-employed by the new Administration. Not a plan I designed, although I concede the practical imperative. Any, ah, excess personnel will be dealt with as appropriate." Sara said, "As appropriate?" Carnac turned to her. "My understanding is that, after their files are assessed and they are interviewed by the tribunal, those rejected will be executed as 'political criminals'. An ironic and somewhat amusing redefinition of the term." 'My understanding', my arse, Toreth thought. He would happily bet a great deal of money on it being the socioanalyst's idea in the first place. "So why pick me out?" "Because I selected you to be the first to receive an offer of re-employment. I abused no rules to do so I'm confident that you have no personal loyalty towards the old Administration, and that you will ply your trade just as efficiently for us. Beyond that, I know you and I know your strengths. I need someone to persuade the rest of those selected to remain at I&I to cooperate with us. You can fulfil that role superbly." Flattering. From anyone else Toreth might've considered believing it. "'Personal fucking liaison' again, right?" "An accurate description of the post, yes." Carnac's voice held a 'clever boy' edge that made Toreth tense his arms against the cuffs. "The new Administration is operating under martial law, and in any case Int-Sec is technically a military organisation, so I could merely order you to comply, should I so wish." But obviously he wouldn't he wanted Toreth to ask him for it, to accept the offer. Let me fuck you, and I'll let you live. Simple choice. No choice at all, really. "What about Sara?" "Sara is free to go."

She looked between them. "Free to go?" "Yes. The excesses of the first few days were regrettable, but the administrative staff are not officially included in the purges. Sorry in the 'reforms'. Most of the admins will be released over the next day or so. We are currently verifying identities to ensure that none of the larger fish slip through the net. If you also wish to return to work here, that would be your decision. I merely thought that your presence here would be . . . a demonstration of goodwill and authority on my part." Toreth nodded, believing that at least. Sara was safe. "In that case " "No!" Sara stepped forwards. "Shut up. In that case, Carnac, you can go fuck yourself, and your job, and your fucking treacherous, murderous new friends, and if you want to have me, you'll have to get someone to hold me down while you fucking well rape me, if you can manage to get it up, because " He ran out of breath, spoiling the effect, but never mind. "Because I never thought I'd say this, but I'd rather fucking die." Carnac raised an eyebrow. "Have you finished?" "Yes." "Good. Melodrama aside, is that your final answer?" "Toreth, don't! Please don't." He ignored her. "Yes, it is." "I see." Carnac shook his head, mock regretful. "I have to admit, it wasn't the answer I expected. I had thought that you'd be sufficiently intelligent to say yes, and wait until you had the chance to run." Toreth blinked. Oh, yes. Well, we can't all be geniuses, can we? "Try spending four days in the pitch dark with your ribs kicked in and then see if you feel like playing fucking games afterwards." Not a bad save, but he doubted Carnac believed it. "In that case, I believe our business here is concluded." Carnac straightened his sleeves. "I shall be " "Can I have a word with Sara? Alone?" Much as he hated to ask Carnac for anything, this might, he realised, be the last chance. Carnac took a few steps away, making it clear that that was all he would offer. She had started crying again, and it was getting on his nerves. "Sara? Do you think you could possibly shut the fuck up and listen for a minute?" With an effort, she swallowed the sobs. "What?" "A favour, that's all. Could you tell Warrick " And his mind went blank. Fuck. What the hell kind of message were you supposed to send under these circumstances? Tell him I committed suicide because I couldn't bear the idea of Carnac shoving his cock down my throat and expecting me to be grateful for it? Tell him I'm going to miss him, for however long it takes them to kill me? Tell him I'm sorry that the last thing we did together was argue and not fuck? Tell him that he was the best fuck in the world? "Tell him I . . . " And his eyes started to sting from looking at her, seeing her crying for him. No one else ever had. "You're the admin just tell him something. Whatever you think he'd like to hear. Make it sound good." She nodded, choking on tears.

"You can tell him yourself," Carnac said. Toreth turned slowly towards him. "What?" "Keir is here to collect you he's waiting upstairs. Rather impatiently, I imagine." "To . . . collect me?" The bastard was lying. He had to be lying. Playing games. "Yes. Public transport services are still suspended and I wouldn't advise walking through the city. Certainly not in uniform." Beside him, Sara stared too, tears dried by the shock. "But but you said he . . ." Carnac smiled at him with the most purely vindictive expression Toreth had seen in his life. "Toreth, did you honestly think that I would make your release conditional upon your providing sexual services? After your charming farewell last time I was here? Dear me. I think you have a somewhat exaggerated opinion of your own performance." Of course, Carnac hadn't said anything of the kind, not specifically. Heavily fucking implied it, yes, and Toreth knew all about that technique. Fuck, but the man could hold a grudge. "Why?" Toreth said. "I thought that I had explained. Shall I go through it more slowly?" "No. Why the fuck are you letting me go?" If he was. Carnac looked at him for a moment, then shrugged delicately. "I don't suppose it matters if I tell you, although I doubt you will like the answer. I'm doing this for Keir. I have a lot to thank him for, and for some reason that I cannot begin to fathom, he decided my gratitude could best be expressed by extracting you from here and returning you to his safe keeping." "What the hell do you owe him for?" "Ah. Now that, I think, he will be able to explain far better than I." He paused. "If you wish to ask him. I would advise against it, but I'm used to having my advice ignored." "I'll hear it from you." "Actually, no." Carnac looked at his watch. "Now I do have to get along. Organising a revolution is time-consuming work, but " He shared one of his devastating smiles between them, leaving Toreth cold. "At least I'm not bored." Toreth had a ready response, but it wasn't original. Let it go. Try not to hope too much that Carnac might be telling the truth. Carnac started to turn, then paused. "The offer of a job, incidentally, remains open it was the justification for your release, and I see no reason to complicate my own situation by rescinding the order. However, I doubt that anyone will have reason to chase it up, should you decide to disappear quietly. After you." He gestured to the door. Still not believing, Toreth did as he was told. A split second before it happened, he noticed that although Sara's hands were cuffed, her legs were free. Just as he began to form the thought, "How sloppy," she turned to Carnac as she passed him, smiled sweetly, and kicked him in the bollocks. Hard. Really, terribly hard. Toreth cringed in instinctive empathy, even as he relished the high, choked scream. Carnac's

expression was beyond priceless. He dropped like a stone, already doubling up before he hit the ground. Sara stood over him, tears flowing freely, screaming hatred. She didn't kick him again, but it would have been utterly superfluous in any case his nervous system was fully engaged. It was stupid, it might well get them both killed, but Toreth loved her for it. "Sara." He stepped back, out of the line of fire from the door. "Sara, leave it." She didn't react to him in the slightest, utterly focused on Carnac, yelling obscenities with a passion and variety that impressed him, even under the currently stressed circumstances. "Sara, get away from him." Door opening now. He took a deep breath, ignoring the fierce pain in his side. "Sara!" he shouted, desperately willing her to move. At least she shut up. And at least the guards who entered seemed prepared to investigate before they fired. They looked between them, from Sara to himself to the writhing Carnac. What had happened was blindingly obvious, even without Carnac trying to gasp out something that might have been, "Bitch." To his surprise, Toreth recognised one of the guards. "Horley?" The man caught his eye for a second, then turned away, towards his companion, who looked to Toreth like a civilian a resister. "What do you think?" the civilian asked. Horley shrugged. "We've already got our orders. I don't see that this changes them." And, briefly, he smiled. Actually smiled. They weren't looking at Carnac any more, not even a glance. He had a sudden feeling that Carnac's talent for making himself unpopular had been manifesting itself again. Horley nodded at them. "Get a move on." Toreth went over and nudged Sara with his shoulder. He wasn't leaving her, whatever happened. "Sara, come on. Move. Before they change their minds." Before Carnac got his voice back, which fortunately wouldn't be for a good while yet. She looked up at him blankly, then nodded. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice raw. "I'm not. But we have to go. Please." To his relief, another nudge got her moving, with only a brief backward glance. Once they were out of the room, Carnac's anguished moans fading behind them, Horley stopped them. "Take the cuffs off them," he said to the other guard. "What about " "Forget what the spook said. They're going home, what the hell does it matter? Besides, it'll take forever to walk him up there with the leg restraints." ~~~ He recognised all the corridors, every lift, every door. He'd worked there ever since the building had been completed. And everything seemed strange; every person was a stranger, even the few he recognised. But at the same time all his colleagues (or at least the surviving ones) were still there, somewhere, locked up. In coffee rooms, like Sara had been, or in cells like Chevril, cuffed and in pain. And alone now, except for poor fucking Sedanioni. They passed bodies, and Service troopers bagging them for removal. He recognised some of the corpses, but most of the faces were made unfamiliar by death. Bloodstains marked places where other

bodies had already been cleared, making it plain that on the interrogation levels the killing had been extensive. So much blood. Sara walked beside him, tears falling steadily as if she was no longer aware of them, averting her eyes from the dead. But Toreth didn't feel anything beyond a sense of wondering disbelief, or even find it strange that he didn't. His body still hurt, but even that seemed distant. It was simply too much for him to take in his world fallen apart around him. How could this have happened? How could the Administration have allowed it to happen? Eventually, they reached the ground floor, coming out of a lift that stank of blood into the long corridor leading to the interview rooms near reception. Through a glass door he saw a dark-haired man, with his back to them. "It's him," Sara said in a low voice. "Oh, God it really is." Clearly she'd put as much faith in Carnac's promises as he had. The guards halted them in the corridor and opened the door to the room, and it was Warrick. Unbelievably, wonderfully Warrick, arguing ferociously with a man in a Service captain's uniform. "I have authorisation from the socioanalyst. I have all the fucking paperwork. Hand him over or let me see Carnac, now." Toreth took a step forwards, unable to help it, then stopped at a warning gesture from Horley. The captain looked up, over Warrick's shoulder, and his face lit up with relief. "They're here." Warrick stopped in mid-exposition and spun round so fast he was in danger of whiplash. Toreth had no idea what to say, but luckily Warrick didn't seem to want a major reconciliation scene. "Toreth. Thank Sara?" She stepped up beside him. "You don't sound too pleased to see me." "I wasn't never mind. Come on." He turned back to the captain. "Everything is in order? Yes?" It didn't sound like much of a question. "Yes, everything. Just take them away and get out of my office." "Thank you very much for all your help," Warrick said with tremendous insincerity, and picked up a pile of papers and scannable IDs from the table. "I think this is all mine." He brushed past the guards as if they didn't exist and came out into the corridor, stopping beside them. "Which way to get out?" "Depends which exit you want," Toreth said. "The main one. I left some things there." "That way, then, but " Warrick had already set off, walking quickly. "Questions later. We need to leave, now." Reception was oddly normal he didn't recognise the guards, nor the people at the desk, but it looked like business as usual. He rubbed his wrists where the cuffs had scraped the skin raw. Half an hour ago, he'd been in the cell, sure he was going to die. Now he was ten metres away from freedom. Desperately wanting to keep going, Toreth was still glad of the chance to rest while Warrick collected a bag from the main desk. Adrenaline buoyed him up, but the brisk walk had left him breathless and dizzy. Something touched his arm, and he looked down to find Sara gazing at him anxiously.

"Are you okay? You're sheet white." He took a breath, keeping it shallow, regretting it even so. "I'm fine." Warrick opened the bag and handed him a bundle of clothes. "Get changed." "Here?" "I had to leave the car some way off. They're not letting anything into the Int-Sec complex there was an explosion not far from here yesterday, although no one seems to be sure who did it, or why. But if you walk around dressed like that, you'll get lynched Int-Sec uniforms are a death sentence." "Right." He started to strip, gritting his teeth against the pain from his ribs and aching shoulders, ignoring the glances from the guards. "What about me?" Sara asked. "Am I okay?" Warrick smiled suddenly, nerves temporarily vanished. "You look as gorgeous as ever. As do you." He turned the smile on Toreth, who found himself genuinely dazzled, before Warrick sobered again. "But we aren't clear yet, and it would be stupid to make a mistake now." He studied Sara more closely. "I think you should be all right. There is the badge on the jacket, unfortunately, but it's not too obvious. I didn't bring anything for you, I'm afraid. I only expected to collect Toreth Carnac said they were releasing the admins anyway." Her eyes narrowed. "I'm a gesture of goodwill and . . . don't mention his fucking name again." Warrick stared. "Sara " "Look," she said. "If I take my jacket off, and you lend me your pullover, then my skirt isn't too much of a mess. At least I won't look so much like I've been stuck here for four days, with just a wash in the toilets to keep me going." "Very well that sounds reasonable." Sensibly, he seemed willing to drop the question of Carnac. Toreth dressed as quickly as he could, given that every movement hurt. The new clothes not his own but in his size felt wonderful, although they made him uncomfortably aware of how badly he needed to wash. He knew he must stink, although after so long in the cell he could barely tell. He rubbed his face, feeling the four-day growth of beard. The prospect of shaving and showering, soon, was so wonderful that it brought back the fear he'd felt in the interrogation room. If they had everyone else locked down, could Carnac really have arranged to set him free? It would be just like the bastard to let them get this far before snatching him back. While Sara stuffed his old clothes into the bag, Toreth donned the clean jacket. Anxiety made him rush, and the pain stopped him with it only halfway on. "Ah, fuck." Everyone looked round at the exclamation Warrick and Sara, the receptionists. The guards. Toreth shoved his other arm into its sleeve, ignoring the knife twisting in his side. "I'm ready. Let's go." Right up until the moment the guard opened the main doors and they walked out, he wasn't sure. The rush of relief when the doors closed behind them was tinged with disorientation he'd expected it to be morning outside, for no good reason other than he'd just woken up. In fact it was afternoon, the pale winter sun low in the sky. Warrick checked his watch. "We need to hurry, if you can manage it. There's a curfew. In theory we have plenty of time, but if we're delayed, I don't have a permit to be out after dark. We'll be

arrested if we're lucky." Toreth looked at Sara, and saw his own thoughts mirrored on her face. He'd rather be shot in the street than taken back to that cell. The walk to the car seemed to take hours, instead of thirty minutes or so. To his annoyance and embarrassment, Toreth had to stop three times to recover his breath. There were plenty of people around, most of them heading in the same direction as themselves, away from the complex. Officiallooking groups, troopers, and what seemed to be random citizens exploring the Int-Sec grounds. But although they attracted a few curious glances probably due to Sara's tear-stained face no one tried to stop them. "Where now?" Toreth asked, as the car started to move. "We're going to my flat. It will be best if you both stay with me for a while it should be safe enough. There's been looting and riots all round the city, but I have SimTech security there, as well as the building guards." "I need to get some things from my place." Warrick shook his head. "I collected everything yesterday. What I could find a few clothes and one or two bits of the exercise equipment that didn't look too badly damaged. There are lists of names out of Int-Sec employees, and their addresses. It's been a free-for-all." "Fuck." Toreth didn't particularly care, not about possessions in general, except "What about the gear? What about the chains?" "Gone." Something must have showed on his face, because Warrick added, "It doesn't matter we can always buy some more." Not like those ones. And even if they were identical, they wouldn't be the same. If he ever laid his hands on the vermin who'd done the looting . . . Warrick turned to Sara. "After I saw the mess at Toreth's I went round to your flat. I'm sorry when I got there, there was nothing left. The whole building was burned out." "Bastard?" she whispered. Warrick looked blank, until Toreth said, "The cat." "Ah. I don't know. Was he locked in the flat? If he was, then I'm afraid he's gone." "He had a window. He got in and out through the bathroom window. I don't " She sniffed, then wiped her eyes angrily. "I don't remember if I left it open." "I'll send someone to look for him tomorrow, I promise." "Thanks. And . . . I have to call mum and dad. They'll be going out of their minds." "Yes, of course. That is, you can try as soon as we get back to the flat. The comms have been intermittent at best, but I'll set something up to keep trying until you get a connection. If you can't get through, give me the address and I'll make sure they know where you are. But it would be safer to wait until the morning for that." "Thanks again. I should call my sister too but Fee's probably at mum's anyway." Sara frowned. "How's Dillian? Wasn't she off-world?" From Warrick's sudden stillness, Toreth guessed the news wasn't good. "I haven't heard anything from her. Comms to Mars have been out since it started. I hoped there might be something today, but regrettably not. But on the other hand, there is no definite bad news either." His voice was as carefully expressionless as his face.

"Oh. Well, there might not even have been any trouble there." Warrick shook his head. "I hoped the same thing, at first. But there have been one or two reports suggesting that isn't the case." "I'm sure she's okay. I mean " She looked across at Toreth, obviously hoping for a contribution to the conversation. "What about Kate?" he asked. "Fine. She's fine." Warrick seemed as grateful for the change of subject as Sara did. "And the rest of the family. Cele's there with them. The trouble hasn't been so bad that far out. I managed a connection for a few minutes this morning and she said it was all quiet." Toreth looked out of the window. Everything seemed surprisingly normal, except for the odd damaged car, buildings with broken windows and, here and there, squads of troopers on the streets. "It looks quiet enough here." "It does now, yes. However, the troopers only appeared in numbers the day before yesterday, after the Service senior command put out a broadcast pledging their loyalty to the new Council." "Took them long enough to make up their minds," Sara said. "Indeed. I expect they were extracting concessions from the new Administration before they decided whether to back them or not." "Treacherous fucking scum," Toreth muttered. He wished he had the energy to be as angry about it as he ought to be. There was a brief pause before Warrick said, "It isn't over yet. The new Council has far from universal support. It was as quiet as this during the day yesterday, and then there was a hell of a lot of trouble last night, all across the city." Then there could be trouble again tonight. "Will it be all right for us to stay?" Toreth asked. "Of course. Why shouldn't it be?" "You know why. People know we're together. They know what I do. Someone in the building might recognise me. Take Sara, and I'll find somewhere else myself." Sara started a protest, but Warrick overrode her. "You're both coming back to the flat with me. The question is not open for discussion." Toreth stared at him. Not a tone of voice he often heard from Warrick certainly not directed at him. A glance out of the window showed them to be in a quiet street, somewhere he recognised. He touched the control panel. "Stop." The car continued smoothly along. "You're wasting your time," Warrick said. "I cleared your voiceprint from the system. And I activated the iris scan for the manual controls so there's no point your trying those, either." Of course, he would have done. Toreth hated being predictable. "And you're going to lock me in the flat as well, are you?" "If I have to. In fact, if you make me do it, I'll chain you to the bed. I think we have one long enough to let you reach the bathroom. If not, I'll padlock a couple together." Jesus, he was serious. "All right," Toreth said. "I'll come quietly."

Warrick smiled. "Good."

Chapter Two
Toreth could've stayed in the shower until he fell asleep on his feet, but he kept it short because it was obvious that Sara desperately wanted one too, and she insisted he went first. With the blood and filth washed away, he assessed his injuries in the bathroom mirror. A short but deep cut on his right brow-bone had been the source of most of the blood, and would probably scar too late to have it properly bonded. At least there was no obvious sign of infection. The skin over his cracked ribs was an ugly Technicolor display of black, purple, yellow and green. Plenty of smaller bruises and abrasions far more than he wanted to count. Then he thought of Sedanioni and Chev, and decided things could be a lot worse. He opened the medicine cabinet and smiled at the stock on display. The occasional advantages of fucking a masochist. It took a third of a bottle of liquid skin repair to paint over all the scrapes within easy reach Warrick could do the rest for him later. His ribs hurt badly, but Warrick's increasingly sophisticated stock of painkillers came into play, and by the time he sat ensconced on the sofa in the living room, mug in hand, things seemed weirdly normal. In the familiar surroundings, he found it hard to believe that the last four days had been anything more than a nightmare. He kept having to touch his side, fingers pressing lightly into the flesh, so that the drug-muted pain felt real enough for it all to be true. I&I gone. Or at least finished for him. It simply wasn't possible. He felt cut adrift, light-headed, although that was probably hunger. Warrick was cooking he'd feel better once he'd eaten. He settled back into the sofa, burning his tongue with an incautious mouthful of coffee. Everything would be fine. He was where he'd so badly wanted to be when he was lying in the cell with Chevril. Funny that he hadn't consciously noticed at the time. He'd wanted to be here, in Warrick's flat. Almost, if not quite, home. Things weren't entirely ordinary, of course, even here. There was a SimTech guard inside the flat, with others stationed elsewhere in the building. Guards belonging to the residential complex patrolled the corridors. Toreth was willing to concede that his earlier worries seemed unjustified. Here did look like being the safest place, for all of them. Sara came in, her dark hair damp and disarrayed, wearing a borrowed dressing gown that looked ridiculously large on her. "What have you got there?" she asked him. "Coffee, with a splash of brandy. It's all the alcohol Warrick's letting me have, until I've eaten." He smiled at her, and she returned it, a little wanly. "Ask him, if you want one." "In a bit." She sat on the sofa beside him, folding her legs up under her. "How are you?" "Okay, all things considered. You?" "About the same. Tired, mostly." "There's a spare room. I can " "No. I don't think I want to sleep not on my own." She glanced down, fiddling with her belt. "Would it be all right if I had a nap here? With you? Just until the food's ready." "Of course it would. Hang on." He shifted, making himself as comfortable as he could, then patted his thigh. "Come on, then." "Thanks." She lay down, her head light in his lap, and he resisted an urge to run his fingers

through her hair. "Feel better for the shower?" he asked. "Much. I hate being dirty. I don't think I'm going to feel properly clean for a week." "I know exactly what you mean." He'd run the shower near scalding hot, but he could still smell the cell on his skin. "But we're out of there now. Dinner and a good night's sleep, and you'll be fine." She shivered. "God, it was horrible." "I know. You were all just admins. Why the fuck they couldn't have let you go before, I " "Not that. Well, yes, that was too. But I was thinking about Carnac." "Oh. Yes." Scratch Carnac's charming surface and you'd find the bastard underneath. "I'm sorry about that. You remember when he was at I&I, doing his poxy report?" She nodded. "I pissed him off. Actually, I told him he was a lousy fuck, which he is. That was payback." Payback with interest. "I know." That was news. "How?" "Oh. I " She hesitated, then smiled. "I'm your admin. I know everything." "Not any more." "I don't know everything?" "No, you're not my admin. I'm unemployed, remember?" She smiled again, already drifting off to sleep. "Right. Of course you are." Right. Of course he was. He put his arm over Sara's shoulder, and thought about unemployment and Carnac. 'The offer of a job remains open'. Never, was his first reaction. He never wanted to see the man again. The humiliation knotted his stomach. He'd nearly cried, for the first time since fuck, the first time since he'd lived with his fucking parents. Never mind that it had been for Sara that's not what Carnac would've thought. He never wanted to see Carnac again. But that meant never having the chance to settle the score. The bastard had made Sara cry. On its own, that was enough to make him want to take the job and then make Carnac pay, and pay over again for what he'd done. He took a sip of the cooling coffee. He shouldn't even want to think about that, after the last four days. However unreal it all felt, he'd have to get used to the idea that everything had changed. It would be stupid to go back to the I&I building when Warrick had taken so much trouble to get him out. And Warrick . . . Warrick would have a fit at the suggestion. Leaning his head back against the sofa, he closed his eyes, just to rest them. He wasn't going to sleep yet. He'd wait until they'd eaten. ~~~ A firm touch on his hand startled Toreth out of a dreamless sleep. Opening his eyes, he found Warrick trying to remove the mug from his fingers. "Sorry," Warrick said. "It looked somewhat hazardous, under the circumstances." Sara still slept in his lap, and the mug in question balanced on the arm of the sofa above her, half

full of the now-cold coffee. He surrendered the mug to Warrick, who took it and then touched Toreth's cheek briefly with his other hand. "You shaved," Warrick said. "And it felt great. I hate beards." "I thought it looked rather good, as far as one could tell through the grime. A slight reddish tinge to the blond very attractive." "Yeah? Well, maybe I'll grow one for your birthday. I'll get Sara to remind me, or " He stopped, the strange feeling of disconnection triggered again. Sara wouldn't necessarily be there to remind him. Warrick looked at him enquiringly, and he shook his head. "Nothing." "I don't think I've ever seen you not finish a drink before," Warrick said after a moment. "Would you like something else?" "Food. I'm fucking starving." "Ready in a few minutes. That's why I came in." He sat down in the chair opposite. "I thought you might've had it on the table for us when we got here," Toreth said. It wasn't a serious complaint, and Warrick smiled. "I would have, except that I was at I&I since first thing this morning." Toreth blinked. "All day?" "Yes. Most of that was occupied with getting to see someone in the first place, or waiting while they said they were trying to find you. I didn't dare leave in case they wouldn't let me back in. In the morning there was some shooting inside the building " He shook his head. "In the distance. I don't know what it was. But after that it seemed best to stay." Another lot of interrogators experiencing mob justice. Or possibly Carnac's rabble being encouraged to go enjoy their freedom somewhere else. He could always hope. "Thanks, anyway," Toreth said. "For getting us out. I knew you would." Warrick raised an eyebrow. "Really?" "Well, no. But I did know you'd try to." There were a few seconds of silence, then Warrick said, "How's Sara doing? And what was that about Carnac?" He shrugged, carefully. "She'll be fine. Carnac pulled something not at all funny to get at me. Sara got caught in the crossfire. Except . . . no, she didn't. The bastard did it deliberately, to her as well." Warrick nodded. "I have to say, I worried it might be something like that. But he was all I could think of to try to get you out." The idea of being grateful to Carnac stung him, and also reminded him of something else. "Carnac told me he helped us because he owed you. What for?" Warrick closed his eyes briefly. "Oh, hell." "Warrick, what was it?" "If I said it was Carnac causing trouble, and that it was better that you didn't ask, would that work?" 'If you wish to ask him. I would advise against it, but I'm used to having my advice ignored'. If Carnac didn't want him to know, then obviously Toreth had to. "No. I want to hear it."

"I thought as much. Let me get a drink." Warrick took a long time about it. When he sat back down, he still didn't say anything. "Well?" Toreth asked. "Do you remember when Carnac came to SimTech? When he did the report?" How could he fucking forget? "Yes." "I spent some time alone with him. In the sim." Oh God, no. Not like that. Warrick looked up and shook his head at the unspoken question. "Nothing sexual. Although that might've been better, in the long run. He was having doubts about the Administration. About his role in it. He mentioned an interrogation you showed him. He wasn't sure if such things were justifiable simply to maintain the stranglehold of the Administration on Europe." Toreth stared at him, open-mouthed. That was treason. Blatant, concrete, inarguable treason. From a socioanalyst at that, although it was ridiculous that he should be shocked when he'd seen the man at I&I, working with resisters. "What did you say to him?" he asked eventually. "I told him that I thought he was probably right." Warrick's gaze didn't waver. "And that whatever he wanted to do about it was up to his own conscience." Treason again. "So he went away and started a fucking revolt?" "It does look that way, yes." "Because of what you said to him?" "If you want an immediate cause, perhaps." Warrick ran his hand over the arm of the chair, then picked off a speck of fluff. "Or one could equally well say that it was because of what you showed him. I imagine that the situation is too complex for either of us to take the whole blame." "Fucking hell." My fault, Toreth thought. In some small way, my fault. Carnac had come to I&I to check them for subversive tendencies and left with the seeds of his own subversion sown. He laughed, once, the sound escaping before he could get his hand up to his mouth to stifle it. If he started laughing, he knew he wouldn't be able to stop, and he didn't want to wake Sara or aggravate his ribs. He bit his lip, fighting down the hysteria by thinking about Carnac, the fucking hypocrite. It proved highly effective. "He offered me a job, you know. Back at I&I. Doing the unjustifiable." Warrick sipped his drink and nodded. "He's nothing if not a pragmatist. He said the system couldn't simply be undone overnight. It would take time, even after the heart of the problem had been torn out. However, the offer was a formal condition for your release, as I understood it. He said you wouldn't have to accept it." "Yes, I know." He thought of Carnac telling him he could walk away and leave it all behind. Fine, in theory. In practise it meant that Carnac had won. He had I&I and he could do whatever the hell he wanted with it and from his tone of voice in the interrogation room, that was nothing good. What Warrick had told him only made him more certain of that. He made a decision. "Warrick, I'm sorry about this, I really am, but I have to go back." If Carnac would let him, after Sara's excellent piece of footwork. Long silence, then Warrick said, "Are you sure?"

"Yes. Whatever " Whatever Carnac's plans are, I'm going to fuck them over as thoroughly as he fucked with me and make him eat every word he said. However, that sounded petty, or at least an inadequate reason for going back to I&I. Nor did he want to take the risk of voicing it out loud. Best not to take chances where Carnac was concerned. What else could he say? He could call it loyalty, and that would, surprisingly, be partly true. As far as he'd ever belonged anywhere, it was there, and if I&I survived then he wanted to be a part of it. Warrick wouldn't understand that, though he'd said so himself. He thought about I&I in the same way as the people who'd gone from room to room and killed admins, medics and interrogators without bothering to find out who was what: as something that ought to be eliminated. Toreth fixed on something. Something that might do as an explanation, without getting into a discussion of the rights and wrongs of I&I. That was an argument they somehow managed to avoid having too often, and he was far too tired to have it now. "Do you remember Don Chevril?" Warrick nodded. "He was in the cell with me. He's a mess. In fact, he might be dead by now if they've had another go at him, but if he's not I can get him out. If I take the job." And if Carnac meant what he said. "There are all the others too. I've worked with them for a long time. They're " "You don't have to justify it to me. If it's what you have to do, then do it." Warrick delivered the statement so unemotionally that Toreth had to re-run it through his tired brain several times before he was sure he'd heard it right. "Really?" Warrick smiled slightly. "Really." "I thought you'd be pissed off about it." "I knew you'd take it or I guessed you would. I would've preferred it if you hadn't, of course. However, as I am occasionally required to remind people, I fuck you, not your job." "Oh." Toreth felt peculiarly unbalanced, ready for a fight that hadn't materialised. "Well, thanks." "Nothing to thank me for, in this instance." Toreth slipped out from under Sara with the ease of long practice, laying her head down gently onto the sofa. Warrick watched him, sipping his drink. "Are you thinking about going now?" Warrick asked. "Because the curfew " "No. But I'll call Carnac and tell him I'm accepting he's probably just about able to stand up by now. That'll get things rolling. And then . . . " "Then?" "Then you can fuck me, not my job." Warrick smiled. "I thought you might want dinner first." It was a testament to how incredibly hungry he was that he actually agreed. ~~~ Sara woke up in a cold sweat, struggling against the clutch of the sheets, still hearing screaming and smelling the blood. Then the room came into sharp focus around her and she almost sobbed from sheer relief. However, the realisation that she was safe didn't banish the choking tightness in her throat. Sick. Oh, God, she was going to be

She made it to the bathroom just in time to bring up the remains of her lovely, expensive dinner into the sink. She ran water into the bowl, trying to decide if that was it, or if the feeling was coming back. At least she hadn't thrown up all over Warrick's lovely, expensive carpets. She heard a tap on the door and a male voice she didn't recognise said, "Excuse me? Are you all right in there?" It had to be the security guard. She clutched the edge of the sink tightly and closed her eyes. "Fine," she said, trying to sound it. "Okay. Sorry to disturb you." She rinsed her mouth out and splashed water on her face. Much better. It had been the nightmare, that was all. Or maybe the fact that she'd eaten too much after three days living on coffee and biscuits. How long had she slept? However long it was, she felt barely less exhausted than when she'd gone to sleep. Still, she might go and sit in the living room for a while. Watch the news and her stomach knotted again at the idea. Well, perhaps not that. But not go back to bed just yet. She was about to open the door when, in the nick of time, it finally registered that she was completely naked. Oh, hell. She wondered if the guard had seen her on the way here. She hadn't spotted him, but she'd had other things on her mind. A quick hunt round revealed only hand towels. Oh, hell in spades. Maybe he'd gone away and she could make a dash for it. She knocked quietly on the door. "Um, hello?" "Yes?" Right outside. Well, where else? "Look, could I possibly ask you a favour?" "Of course." "Could you . . . could you go to my room the spare room and get my dressing gown? It's over the back of the chair." "Certainly. I won't be a minute." She waited until she heard returning footsteps and then opened the door a crack. He handed the dressing gown through without comment, and she put it on, feeling her cheeks start to burn. It was tempting to wait until he went away and then run for her room. Instead, she took a deep breath and stepped outside. She found herself looking at the SimTech logo on the shoulder of a dark grey uniform. It took her a moment to force her eyes upward to meet his. "Er, hi," she said, unable to think of anything more face-saving. He offered his hand, as if nothing untoward had happened. "Rob McLean. You must be Ms Lovelady." He said it with a perfectly straight face as well, which she always appreciated. "Call me Sara, please." He nodded. "You can call me Rob, or McLean, whichever you feel most comfortable with." He looked at her more closely. "Are you okay?" "Um, actually, no. I had a . . . a really, really bad day. Four days." "Why don't you go sit in the living room, and I'll bring you a drink. What would you like?" "Tea, please. I'll come with you." They went through into the kitchen and Sara sat and watched him while he made her tea. She didn't remember noticing him at the AERC, and she thought she would have done. He was certainly

easy on the eye: tall, with dark brown hair and eyes to match it. Looked after his own body as well as other people's. Not very expressive, but that was probably professional veneer. Semi-seriously, she wondered whether Toreth had seen him yet, or if she could put a claim in first. He set the tea down. "Here you are." "Join me?" When he hesitated, she added, "Please? I'd appreciate the company." "Of course," he said. "Let me get a cup." After he sat down, there was a short silence. "Have you worked for SimTech for long?" she asked. "Only I volunteer for sim trials and I don't remember seeing you." "You wouldn't. Normally I do personnel security assessments. Advice for the mid- to high-risk staff home security, helping them plan their lives to make them safer, that sort of thing. Screening new employees. They reassigned me here when the trouble started." "So what's been happening out here? I've been stuck in a coffee room at I&I for the last four days." A hint of a frown creased his brow, then he shrugged. "I'm not entirely sure. I doubt anyone is except the people who organised it. And it was organised well organised." It would be, if Carnac had anything to do with it. "Go on." "From the news I've seen, it happened all across Europe at about the same time. Administration buildings occupied, the comms net taken down, mobs out on the street. The Parliment of the Regions put out a statement condeming the 'lawless rioters' of course, now they're supporting the new Council." Sara laughed shortly. "I expect they're worried about their expenses and their pensions." "Probably." Rob smiled too. "Still, I don't think the revolt would have stuck, except that the Service sat it out to start with. Now they're restoring order there was a lot more shooting last night than there has been. And tonight as well. You can hear it now, if you listen." When she listened, she could. A faint background noise, different to the usual sounds of New London. But whatever was happening was going on a long way from the security of Warrick's wellguarded flat in his exclusive residential area. She wondered how her parents were she hadn't got through to them, but maybe that was just the comms. No need to start worrying yet, she told herself firmly. As if she could help it. "Warrick said the Service are on the side of the new Administration," she said. "Yes. Or that's what it looks like. I wouldn't put money on how it's going to turn out in the end, myself. Not when there's so much trouble still going on. There are more buildings burning tonight, if you go into the living room and look out." "I'd rather not." She closed her eyes and shivered. Buildings burning, like her building had burned. Bastard, trapped in the flat, not understanding what was happening, yowling for her until the smoke and heat became too much for him. She knew where his body would be he'd have gone to hide under her bed, where he always went when he was frightened. If he was dead, please let the smoke have got him before . . . "Sara?" McLean touched the back of her hand, and she opened her eyes to find him looking at her

with concern. "I'm fine. Just thinking about . . . something." His hand lay gently on hers, his eyes warm and very expressive indeed. "Is there anything I can do?" "Well " Then the door opened. Of course. She took her hand away and picked up her tea, sitting back in the chair. It was Toreth, also wearing one of Warrick's dressing gowns and looking exhausted. Better than he had when he'd said a rather incoherent goodnight after the meal, though, and a thousand times better than when she'd first seen him in the interrogation room. McLean didn't react to Toreth's entrance. Of course, he'd know who Toreth was even though he'd come on duty after he'd gone to bed. She'd still seen McLean first. Toreth was opening cupboards. "God, you can tell when he's been stressed out he reorganises every bloody thing. Where the hell ah." He produced a glass, filled it with water and downed it in one long drink before refilling it. "Couldn't sleep?" she asked him. "Still dehydrated." He opened the freezer and helped himself to ice. As he straightened up he winced, putting his hand gingerly to his side. "Fuck. And the painkillers wore off." He turned round, leaned on the fridge, and looked between them. Then his body language altered, sending a message Sara was all too familiar with. "Aren't you going to introduce me?" he said. She wished Toreth wouldn't do that. He'd always done it, to some extent, but ever since Jon Kemp had hospitalized her it was like having an overprotective older brother. One who could unconsciously give the impression that he would break the limbs of anyone who laid a finger on her. He had scared off more than one boyfriend these days she tried not to let them meet him, and warned them first if it was unavoidable. If he met them at the 'interested' stage, she usually wrote them off as a bad job. To her surprise, McLean didn't look even faintly intimidated. Of course, that was his job. "Rob McLean," he said. "I work for SimTech." Toreth nodded. "I guessed that. You must be night shift." "First half. Six 'til two." He looked between them. "Should I go and guard somewhere else?" "No, that's fine," Sara said before Toreth could say anything. She'd be damned if she'd let him interfere with the only nice thing that had happened in the last five days. "McLean, this is Val Toreth, my boss. Toreth, we were just talking about what's been going on." "Going on where?" "With the revolution," McLean said. Toreth's lip curled. "'Revolution'?" McLean shrugged. "Call it what you like. Sara said you didn't know anything about it." Toreth's expression now bordered on open dislike. "No, I don't. Because I've been lying in a cell for the last four days, in the dark, with a lovely set of broken ribs that I got from the 'revolutionaries'. So frankly, I don't want to hear about it."

McLean nodded. "Of course," he said with professional coolness. Sara sighed silently. "Are you still planning on going back?" she asked Toreth. "Yes. I'm not giving Carnac free rein at I&I." McLean looked surprised. "Carnac?" Sara stared at him, which was exactly what Toreth was doing. "Do you know him?" she asked. "Not know him, as such, but I've met him. He stayed here, before you arrived." When Sara was a child, her family had holidayed in Switzerland. They'd stopped for a picnic by a mountain lake and, after her mother had checked it was marked as safe for swimming, she'd jumped into the inviting-looking water only to discover that it had come straight from a melting glacier. The shock then was like the shock now. "I beg your pardon?" Toreth said quietly. "He was here Carnac. I assume it's the same man. Tall, blond, a bit effeminate?" Shut up. Just shut up, now. Sara tried to force the words out, but every instinct was telling her to keep as quiet and still as possible. "He stayed here?" She almost wished Toreth had shouted, because then she would've known what would happen next. McLean glanced at her, realising that something was wrong but unable to back out now. "Yes. He was here for the first couple of nights we were. He left yesterday." He checked his watch. "The day before yesterday, rather. Monday morning." "Monday morning." Toreth nodded. "Excuse me." He put his glass down hard, and walked out. His departure released Sara from her paralysis. "Oh, shit." She jumped up and dashed to the kitchen doorway. McLean followed her. "What?" he said, bewildered. Warrick's bedroom door slammed. "He stayed here, that's all." "Where did he sleep?" Sara asked. "In the guest room, at least while I was here." "Couldn't you have said so?" "I didn't know it " "Shush. Let me listen." "Was he here?" Toreth's voice, loud and clear. "Well, was he?" She waited anxiously through a minute or so of quieter voices, words indistinct but the edge of anger still audible. Then the bedroom door opened again, and Toreth reappeared, heading for the outer door, mostly dressed, his face set and flushed with fury. Warrick was only a pace or two behind him. "Toreth, be sensible, please. Housekeeping, cancel all accesses." At the last moment, Warrick managed to get in front of Toreth and turned round, blocking the path to the door. "There is a curfew. They are shooting people. For God's sake, be reasonable and " "Get out of my fucking way." "I'm not going to let "

"You lied to me." Warrick looked past Toreth, catching sight of the audience. "Do we have to do this here?" "No we don't, because I'm leaving. Curfew or no fucking curfew, I'm going back to my own flat." "You leave this building over my dead body." As she waited for Toreth's response, Sara reflected that people didn't usually sound so serious when they said that. Moreover, you didn't usually think there was a chance it would happen. Toreth stood absolutely still in the corridor, and even though she couldn't see his face, she was awfully glad she wasn't standing where Warrick was. Warrick looked as imperturbable as ever. McLean started to move, and she grabbed his arm. "Jesus, don't even think about it," she whispered. Silence, seconds stretching out, then Warrick stepped aside from the door. "Very well." He did something to the security system, and then turned back to Toreth. "I'm going back to bed. You're " He looked up, towards them, then stepped closer to Toreth and said something too quietly for Sara to hear. Then he walked past him and went back into the bedroom, leaving the door ajar. Toreth hesitated, reaching for the front door, and Sara prayed that she wouldn't have to stop him leaving. Just as she was about to take the first step into the corridor, Toreth slammed his hand against the wall and swore, making her jump. Then he turned and followed Warrick. If he saw the two of them in the kitchen doorway, he didn't acknowledge them. After a long moment of silence, McLean said, "Excuse me? Could I have my arm back, please? Only " "Shit, I'm sorry." She let McLean go, only realising as she did so how tightly she'd held him. "Are you okay?" "Fine." He rubbed his arm. "Although I don't usually have to worry about the people I'm supposed to be looking after bruising me." "I'm sorry. Would you like something else to drink? Something with a bit more kick than tea?" "I'm on duty." And on reflection, something alcoholic might not be good for her stomach. "There's soda if you want some. Fruit juice. Coffee." Out of the corner of her eye she saw him step into the doorway, looking up the corridor. "I wouldn't go looking for them, if I were you." "I'm fine, thanks." He hesitated. "I think I should go and check on them. Your boss sounded pretty angry back there, and I am responsible for Warrick's safety." For a moment she was tempted to say 'go ahead', but it wouldn't be funny. Not really. "They'll be fine. They do this a lot." "But that doesn't mean I'm any less responsible for anything that happens." He sighed. "I hate this job sometimes." She looked at him in surprise. She'd never heard him express an opinion, never mind such a vehement one. (Never being, of course, all of half an hour.) "Come and sit down. I honestly don't think there's any urgent guarding that needs to be done." With a last look up the corridor, he came back and took a seat. She poured herself a glass of soda water, then sat down opposite him. "What do you hate about it?"

"Intruding in people's lives. I'd rather be patrolling the building, to be honest." "So why aren't you?" He shrugged. "I'm good at this role. I'm presentable and fairly unobtrusive. I get on with people. But I still don't like it that's why I switched to consulting. Although at least I don't have to stay here off shift." "But what about the curfew?" "Oh, no, I meant here in the flat. We're sleeping in the building most of the private security people are." Seeing her raised eyebrows, he said, "There are break rooms and a canteen down in the basement, for the building guards and the maintenance and other staff. The building supervisor's opened up her flat and another couple of unoccupied ones. It's pretty crowded down there, but I shouldn't complain." He looked at his watch. "I really ought to show an interest." "No. It's only been few minutes not long enough to start worrying." "How long do you recommend?" "Don't worry at all. They haven't killed each other yet. The worry is what kind of a mood they'll be in when they reappear, and you can tell that by how long it takes. If it's five, ten minutes, then they've argued, so stay out of the blast radius. If it's more than fifteen, they've argued and made up, and they're safe to approach." He laughed. "Are you sure you should be telling me this kind of thing? What if you don't know when it started?" "Ah, that's easy. If they're both smiling, then it's okay. If neither of them is, then it's bad news. If Toreth isn't smiling and Warrick's doing that . . . have you seen it? The thing that isn't a smile but uses the same muscles?" "Oh yes, I've seen that one." "That's a good time to start looking for cover until one or other of them clears out." She shrugged. "Except right now there's nowhere for either them to go. Better hope they make up." ~~~ Toreth closed the door behind him closed this time, not slammed, because Warrick was playing cold and reasonable and Toreth didn't intend to lose at that game. Warrick had already sat on the sofa under the window, looking so calm that Toreth barely restrained himself from going over and hitting him harder than either of them would enjoy. Safer to stand by the bed, his hands clenched behind his back, even though that made him think of I&I. He'd been lying in that fucking cell while Carnac was here. Finally Warrick said, "The answer to the question is no." "What question?" "No, I didn't fuck Carnac. That's what you want to know, isn't it?" "I don't " He couldn't say that he didn't believe him, because Warrick would only point out that he wasn't the one who bent the truth on a regular basis. "If you didn't fuck him, why did you lie about him being here?" "I didn't do that either. I will freely admit that I omitted to mention it, but that's not the same thing." He ignored the attempted diversion into an argument over semantics. "So, why?"

"Because I knew that if I said anything about it you would react precisely like this." "I'm not reacting like " He took a deep breath and clenched his teeth at the stab of pain. When it subsided he said, "I wouldn't have done, if you'd told me to start with." "Yes, you would. You can't honestly expect me to have forgotten the last time?" Warrick shook his head. "I don't understand why you have this . . . persistent idea that I find Carnac in the slightest bit attractive." In a way, Toreth didn't either, other than that it was Carnac and the man was attractive, even when you knew what a bastard he was. Plus there was the other thing, the important thing. "You fucked him before." "I slept with the man three or four times, more than fifteen years ago." Warrick breathed out, short and exasperated. "For God's sake, Toreth, you've fucked him more often, and considerably more recently, than I have. And, may I point out, you're proposing to go and work with him, back at I&I, presumably in the same office where you had your previous little liaison." The open jealousy and touch of anger from Warrick cancelled out some of his own. "I wouldn't fuck Carnac again if my life depended on it," Toreth said, which he knew for a fact, although he hadn't told Warrick the details of the encounter. "And neither would I." Warrick sighed, and scrubbed his face with his hands. "So what the hell are we arguing about?" "I have no idea." The anger drained out of him, like water through a sieve, leaving the ache in his ribs and a bone-deep exhaustion. "Just give me some more painkillers, tell me what he was doing here, and then let's get back to sleep." Warrick found the tablets while Toreth undressed again, then joined him in bed, sitting up a little way away, watching him. "So what happened?" Toreth said. "He called the day it started. All he said was that he needed somewhere to stay, and with the trouble going on in the city, of course I said yes. He didn't tell me then that he had anything to do with it." Warrick shook his head. "I assume he didn't trust me, although I suspect he didn't entirely trust his revolutionary friends, either. Neither to manage things right in the first place, nor to keep control of the general uprising if it did succeed. I was a safe house that none of them knew about. By the time he told me that he was involved . . . " "Yes?" "By then I knew what had happened at I&I. I didn't think it would be helpful to antagonise him by throwing him out onto the street. Once the troopers appeared and it became obvious things were going his friends' way, he left. He's at a hotel near the Int-Sec complex." He had to ask again, even at the risk of pissing Warrick off even more, as well as sounding pathetic. "And nothing . . . happened?" "Not a thing. He didn't even offer. I expect that even if he might still be interested under normal circumstances, he had other things on his mind. He slept in the spare room, and during the day we discussed the sim, when I wasn't busy trying increasingly improbable ways to get access to some active comm channels." Warrick smiled slightly. "Ask the security guards if you wish. I expect they would've noticed anything else, given my propensity for noise." Toreth nodded. He believed him, really. It was just that it was Carnac, and he didn't trust the man a centimetre. The fact that Warrick didn't want to fuck him didn't necessarily mean that it would never

happen. The important thing was that it hadn't happened, not this time. "So can we go back to sleep now?" Warrick asked. "If you're really intending to return to that place in the morning, you'd better get some sleep." "Sounds great." He slid down between the sheets, relaxing into the embrace of the mattress. Despite his assorted aches, he'd never felt anything so comfortable in his life. "God, I dreamed about this, when I was in that fucking awful cell with Chev." "Yes?" Warrick switched the light out and the bed shifted as he lay down. "I thought I told you about it already, when we got to bed the first time?" Toreth asked. "You must've dreamed that too you were asleep by the time I'd undressed." "Was I? Probably. It's all a bit hazy from halfway through dinner, to be honest. So much for fucking me, not my job. Pity." Warrick laughed and touched his shoulder. "Is that a request?" Toreth thought about it, and the idea definitely appealed, but his body was already mostly asleep, with his brain fast catching up. "No. Making offers I can't live up to. Sorry." "Don't be." Warrick's hand closed over his arm. "Having you here, and in almost one piece, is more than enough." "Funny, that's exactly what I was thinking." He turned onto his side, careful of his ribs, and pressed his face into the pillow, breathing in the scent of clean cotton and Warrick. "Mmh. When I was on the floor, in those bloody handcuffs. Don't know how you can get such a kick out of the fucking things." "The circumstances are somewhat different." "Yeah, 'course. I know. Anyway, I was dreaming about this except it feels even better than I thought it would. Fucking fantastic. Clean sheets. You." Warrick moved across and kissed him gently, exactly as he'd imagined. Soft cotton and warm skin against him, soothing and luxurious. Hand on his back, touching carefully. He had a moment of fear that this was the dream, that soon he would wake up in the cell. Then a noise distracted him: distant firing in the city. He tensed, and Warrick's hand stroked a circle over his shoulder-blade. More firing, but it was nothing to do with him. Nothing to worry about, even if he could manage it. Safe, here. He recaptured the tail end of a thought, before it disappeared into sleep. "Just you. 'S enough." If Warrick said anything in reply, Toreth didn't hear it.

Chapter Three
In the morning, Warrick insisted that he borrow the AERC car, and Toreth accepted gratefully. He certainly wasn't up to the walk, even if it had been safe. He'd hoped to slip out of the flat before Sara woke, but she must have set an alarm, because she came out of her room as he was leaving. She looked hollow-eyed but determined. "Wait for me. I'll be two minutes. I just need to grab something for breakfast." "No. Go back to bed you're staying here." Before the rebellion in her eyes could get any further, he put his hands on her shoulders. "Sara, listen. They were shooting people there a couple of days ago maybe yesterday too. Let me go and check it out, make sure it's not going to start up again. I promise you can come in tomorrow if it's safe." Maybe by tomorrow, they'd have finished clearing the bodies away. He wouldn't have time today to cope with her crying all over the place. Eventually, she nodded. "I could do with finding some new clothes." She smoothed her jacket. "It'll be a nuisance to have to wash everything every night." Thank God she was going to be reasonable. There would doubtless be enough stress today without kicking off with a scene here. "Good idea." "And I have to collect Bastard. If he's alive." "Don't be stupid, of course he is. He's far too fucking evil to die." She glared at him, although her exhaustion was evident in how poor an effort it was. "He'll be so scared, poor baby, not knowing where I am or what's happened to the flat." He'd long ago given up trying to shake that particular delusion. "Yeah, he must be terrified." And so must everything he's met. "But you won't go on your own, will you?" "No, of course not. Rob said he'd help me look he went off shift at two but he's going to come back up for me at lunchtime. We're going to get Bastard, and then we're going to mum and dad's to check they're okay." "That'll be fun for him." Rob, was it? Toreth gave it a moment's thought, then decided that it wasn't worth taking Sara in to I&I just to keep her away from McLean. Anyway, Bastard would be in a fouler temper than usual if no one had been feeding it an encounter with the psychotic monstrosity should be enough to put anyone off. The idea of McLean trying to entrap an irate Bastard improved his mood no end. "You'd better take some antiseptic with you." "What? Why?" "In case Bastard's been hurt, of course." ~~~ There was a moment of, if not precisely fear, then certainly unease, as he presented his ID to the guard on the main door. Evidently the automatic internal security systems were out or had been switched off until the new occupants of the building could be authorised. The guard looked to be Service and as he examined the ID his face showed a flicker of surprise. Probably wondering what a para was doing loose and trying to get into the building. However, Carnac must have arranged things,

because the man opened the door without comment. It felt strange, crossing the foyer, nodding to the receptionists, none of whom he recognised. Walking through the building, surrounded by more strangers, was even odder. The difficulty of the job he'd accepted began to sink in. He had not only to persuade the I&I staff to work with and for the people responsible for the revolt, but also the reverse to make at least some of these outsiders into part of the Division. Replacement staff would have to come from somewhere. He remembered how difficult it had been simply to integrate the Investigation and Interrogation Divisions into one, and the disruption now was on an entirely different scale to the old reorganisation. Justice, he thought sourly, would be delighted by the turmoil at Int-Sec in general and I&I in particular. Departmental politics could turn out to be a bigger headache than the damage to the building. Carnac had taken over the director's office. The previous occupant's effects had been cleared away, leaving the room rather Spartan. The only personal touch was a small but expensive-looking chess set on the wide desk. Toreth wondered briefly if Carnac played, or if he just liked the image. Carnac himself looked uncomfortable in the generously-sized chair probably due to Sara's parting gift rather than any defect in the upholstery. "'Morning. How are you?" Toreth asked. Carnac shifted and winced. "I'm taking a sufficient quantity of anti-inflammatories and painkillers to make the answer to that question at least publishable." "Glad to hear it." Toreth smiled in satisfaction and hoped it looked at least a little like sympathy. "Well, I'm here, as promised. What's the plan?" Carnac was bound to have a plan, probably several, and he wanted to make sure he knew what they all were. "The main priority is to return all facets of I&I to operational status as quickly as possible. Interrogation has been given a higher priority than investigation. I have a great deal to accomplish elsewhere, so I shall be leaving the organisation to your good self." "Suits me. I need the authority to do it." "You have it. I have given you operational authority over all the Division sections. And security clearance to match, although I must warn you that the computers and various other systems are suffering assorted problems." Yeah, your bastard friends trashed them on the way through. "I'm sure I can work round it." "I have every confidence in you. That only leaves the question of what you ought to be called. How does Acting Assistant Director sound?" Toreth gave it five seconds' consideration, which was four more than it merited. "No way." Carnac affected surprise. "Wouldn't you like a promotion?" "To Assistant Director? As in 'Head Scapegoat' when this blows over and everything gets back to normal? Thanks for the offer, but no thanks." "The circumstances of the appointment might be slightly irregular, but there is no reason that it should not become permanent. You will need a title of some kind." "I've already got one Senior Para. It means something around here, at least to the people you want me to drag into line." "I'm afraid that the Service people will not find it so impressive." "Then I'll have to keep sending them to you to get it sorted out, until you get sick of dealing with

it and issue them an order to do what I tell them. Or you could save a lot of aggravation by doing it now. It'll make them happy they like orders." Carnac smiled and shook his head. "Did I ever tell you how much I enjoyed working with you?" "Probably. But I'll bet I didn't say that I believed you." Brief, tense silence, then Carnac glanced down at his screen. "I have a lot to do." "Me too, so I'll go and get on with it, shall I?" "Don't do anything yet. There is a substantial Service presence in the building, as you may have noticed. I have yet to spread news of your arrival in all the appropriate quarters, and I need to appoint you a Service liaison to make sure that your position here is understood and you are not obstructed in your endeavours." "Thanks." Something between a bodyguard and a watchdog just what he needed. "Wait until he arrives before you start, ah, throwing your weight around." Carnac smiled again, his gaze flicking over Toreth, whose skin tried to crawl away. "Okay, I'll wait for him. But don't take too long." On his way out of the office, Toreth looked round the mainly Service personnel waiting to see Carnac, and wondered which lucky soul had been selected as his 'personal liaison' this time. There might be someone out there who would enjoy being used as Carnac's private fuck toy, but he couldn't imagine who. ~~~ Toreth gravitated naturally to his own office for one thing it was far enough away from Carnac's that if he stormed off there in a temper he might've calmed down by the time he arrived. Moreover, the idea of Carnac being able to drop in on him casually was unappealing to say the least. It was also familiar, and he knew where everything was, which helped him keep a grip on what he was: a senior para-investigator. He mustn't let Carnac's promises tempt him. The first thing to do was to sort out the chaos. Nothing much seemed to be seriously damaged even the computer screen was still functional but furniture had been overturned and the contents of drawers scattered. His chair was broken, so he took one of the admin's from the main office. There was no one there except him, and he wondered what had happened to his team and to the others in the section. Sara would know about the admins with luck he'd be able to find out about the rest down in the cells. Once the office was tidy, he was tempted to go down to the detention facility straight away and try to get things moving. However, there was no point antagonising Carnac unnecessarily. There'd no doubt be plenty of necessary opportunities later. In any case, he needed to prepare before he went down there. The first part of this would be the trickiest, and if he messed it up he might as well resign today and beg a job from Warrick. He sat down (back at his desk, after five days) and started work. He'd just completed preparations when someone tapped on the door. "Come in." A man in a Service lieutenant's uniform opened the door, and hesitated briefly before entering presumably the promised liaison. Younger than he'd expected, or possibly Toreth was feeling old today. Brown hair, slightly gangly, unfinished-looking body that he still seemed to be trying to grow into. Nice arse.

"And you are?" Toreth asked. "Lieutenant Payne, sir." Toreth must've stared, because the man spelled it out, then said, "Lieutenant Jay Payne." "Jesus. Someone with a sense of humour sent you here, then." The lieutenant didn't smile. "Possibly, sir. I just do what I'm told, where I'm told to do it." "Good. Then we should get on fine. What did Carnac tell you to do in this case?" "To report here and place myself under your orders, until told otherwise." "Did he explain my position here?" "Yes, sir." "Well?" "You have operational authority over I&I, which I'm to make clear to anyone who questions it." Well, if that was true then Carnac had been as good as his word. Of course, there were undoubtedly other orders that the lieutenant wasn't mentioning. "Right. We're going down to Detention first, and if that goes all right we'll have a look at a couple of other places. Then you can take over one of the offices up here no need to share since there's so much space and you can help me find out what we've got to work with. Does that sounds okay to you?" "Yes, sir." ~~~ The personnel in the main detention facility control centre were a mix of Service, civilian (meaning resister) and a handful of I&I. The latter, even the ones he didn't already know, could be distinguished by their generally nervous demeanour. The ones who didn't look nervous Toreth marked down as probably treasonous. Not that it mattered any more, of course it was purely for personal interest. The facility itself was in a better state than he'd expected many of the consoles had been damaged and jury-rigged repairs were evident everywhere, but lights and screens were on. Most importantly, the main cell monitoring screen, running the length of one wall, was active. Blood still in evidence, he noticed plenty of splashes here and there, and dull swirls over the grey plastic of the floor where more had been cleaned up. The smell of it thickened the dry, processed air, inadequately hidden by the usual underground levels' mask of disinfectant. "Excuse me." He raised his voice. "If I could have everyone's attention over here." He waited until the occupants of the room had gathered loosely round. "Who's in charge here?" As he'd feared, there was a pregnant pause. "In that case, who's in charge and isn't here?" One of the Service personnel stepped forwards. "Major Bell took personal command of the detention operation." "Where is he?" "As far as I know, er " He glanced at Payne, and Toreth saw the lieutenant nod. "As far as I know, sir, she is away from the building." Good start. "Fine. I'll speak to her on her return." It made things easier in a way, but he'd have to make sure Carnac put the Service major in her proper place (i.e., somewhere else) as soon as possible. "My name as some of you might know is Senior Para-investigator Val Toreth."

That drew a reaction, not a friendly one, amongst the majority of the crowd, and he felt glad that he'd waited for Payne before he came down here. "Carnac Socioanalyst Carnac has now put me in charge of getting things sorted out down here. If anyone has a problem with that, I'm not interested. Waste his time with it, not mine." He gave them a brief space for objections, but no one spoke. "For now, I'd like a few questions answered and a few things done. The first thing I want to know is who's in which cell, and what condition they're in." This time he let the silence stretch out. He knew they wouldn't be able to do it, but he wanted someone to say so. Finally one of the men he'd pegged as I&I and probably loyal stepped forwards. "I'm afraid we don't have the occupancy status available, Para." He affected surprise and disappointment. "An approximate status will do . . .?" "Senior Security Officer Adams." Adams shrugged, spread his hands. "I can only tell you what I've seen during searches for named prisoners. The occupancy is probably thirty to forty percent paras and interrogators. The rest is mostly investigators or security officers, but there are medics, admins, technicians, maintenance anyone who openly sided with interrogation staff or put up resistance. We were told that they're all to be considered political criminals, regardless of occupation." For fighting for their lives? He kept his voice coolly professional. "Numbers?" "There's nothing, Para. Not even a bad guess." "Then I suggest you organise cell-to-cell monitoring and count people. While you're doing it, you can make medical priority estimates." "I'm afraid I can't do that, Para. The building surveillance was the first thing knocked out in the takeover. Amongst the first things, anyway." Adams pushed his hair back, revealing an impressive bruise on his temple. "Selective damage, but very thorough. The maintenance techs are restoring it piecemeal as best they can, but it's going to be a long job." "I understand." Well, selective system damage confirmed his guess about inside traitors. "Moving on lights in the cells. Why aren't there any? I assume the systems are down?" No answer. Eyes began to slide away from his as he looked slowly around the room. The I&I staff were the first to look down. He took a deep breath, and the stab of pain from his ribs helped diffuse the anger. Grabbing the turncoat bastards by the throats and smashing their faces into the nearest console wouldn't achieve anything, beyond immense personal satisfaction. "Then switch them on again, right now." He waited until Adams activated the systems. "Good. Put them back on the fourteen-ten in every cell, unless there is a damn good reason for an exception. Short-shift the first light period to get it on schedule. How about water and food? Heating?" More silence. "Is anyone even looking at the systems? No? Okay who are the technical officers here? There must be some." Half a dozen men and women stepped forwards, moving to form a small, nervous group. Toreth looked them over, picked out a woman he recognised and whom he hoped was loyal. "Wheeler " He glanced at Adams, caught a slight nod. "Tell me what's going on." "We were told to concentrate on the surveillance, Para. The major's orders." "How long before it's restored?" "Down here, days. All over the building, it could be weeks." "Then a delay won't matter. Wheeler, you're now in charge of restoring the cell systems. This is

what I want: water, heat, food, surveillance, in that order. We can worry about the rest afterwards. I also want daily progress reports, and I want to see progress in them." "Now " He took a hand screen from his pocket and paged through until he found the version that best matched the circumstances. "I need a volunteer to read this over the cell comms. Assuming we have cell comms." The nearest technician nodded. "They're functional, as far as we know. If you'd like to read it yourself, Para . . ." He'd been hoping someone would ask. "No, I wouldn't. Because the first voice they hear is going to be identified with the bastards who kicked the shit out of them, locked them up in there, and left them in the pitch dark for five days, cold, frightened, hungry, thirsty and in pain. And it'll also be the voice that tells them that the same bastards aren't going to open the doors right now and let them out." He looked round the crowd. A few of them were angry or insulted, but most were looking uncomfortable again at the idea that there were real people out there, really suffering. Good. He knew all about prisoner depersonalization theory. "For obvious reasons, that voice isn't going to be mine. You." He picked out one of the civilian types. "You're going to read it." The woman shook her head. "Not me." Perfect. He smiled at her, and without looking round said, "Payne." "That's an order. Senior Para-investigator Toreth has been granted operational authority by Socioanalyst Carnac." "It's a simple choice you can do what you're told, or you can get the fuck out of I&I." She flinched slightly, and Toreth looked around the room, then back to his selected victim. "That applies to you, and to everyone else in here." He'd almost been hoping for a couple of walkouts, but no one moved. Spineless fucks. The woman he'd chosen took the screen from his hand and glanced around. "Which console?" "Over there," Adams said. She sat down and scanned down the screen. That showed some independence, or at least something of a sense of self-preservation. Adams activated the systems, and she coughed. "Er. Attention, please. As you may have noticed, the lights have been switched on again. They are now on a normal schedule, and other services to the cells will be restored as soon as is practicable." She looked over at Toreth, and he nodded at her to continue. "I&I is now under the control of the new Administration, represented by Socioanalyst Carnac. The policy of the Administration is that there will be no summary executions and no further illegal ill treatment. The Administration requires the continued services of I&I and procedures are being put in place to expedite your release from detainment." That provoked a murmur in the room, particularly from the civilians. Clearly Carnac's policy wasn't general knowledge. "If you or someone else in your cell is badly injured or requires urgent medical attention for any other reason, please activate the cell alarm system, and someone will be sent to deal with you as rapidly as possible. Please I ask you to call for assistance only if your need is genuinely of a high priority. Thank you."

Toreth watched on the large overhead screen as the cell indicators started to light up. They'd all scream for help, of course, injured or not loyalty to colleagues went only so far. However, at least they would scream, when a simple request for people to identify occupied cells would have created suspicion. Some sections remained blank, suggesting that either the comms or the alarms were malfunctioning. However, in general, it wasn't a bad start. "Right, everyone. Thank you for your attention and get back to work." He watched the group start to break up, conversations beginning to hum. "Adams. A word, please." The man stopped and came back, looking wary. "You're in charge of Detention for the moment I'll make that official as soon as I get back to my office. You're also responsible for getting me the occupancy and status reports. I'm sure you can find some Service people hanging around to start cell-to-cell checks. Tell them to get names and medical status, and to offer to pass on one message per prisoner to someone outside. And make sure they get the messages right." Adams nodded. "Yes, Para." "Get names for corpses as well, if you can, and get them cleared out. DNA samples for any unknowns, store them for processing when someone has the time. I want the status reports first thing tomorrow. Don't bother making them look nice and official, just tell me what's going on. If you have any trouble, with anyone but especially with Service people, don't argue with them tell them to take it to Carnac or me. I'm in my usual office: level five, General Criminal. And send me a suggestion for a night shift supervisor before shift change. That's all." Adams nodded again, looking unutterably relieved. "Yes, Para. It's good to have someone who knows their arse from their fucking elbow in charge again." He glanced at Payne and lowered his voice. "Watch out for Bell when she gets back she's going to throw a fit over this and she's got plenty of clout." He watched as Adams went off to start work, a distinct spring in his step. Well, at least he'd made someone's day. "Come on, Payne. No point hanging around down here." ~~~ Next they went to the medical section. Even at I&I, medics tended towards the community spirited, so he wasn't entirely surprised to find that the handful of staff he saw when the lift doors opened were I&I. A senior medic sat behind the desk in the reception area a woman he vaguely recognised. She had her chin in her hands, staring across the room. She didn't react to his arrival until they were a few feet from her. Then she blinked at him, and her eyes widened with surprise. "Toreth!" The voice was more familiar than the haggard face. "Yeah. Dr Mandelson?" He was unsure enough of her identity to make it a question. She straightened up. "Good Lord, do I look that bad?" "How are things?" "Not so bad now, since the Service people showed up." She nodded to Payne. "Even though they haven't been down here much. But it's infinitely better than the last few days, I can tell you that."

"Have you been here all along?" She nodded. The first chance he'd had to talk to someone who'd been in the lower levels during the attack. "What happened?" "When?" she asked. "During the revolt. From the beginning," he added. "The beginning?" She shook her head, then looked down at the desk, composing herself. "The short version is that it was terrifying. Gunfire everywhere." "They shot at the medics?" Payne asked, sounding shocked. Of course, Toreth thought the lieutenant had only arrived in the building this morning. "No," Mandelson said. "Just the security guards, not anyone unarmed. Most of us didn't even try to fight, although if we'd known what was going to happen . . . They locked people in rooms, with a guard on the door. Which made it easier for them later when " She stopped and cleared her throat. The brief hope that Sara's ideas about casualty rates in Medical had been exaggerated by fear and rumours faded. Beside Toreth, Payne shifted. Didn't he fancy hearing what the Service's allies had been up to? "Go on," Toreth said. Mandelson took a deep breath. "When the security defense collapsed, the resisters made it down to the detention levels. They opened the cells and after that it was hell down here. Chaos. Medical was on the edge of it, but you can't imagine what it was like." She glanced at Payne. "You just can't. The prisoners tore apart everyone they could find and the resisters didn't try to stop them they joined in." She paused, wiping her eyes, although he saw no sign of tears. Reflex, perhaps. "Do you have any idea how many survivors there were?" Payne asked quietly. "I don't know. More than I thought at first. It's a big place people hid. Some people played dead. Or switched sides quickly enough in the confusion. I don't blame them. And there are so many lifts and stairs that they couldn't seal off the lower levels." She pointed across the room to a closed door. "Victor was treating a prisoner down on level D. He got out in one of the service lifts with half a dozen interrogators. He told me he saw the resisters herding people into rooms and throwing grenades inside. I heard bangs, but I didn't see it myself." Toreth shook his head, appreciating even more how lucky he'd been to have met organised resisters concentrating on taking control of the building, not a mob bent on immediate slaughter. Leisurely vengeance might be unpleasant, but it beat a grenade. "What happened to you?" Toreth asked. "I was in one of the stores all the first night. When the noise started, some of us locked ourselves in a back room. Then on Saturday, a group came through the level and broke the door down. We thought . . . but they were looking for medics to patch up the resisters hurt in the fighting. Then they kept us segregated, but we could hear what was going on." Without looking over to it, she pointed towards the corridor leading to the medical level detention cells. "That's where they kept some of the people they brought down from upstairs." Now Toreth was the one who didn't want to hear it. This was too close to his own fun-filled four days. He tried to interrupt but she was speaking quickly, stumbling over the words.

"It went on until the Service arrived. Not all the time. Maybe killing people in cold blood doesn't come naturally, not even to bastards like that. They'd stop for a while and we'd pray it was the end and then they'd work themselves up into another righteous fury and go back to the cells. We could hear it. Some people tried to fight back we had a few of the resisters brought in here injured. But they wouldn't let us help the others." Her eyes were fixed on him, pleading for understanding, or maybe forgiveness. "We tried, but they wouldn't let us. The cells are empty now on Monday, before the Service arrived, they took everyone who was still alive down to Detention." "Well, you'll get a chance to help now," he said. "They're starting cell-to-cell searches, pulling out the wounded." Mandelson shook her head. "Do you want the truth? Once the Service arrived I wanted to go, but I was too afraid to leave. Do you know what it's like outside?" If he didn't tell her, someone else would soon enough. "There's no transport, but if you leave in daylight you should be safe enough." He put his hand on her arm. "But we need everyone we can get." She looked down for a moment, then nodded slowly. "I'll stay. If there's anyone left alive to help." Toreth grinned and squeezed her arm gently. "I'm alive, aren't I?" A faint smile. "Yes, well you would be." Toreth looked round more medical staff were assembling, clearly wondering what the hell a senior para was doing here. He gathered reports on personnel (scanty), damage (extensive), supplies (low) and mood (bleak). He didn't make any promises, but he hoped he'd at least managed to impart enough cheer to stop them fucking off in the next couple of days. At any rate, the atmosphere seemed more positive by the time he'd finished. There were even offers to call in colleagues known to have escaped, or not to have been at work during the attack. Bell didn't seem to have appointed anyone to take control of Medical. In fact, as far as he could discover, she hadn't visited the place at all. Treatment for the injured obviously rated a long way below being able to keep an eye on them. From the most loyal-seeming I&I staff available, Toreth picked a few people to take charge, which seemed to be a source of relief once more. He also warned them that they could expect injured staff to arrive, starting any time, and that if they experienced any obstruction in their duties they should take it up directly with Carnac. Time for the bastard to do some of the work. When they had finished, he checked the watch he'd borrowed from Warrick, and decided they had time for one more visit. "Have you met the head of security yet?" he asked Payne as they set off back up towards the office levels. "No, sir. I haven't met anyone. I was called in here first thing this morning." Interesting. "Why? I mean why didn't Carnac pick someone who was already here?" "Couldn't say, sir." After a few seconds, he added, "I met him the day before yesterday at headquarters. One of my wife's relatives works here, and I think I mentioned that to him then." Interesting again. Toreth filed it under 'think about it later'. "Well, to get back to the point, Head of Security Bevan is one of the most important people in

the building. Nothing goes on here that he doesn't know about. He's been HoS here ever since the reorganisation. He runs the surveillance, the security systems, the security guards, the external and internal access and a lot of other things he's manoeuvred under his control. If Carnac's managed to piss him off which in Bevan's case he'll be able to do by walking into the building then it'll make my life a hundred times more difficult. So don't you do anything to make it worse." "Are you sure he's alive, sir?" Payne asked. "Bev? Of course he is." In fact, Toreth had no idea whether he was or not, and he worried about it all the way up to the Surveillance offices. His first view wasn't reassuring it took him a minute to spot even a couple of I&I staff amongst the Service uniforms in the main office. An enquiry as to where he might find the head of security produced directions to Bevan's usual office, but a glance through the door showed only Service once more, including an officer behind Bevan's desk. Eventually, as he passed a workroom, he caught sight of an I&I uniform. A man with thinning dark hair sat with his back to the door, alone except for a truly staggering amount of surveillance equipment which covered the benches, shelves and most of the floor. Much of it was obviously badly damaged and being stripped for parts. "Bev?" Bevan looked round, then stood up, his long, sour face knitting into a scowl. "I wondered how long it'd take before you showed up." He had a vivid black eye and an assortment of other cuts and bruises. "Really?" Toreth asked. "Bad news travels fast, so I've heard all about it. To start with, I've heard that your head's stuck so far up that bastard spook's arse that you can kiss his fucking tonsils. If you think that means you can order me around now, you can fuck off." Toreth grinned. At least in here everything was business as usual. However, before Toreth could say anything else, Payne said stiffly, "Senior Para-investigator Toreth has been granted operation control over the Division." Bevan looked Payne up and down, then shook his head. "Fuck, another one. And I thought the rats down in recycling were bad." "Yeah. It followed me back to my office and now I can't get rid of it." Toreth turned to Payne. "Why don't you go and have a word with your colleagues out there, see what's going on? I'm sure they'll be happier talking to you than to me." Payne hesitated, so he added, "What I mean is piss off while I'm talking to the grown-ups. I'll come and find you when I'm done." Payne stared at him, then said, "Yes, sir." As he watched Payne go, Toreth considered how to handle Bevan. It was important probably essential to get him on Toreth's side and back in his office. If Carnac had Service people running Security under his direct control, then working against him undetected would be impossible. Since Bevan didn't seem inclined to say anything, Toreth opened with, "Bev, how long have you known me?" "Since you started at Interrogation. And you were an arrogant tosser then." "I won't deny it. But did I kiss arse to get onto the para programme? Or to get to senior? Have I

ever fucked over my team because Tillotson wanted me to?" Bevan seemed to think it over for a while, then shook his head. "No. For a para, you're all right. Used to be all right." "I didn't suck up to management before, and I'm not going to do it now. I was down in those bloody cells for four days. I've got five cracked ribs and no fucking reason to love Carnac or his resister friends. More than that, I've got no reason to be here at all. Carnac gave me a free pass out of here, and I didn't take it." Bevan snorted, plainly unconvinced. "Why should you? Seems to me you're doing very nicely out of all of this." Toreth paused, checked the door. Open, and no one visible outside. "I came back because I wanted to make sure Carnac doesn't do whatever he's planning to do. I don't know what it is, but do I know he's lying when he says he wants us to survive." "Us?" "Yes, us. Although I'm not going to lie it's not got much to do with loyalty to I&I. It's very fucking personal. I'm not going to tell you why, but I am going to make him regret ever setting foot in the building." Bevan nodded. "Now that's a motive I can believe." "Have you met him?" "Of course I have. He's as bad as that prize bitch Bell." "Bell?" What had she done up here? "Major bloody Bell if you haven't met her, you've been lucky." "What's she like?" "Brunette, with one of those bloody awful pinned-to-death hairdos. Makes her look like the most fucking sadistic primary school teacher you can imagine. Face like someone set it on fire and put it out with a shovel." Toreth laughed, although Bevan sounded thoroughly pissed off. "No, what's she like?" "She knows what she's doing." His voice held a grudging and worrying respect. "She had me in here half an hour after she arrived in the building, and told me to start pulling in technicians to get the surveillance running again. And she left a bunch of Service so-called security officers to keep an eye on me. Waste of fucking time, because they wouldn't recognise a decent security system if it fucking saluted them." Bevan poked through the pile of components beside him, then sighed. "She took all the security codes with her, all the call IDs for the guards not that there are many left, poor fuckers and every other sodding thing that would be any use." He shrugged. "I wasn't arguing with that many guns, and it was better than being locked in that fucking cell." Toreth nodded, and wondered if this was why Bevan had been so irate about his own apparent defection. "Nothing else you could do. So what about Carnac?" "When I'd just about got used to the idea of her running the place, that bastard turned up and started giving the orders. The first one being that I was out and Captain Clueless was in. He's behind the whole bloody awful mess, you know. Carnac." Bevan's lip curled. "The bent fucking shirt lifter should've been strangled at birth it would've saved the whole world a lot of grief." Toreth blinked. "Bev, you do know that I'm a bent fucking shirt lifter, don't you?"

Bevan snorted. "Of course I do. I edit the New Year party recordings. But you don't come in here, acting like you own the fucking place, and kick me out of my own sodding office so some knownothing wanker can sit in there and fuck up whatever bits of the poor bloody systems are still managing to struggle on. And then expect me to fucking thank you for it." Carnac certainly had a winning way with people. "Point me at the know-nothing wanker in question and I'll get you your office back. Payne-by-name wasn't kidding about the operational control." Bevan still looked sceptical. "And in return?" "And nothing in return. I want to get I&I back for us, before Justice comes round to pick up the pieces, or Carnac lets Bell and her friends run it into the ground and suck it into the fucking Service for good. But, hey, if you want to spend the rest of your career polishing screens and saluting Captain Clueless, I won't bother." Bevan shrugged. "All right. I'll say yes, if for no other reason that to watch you have to come good on it." "Piece of piss. Come on, then." They returned to Bevan's former office, picking Payne up on the way. When they arrived, Toreth was relieved to find that the crowd had dwindled to the captain behind the desk and two women who looked like something technical. He wasn't so absolutely confident of his authority that he wanted a large audience. The captain looked less than delighted to see them, which Toreth ascribed to Bevan's presence. He doubted the man had taken the loss of his job and office quietly. "I'm busy," the captain said curtly. "Not any more." Toreth turned to the women. "Excuse us, but we need to speak to the captain urgently." They glanced at the captain, then left on his nod. Toreth went over to the desk, but didn't sit. He almost asked the man his name, but it was too appealing to keep thinking of him as Captain Clueless. Besides, with any luck he wouldn't be around long enough for it to matter. Instead, he said, "My name's Senior Para-investigator Val Toreth." The captain nodded. "I've heard of you." No 'sir' from this one. "Good. That's going to make things a lot easier. Who put you in charge of Security?" "Socioanalyst Carnac." Too late to back out now. "Well, I'm rescinding that appointment. Thank you for your time and effort." Captain Clueless stared. "You can't do that!" "Payne." Toreth walked away and leaned on the wall, watching while Payne explained the situation, and then while the captain called Carnac and tried, politely, to persuade him to overrule Toreth's order. The conversation went on for some time, until the captain cancelled the connection and looked over to him. His expression suggested that Carnac's parting words had been firm and clear in the extreme. "I apologise for questioning your authority, sir," he said, virtually choking on the title. "No problem. Everything's a bit confused at the moment. Take as long as you want clearing out,

as long as it isn't more than twenty minutes." "Yes, sir. What about the other Service personnel?" "Oh, leave them." Toreth smiled. "HoS Bevan can decide what to do with them later." "HoS ?" The captain shut his mouth abruptly. "Yes, sir. If you'll excuse me, sir?" "Of course." Toreth led the other two out of the office. There was no point in rubbing it in excessively, and besides, Bevan was so flushed with the effort not to laugh that Toreth was mildly concerned the man might have a stroke. Back in the parts room, Bevan threw his head back and roared with laughter, pausing occasionally to draw breath and pound his fist on a bench, rattling the jumbled equipment. Toreth watched, fascinated. Bevan never laughed and rarely even cracked a smile he was famous for it. After a minute or so, Bevan managed to get himself under control. "Oh, God. Best fucking thing I've seen since those Service twats first turned up. You should do the same to the whole treacherous lot of them. Worse than the resister scum." He paused, turned to Payne, and said with unexpected seriousness, "No offence to you, son." "I, er " Payne coughed and started again. "None taken, sir." "Call me Bevan." He turned back to Toreth, still serious. "And the next person who tells me you're kissing Service arse gets their canteen access cancelled for the rest of their life." "Thanks, but it was my pleasure. If there's anything else, let me know you know where my office is. Keep as many of the so-called security officers as you need, although if it was me I wouldn't want too many of them hanging around." Bevan shook his head, grinning again. "No. I'll throw the fuckers out as soon as I can get our people back." 'Our people'. The risk had been more than justified by getting those two words. "I owe you, Toreth," Bevan said as Toreth and Payne left, and those were four more words Toreth was extremely pleased to hear. ~~~ On the way up to his office, he turned to Payne. "What do you think?" "About what, sir?" "Anything at all would make a change, but I meant about the state of things down there." "I, er . . . to be honest sir, it's a mess." "Yes. Yes, it is that. What did you think about the speech for the prisoners?" Payne hesitated, then said, "I thought it sounded nothing whatsoever like you, sir." Was that a glimmer of a sense of humour? "Good." He looked at his watch. "Lucky us, it's just time for coffee." "Coffee?" "Brown stuff? Caffeine?" "I know what it is, sir, we just don't usually, er . . ." "Well, you're working for I&I at this precise moment, so you do now. If there is any, that is." Toreth tried his usual coffee room, but it was clearly one where they'd held the admins filthy and coffee-free. The second one proved to be the same, and he was about to give up when he hit on the

idea of trying Tillotson's office. Tillotson's coffee machine had survived intact, which made him wonder for the first time about the head of section himself. Toreth didn't seriously think anything had happened to him, unfortunately. If there'd been a tactical nuclear strike, Tillotson was the sort who'd slither out from underneath a rock afterwards, unharmed, flickering his tongue to find new opportunities. "Milk? Sugar?" "Er, both, please, sir." Payne seemed to be twitching on the spot, which Toreth guessed was caused by watching someone he seemed to feel compelled to 'sir' making him a drink. "Here you go. Enjoy it, because once they get the mess sorted out we'll be back to the usually revolting crap they put in the section machines." "Thank you, sir." The novelty had worn off. "Call me Toreth." There was a strained silence, as Payne clearly tried to construct an agreement to the order without using the word 'sir' and couldn't force himself to do it. "Let's go back to my office, shall we?" He only made it a question out of sheer evil fascination. "Yes . . . " The uncompleted statement hung in the air. They started to walk back. "Payne, I'm not doing this for fun. Pretty soon we're going to be talking to a lot more very fucked off I&I staff. Fucked off and frightened. If you go around sirring me all the time, they're going to think one of two things. The first is that you're some Service tosser who thinks I&I is a collection of undisciplined thugs and wants to make a point of it. The second is that you're an arse-licking little creep, because that's the only kind of person who makes a big deal out of saying 'sir' round here. Neither of those things is going to make my job any easier." "Oh." "See how easy that was?" "Yes, s " Toreth sighed. "Just work on it. If you have to call me something that isn't my name, call me Para." Back in the office, they sat and drank coffee in silence for a while, as Toreth tried to think what he might've done wrong so far and what, if anything, he could do to fix it. On reflection, he decided things had gone as well as could be expected under the circumstances. In fact, he was amused to find that he was in a good mood he'd expected to be throwing furniture by this point in the day. If only his ribs didn't hurt so damn much, he'd even say that he was enjoying it. Whatever game Carnac was playing, he seemed to be serious enough about letting him take charge. Not that that made him any less sure there was a game, and that he'd been designated the part of loser. All he had to do was remember to be careful, however well things seemed to be turning out. That out of the way, he turned his attention to Payne. Might as well try to generate a slightly coffee-time mood. "You're married, then?" he asked. Idle curiosity, really, because he had better things to do with his time than look for a passing fuck. "Yes. Happily married, sir." The emphasis made him pause. "Carnac?" he said after a moment.

Payne nodded. "What did he say?" "Um. Nothing, as such." "Make your mind up." "He said that, er, that you were keen on getting to know your staff." You had to admire the nerve of the man, even as you wanted to kill him. "You should be careful believing what he says. He has a very peculiar sense of humour." Payne looked surprised. "Really, sir? I didn't think sp socioanalysts had one at all." "Debatable. He thinks it's funny, anyway. However, you can relax. I'm not after your honour, your virtue, your arse, or anything else." He watched Payne carefully, and caught all the signs. Open relief, and hidden disappointment so well hidden that he might not even be aware of it. Yet. Typical of Carnac to send him someone so tempting, then warn them off. However, if Carnac believed that would distract him from the job in hand, then he obviously didn't know Toreth half as well as he thought he did. ~~~ By the time he'd had painkillers and more coffee for lunch and spent half the afternoon gathering status reports on exactly how fucked the building was, Toreth found himself badly missing Sara. He'd sent Payne round to make sure the admin releases were happening speedily, and to make equally sure that the departing staff were being asked (or preferably begged) to return to work in the very near future. However, he wanted to take a look at the cell-to-cell inspections in person, on the grounds that if they were fucked up it would be ten times harder to get people to cooperate later. At the same time he couldn't leave his office unattended, since he'd already told several people he'd be there to deal with problems. He felt a brief, unlikely empathy with Tillotson. Payne proved unexpectedly useful by purloining a Service admin from somewhere. The man seemed competent enough to sit at Sara's desk and take messages from visitors while Toreth was absent. After ensuring his personal comm was functioning, he set off again for the detention section. The main information from the tour was that his previous 'personal liaison' with Carnac had been more widespread gossip than he'd guessed at the time. He gathered a variety of sarcastic comments, questions and plain insults themed around the general idea that he was taking it up the arse from spooks. He noted down some of the more imaginative ones Carnac might get a kick out of them, and Toreth needed him in a good mood. The horrified reaction of Payne amused him no end. Either the Service was improbably virtuous, or Payne had led a staggeringly sheltered life, or he was upset by the lack of sirring that went with the enquiries as to whether Toreth had to salute while he was bending over for it. Probably the latter. "They're angry, that's all," Toreth told him. "And who can blame them? I would be too, watching someone walking round in a nice clean outfit while I'm nursing my bruises in the filth down here." He found the team searching the block he thought he'd been imprisoned in and tagged along with them for a while. It wasn't long before they found the cell, and Toreth was mildly surprised by how pleased or at least relieved he was to find Chevril alive. Sedanioni was still there too, of course, and it occurred to him that in some of the cells the restoration of the lights would be a distinctly mixed blessing.

The cell stank worse than Toreth remembered, even though he'd been down in the detention level long enough for the edge to wear off, but he went in anyway. He took the cuffs off Chevril while the Service people organised a trolley to Medical. Chevril had managed to work one boot off; his allegedly broken ankle was unpleasantly swollen and an eye-catching purple. More bruises dappled his body. His skin felt icy, but he was still coherent. "How are you?" Toreth asked. "About fifty times worse than the last time I saw you," he croaked. "Or didn't see you. Got any water? Or a bloody big gin and tonic?" A paper cup lay on its side by the wall. Toreth picked it up, remembering the awkward struggle to drink out of it from Chevril's cuffed hands. The dispenser delivered half a cup before it started hissing air and spurting water, splashing over his hands. He gave up. Too much too quickly and Chevril would only throw it back up anyway. Didn't bode well for the inmates of the rest of the cells, though. "Here you are," Toreth said as he knelt beside Chevril. Chevril struggled into a sitting position, with some help, and leaned against him while he drank. When he'd finished, he nodded weakly towards the door, where Payne stood watching. "What the bloody hell are you doing with them?" Toreth sighed and his ribs twinged. "I'm working for Carnac." "Carnac? The socioanalyst?" Chevril raised his eyebrows. "Again?" "That's what I said. And if you have any comments about it you'll have to try hard to get an original one." "No comments at all." Chevril rubbed circulation back into his hands, moving his injured shoulder gingerly. "I'm just bloody grateful to be getting out of here, whoever you're working for. Why's he back here?" "Didn't you hear the announcement?" "I heard something. I wasn't really paying attention. Busy freezing to death." "Carnac's in charge of I&I now." "Great. A bloody spook. Just what we need." Toreth lowered his voice. "More or less what I thought. I'm trying to make sure we don't end up too thoroughly screwed at the end of all this." "Yeah?" Chevril nearly sounded as if he believed that, or at least as if he was too exhausted to care. "Look, Toreth, I'm sure you're busy, but do you think you can find a couple of minutes to tell Elena that I'm okay? Or at least alive." "Of course, if I can get through. The comms are a mess." Toreth heard the trolley in the corridor. "I'll come down and see you later when I've done it. Don't forget what you said before." "What?" "You said that if I got you out of here, you'd fuck me. For free." "Oh, hey!" Chevril's voice strengthened. "I didn't mean it." Toreth grinned, standing up and moving away as the medics took over. "Don't worry I'll wait until you're patched up." He rejoined Payne, and considered whether to catch up with the search party. On reflection, there

were probably more urgent things that needed doing. As they went back up to the office, Payne said, "May I ask a question, sir?" "Of course." "Did you know the woman in the cell?" "You mean the dead woman? Yes. Carla Sedanioni. She was a Grade Five investigator. She worked for Chev that was the man in the cell with her not for me. But I've known her for years, ever since she joined, in fact." "Why was she killed? If she was an investigator, I mean?" "From what she said, she tried to get between a bunch of your friends and some interrogator they were busy kicking to death." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Payne open his mouth at the phrase 'your friends', then close it again. "She didn't know who he was. All she could recognise was the uniform they'd been working on him for a while." Toreth shrugged. "She was like that sometimes. Lippy. They finished him off, then started on her." "It's a shame, sir," Payne said, with apparent sincerity. "Yes, it is. She was bloody good at her job. I can think of plenty of people we could've stood to lose, but she wasn't one of them. Every one like that who's dead will make it that much harder to get things running again. If Carnac had got here a day or two earlier, we probably could've done something for her. There'll be a lot like that." The idea bothered him unexpectedly. People were dying in the cells, right now, despite his best efforts. He'd always felt protective towards his own team, and now the feeling seemed to be spreading to encompass his new responsibilities. He shrugged the idea away it wouldn't help him or them to dwell on it. ~~~ It was early evening by the time he left Payne in the office next to his, collating the incoming reports, and caught up with Carnac. By then he had the outline of a rough plan. Carnac probably had his own, and it would probably be better, but at least Toreth felt as though he was making a contribution. Whether that was a good thing was another question. Once he made the suggestion, even though it was something Carnac would have had to have done anyway, it was his idea. His responsibility. And, best of all, his fault if it went wrong. Still, he'd taken the job, ulterior motives or not, so he'd better do it. It took fifteen minutes of hanging around before he was allowed into Carnac's office, so he didn't waste time on pleasantries. "Carnac, the tribunal system isn't going to work, not in the current scheme anyway. There are too many prisoners down there and not enough people to do the processing. Plus, the whole system is shot to hell there isn't even water to all the cells, and the medics are struggling already." Carnac pursed his lips, looking as though he wanted to disagree. In the end he said, "What do you suggest?" "Honestly? Open the cell doors and let everyone who can, walk out." He held his hand up, even though Carnac hadn't started to speak. "I know. Impossible. So, at the minimum, we need to release the investigators and all the non-interrogation staff as they're found in the search. Get the injured ones out to hospitals if they're too badly off to go home. Offer them their jobs back, tell them to come in

when they feel up to it. Every one of them who does come back will help speed up getting the system running again." "That won't be popular," Carnac said. Clearly he wasn't going to put up a fight about it. "They aren't political criminals by any fucked-up definition. All they did was their job, within the letter of the law." Which is all any of us did. "If your friends have a problem with that, they should take it up with the people who defined what the law was." "Very well." He tilted his head. "You have the authority to make that decision yourself, Toreth. There's no need to involve me." "I thought it would sound better coming from you." And I'm not getting all the shit shovelled on me, no matter what you think. "For something that important they'd only come up here to doublecheck it anyway." Carnac smiled, clearly understanding the real motive. "Very well. Was that all?" "Yes, thanks." He stood up. "I'll stop taking up your valuable time." "One moment, please." Toreth stood and waited, and Carnac gestured to his chair. "Sit." He obeyed what was clearly an order, not a request. Carnac came round the desk and sat on the edge of it, still moving cautiously. Having him so close set Toreth's teeth on edge. He'd never hated someone so physically attractive before in fact he'd rarely hated anyone to this degree and it was a peculiar feeling. "The Service has been invaluable to our cause," Carnac said. "Without their cooperation, the revolution would have failed. Failure is still not out of the question, should they withdraw their support. It is unlikely, but possible. I would prefer not to have them antagonised unnecessarily." It took him a moment to realise what Carnac was getting at. "You mean by reinstating Bevan as HoS?" "Quite. A small incident, in itself, but shift enough pebbles and one can create a landslide." "Is that a socioanalyst saying?" "It's an observation, and one I am being highly paid indeed to make." "I'm surprised you didn't let Captain Clueless tell me where to shove my orders, then." The corner of Carnac's mouth twitched slightly, but his voice remained serious. "Under other circumstances I might've. I backed you because you made it necessary for me to do so. You chose to test the extent of your authority in front of someone whose bad word would destroy your credibility with the entire staff of I&I." He'd hadn't considered the situation in that light, although once Carnac pointed it out it was obvious. Well, he deserved the occasional piece of luck. "Bevan is a dangerous man," Carnac continued, "strongly opinionated, set in his ways and impossible to control, which is why I followed Major Bell's recommendation to remove him in the first place." "Your friends want I&I running again. Bev can do that a lot better than some," know-nothing wanker, "Service officer who isn't familiar with the building or the systems." Carnac nodded, looking faintly irritated. "I understand your reasoning. Nevertheless, you placed me in a difficult position. Bell has no operational authority in the building, beyond the Service personnel, but she has the ear of several officers in the Service Command and I cannot be seen repeatedly to ignore her opinions."

"I'll try to make sure it doesn't happen too often." "Thank you." Carnac returned to his chair, and Toreth wondered if this was a glimpse into his real plans for I&I. When he'd told Bevan that Carnac intended to hand I&I over to be swallowed up by the Service, he'd been spinning a worse-case scenario. Had he been closer to the truth than he'd imagined? As he was leaving, Carnac's voice stopped him in the doorway. "Just a point regarding the investigators: the reinstatements can only be probationary." "What?" He turned back, wondering what the hell Carnac was up to now. "Without the authority of a tribunal, an offer of re-employment can only be probationary. I'm sorry." He shrugged. "It's out of my hands. It was the decision of the Administrative Council when they approved the plan for I&I." Fuck. "I'll do my best with that, then." Back in his office, he sat and worried at the problem for a while, then gave up. Clearly there was to be no way round it, even if Carnac was lying through his teeth about whose decision it was. Toreth would just have to live with it, and so would the investigators. Since it was long past curfew, there was no point starting the releases today anyway. Maybe they'd be so glad to be free that they wouldn't notice the wording. Yeah, right. ~~~ By the time Toreth left I&I, it was past nine. He should have stayed longer, but after the third time he found himself staring at the screen, with his eyes open but asleep for all practical purposes, he decided he had to call it a day. His ribs ached, his head ached, and hunger had begun to give way to nausea. Time to go, while he could still manage the walk out of the building. He was stopped five times on the way back, but the curfew pass worked like a charm. He passed the guards in Warrick's building on autopilot fortunately building security recognised him without his being required to string together a coherent explanation of who he was. When he opened the door to the flat, wondering whether he could manage to eat anything before he fell asleep, the first thing he noticed was the cold draft blowing down the hall. The second thing was Sara peering anxiously round the living room door. "Oh, thank God, it's you," she said. "Could be." He closed the door and mildly impressed himself by managing to reset the security. "What's going on?" "Jesus, Warrick is going to kill me." Then she disappeared back into the room. Tempted to head for the kitchen, he went to see what was wrong. He found Sara standing over McLean, who was on his hands and knees, scrubbing the carpet and the side of the larger sofa. All the windows were open, which explained the cold. There was a sharp smell in the air disinfectant and something else it took him a few moments to identify. "Ah, you found Bastard, then?" Sara nodded and McLean looked up. He had a beautiful set of scratches that ran from the corner of his right eye to the angle of his jaw. If Toreth hadn't been so thoroughly exhausted, he might have laughed. "Can you still smell it?" Sara bit her lip. "It wasn't Bastard's fault. He's upset, that's all. I made

him a litter tray, and it's in my room, and I was going to keep him in there but I thought I'd let him out for a bit of run around. Who on Earth buys cream-coloured carpets anyway? Even oatmeal would be " The cold draft was stirring a headache behind Toreth's eyes. "Sara . . . tell me tomorrow. When there is a tiny chance that I will give a fuck." "God, I'm sorry." She came back over and took his arm. "You look like shit. Can I get you anything?" He stood for a moment, letting himself lean on her shoulder, trying to focus. "Is there any food going?" Sara nodded. "Rob made something. Things from the fridge with tomatoes and rice, but it's a lot better than I could manage." The absence finally registered. "Where the hell is Warrick?" "Still at SimTech. He called to say he had to stay until after the curfew, so he wouldn't be back. When you arrived I thought he'd found a way to get a pass." "Fuck." Or rather not. Not that he had the energy anyway but God, he'd been looking forwards to seeing him. Suddenly he couldn't face the idea of food. "I'm going to bed." "Did you have anything to eat earlier?" "I'm not sure." It felt like an unnecessarily complicated question. Earlier than when? "I had breakfast." "Then you're eating now. For Christ's sake, you were in that bloody cell with nothing to eat for however long. You'll kill yourself. Sit down." Sit down where? Looking round, he found they had somehow made it into the kitchen. He sat and ate whatever it was that Sara put in front of him, because it was easier than trying to argue with her, and then let her put him to bed.

Chapter Four
The Int-Sec complex had been reopened to cars, provided they had the proper clearance, so they were able to drive right up to the main I&I entrance. When it came to it getting out of the car and walking up to the doors Sara began to wish she hadn't been so insistent about coming back. Part of her acknowledged that the longer she left it, the harder it would be. Part of her said it was too hard already and she should have stayed at the flat. However, Carnac had said it: it was her decision, and she'd made it now. Even so, at the doors she almost bottled out and called the car back. And again when she saw the Service guards, and again at the lifts. They walked through the building, and she felt her stomach churning with every step. She tried to distract herself by looking at Toreth, wondering what he was thinking. It didn't seem to bother him at all. He was happy to be here, where he belonged. He nodded to the Service guards as they passed them, and one or two even returned the greeting. He'd said in the car that he'd been down to the cells yesterday and found Chevril. The same cell where he'd been held, the same places where he'd been beaten up and threatened. He must have been frightened at times, when it was happening, but now it was over the unpleasant memories seemed to have faded more quickly than the bruises. Part of his general disconnectedness from the things normal people would feel, and something she envied right now. She'd be all right, though, as long as she could stay upstairs. She couldn't face the idea of the interrogation levels. Nor could she think of a way of explaining to Toreth that she couldn't. He could manage to be sympathetic enough, when things weren't too busy and it was a case of taking her out for a drink and some ego-restoring flirting after she'd been dumped by a boyfriend. Even then she was sure he wasn't listening to her complaints most of the time, although he always seemed attentive. That was one of his tricks, handy for pickups, but she appreciated that he cared enough to do it for her, time and again, without expecting anything in return. However, that was outside work, and this was inside. He'd expect her to cope because he wanted and needed her to, and as far as he was concerned that was what mattered. After the fuss she'd made about coming in, she'd just have to brave it out and hope she'd be kept busy at her desk. The first thing she discovered, when they reached the office, was that her desk had been looted and presumably had also been in use the day before someone had had a stab at tidying it up and she didn't imagine Toreth would have done it. Most of her remaining possessions had been cleared and piled in a box beside the desk. On top lay her coffee mug, crushed flat. She picked it up, feeling suddenly and stupidly tearful. It had been a present from her sister, when Sara had first started work here. Toreth would have a fit if he came out if his office and found her snivelling over a mug. She should have thrown it out before anyway the heater in it had been broken for years. She dropped it into the recycling, wondering as she did so whether the system was even functional. It took her fifteen minutes to get her desk straightened out and scavenge round the office to find replacements for the lost and broken items. She borrowed Kel's coffee mug she could give it back to him when he came back. If he . . . she put it back on his desk and started looking for unbroken pencils.

Once she felt that her territory was her own again, she set to work. Despite Toreth's warnings on the way in, the systems were partially functional. She found his messages which he clearly hadn't had time to deal with yesterday and started sorting through them. Many had been rendered redundant by the events of the past few days, and some of them were . . . unusual. While she worked, she managed to forget the emptiness of the office, but when she'd finished and looked up it hit her all over again. She could have called through to his office, as she normally would have done, but she fancied seeing another person. She tapped on his office door and opened it. Toreth was leaning back in a chair at an alarming angle it was one of the admin chairs and they weren't designed for that kind of thing. He had his feet on the desk and was throwing a pencil up into the air and catching it one-handed. He held up his other hand and she stopped on the threshold. "Yes, Major. Yes. Yes, naturally I understand. Ah . . . one moment, please." He caught the pencil and muted the comm. "Get me a coffee, would you? Use the machine in Tillotson's office it's the only working one I've found." As she left, she heard him sigh, then the conversation start up again. "Sorry about that, Major. You were saying?" She found the coffee, took Tillotson's official I&I-logoed visitors' mugs, and liberated the biscuit supply from his desk. When she returned, Toreth was still talking. "Yes, of course. Major, I'm terribly sorry, I have to go. Yes, it is urgent. I'll keep you informed." He cut the connection and took out the earpiece. "Jesus, that woman can talk." "Who was it?" "Major Bell. Service liaison stroke officer in charge stroke pain in the neck. Next time she calls, I'll connect her through to Carnac and maybe they'll talk each other to death." He took the coffee and waved for her to sit down as he took a sip. "Mmm. Thanks. Anyway, I managed to piss her off yesterday without even meeting her now she's giving me grief without even being back in the building. All because I made her Service troopers get off their backsides and help down in Detention. What did you want?" Company. "There's a pile of messages in the system. I've shoved all the ones from . . . well, everything that was to do with cases and so on from before, I've put aside. I've had a look at all the ones which have come in since, sorted them by priority and left them for you. And . . . " She hesitated. "What?" "Well, there are some messages from your mother." "Very funny." Not that he looked as if he thought it was. "No, seriously. There are. Half a dozen." "Did you read them?" "Of course not!" "Well, read them now and let me know if it's anything important." She briefly thought about suggesting he read them himself. It wasn't as if either of his parents sent messages every day. Or, in fact, ever. "Fine. And Carnac," the bastard, "wants to see you at tenthirty, about the start of the tribunals. That's all." "Good. I've got things to do first. I'm going down to Medical to " His eyes widened. "Damn, I forgot to call Elena. Okay, I'm going down to Medical as soon as I've got hold of her." Back at her desk she called up the messages from Toreth's mother and read them. They weren't

long, but they were interesting. The first one, which must have slipped through during a brief period of comms function the day after the coup, was a cold couple of lines asking him to get in touch. By the last one the tone was more frantic she must have heard about the disaster at I&I from somewhere. Sara wondered why she'd kept sending them here after that, then realised it would be the only contact they had for him. Nice of them to worry, she supposed, but it was probably a bit late in the day to show that they gave a shit. She'd been with Toreth on probably the last occasion he'd seen his parents. Years ago now nine, maybe. Even back then they didn't know his address, as he'd warned her on the way over. "So don't fucking tell them," he'd said tightly. "Either of them. Otherwise I'll have to move again." Only curiosity stopped her finding an excuse to back out at that point. The odd thing was they weren't even that bad, at least not while she was there. Cold, distant and unloving, but nothing like the ogres in the picture she'd drawn for herself from his occasional cryptic comments and obvious loathing. They'd introduced themselves by their first names Glynis and David but Sara had felt oddly reluctant to use those in front of Toreth. As she remembered it the visit had been for his birthday, but after so long she couldn't be sure because there had been no kind of celebration. No cake, no other family or friends. The four of them sat in the silence of the ferociously neat flat, where cups were whisked away as soon as they were empty. The only homey touch was half a dozen photographs on the walls of a golden-haired child, from a few months old to three or four years. She'd wondered if they were of Toreth, but hadn't dared comment on them. The largest, over the mantelpiece, had a vase of fresh, expensively real flowers beneath it. His mother asked Sara about herself, then quickly lost interest once she mentioned I&I. His father said virtually nothing. She remembered Toreth sitting beside her on the sofa, so tense that she could see the pulse beating in his temple. Clearest of all was the departure. Toreth stood up suddenly, looked at his watch, and announced that they were leaving. His parents hadn't seemed in the least surprised. Only his mother came to the door with them. No kiss, no goodbye hug, both omissions unimaginable to Sara. He opened the door, hesitated, and turned back to look at his mother, smiling for the first time. "Bitch," he said, absolutely calmly. No inflection at all. "Fucking bitch." He didn't wait for a reaction, but Sara saw not a flicker of emotion on the woman's face as she watched her son stride away. Sara had never been able to decide whether it was iron control, or genuine indifference, although she preferred to believe the former. Too shocked to move, Sara stayed frozen to the spot in the hallway, until she came to her senses, muttered something she couldn't recall, and fled. She caught up with Toreth outside, walking quickly, his hands in his pockets. He didn't looked round or slow his pace. She had to skip every few steps to keep up with him. It took her a few minutes to think of something to say. "You don't have to go there." He stopped dead. "What?" "You don't have to go and see them. They can't make you." It was the first time that he really frightened her. His face twisted with fury, his shoulders

jerking back as if raising the fists still in his pockets, before he regained control and all expression vanished. "It's none of your fucking business," he said in the same dispassionate tone he'd used at the flat. She remembered the hot silence in the sunlit street around them, noticing that there was no one in sight, and how badly she wanted to run. Instead, scraping together all her courage, she took a deep breath. "No, of course not. Sorry. I just I just thought I'd say, because I . . . because you . . . " The sentence dried up under his icy stare. "Sorry." After a moment, he shrugged and turned away. "Doesn't matter." He started walking again, much slower. She fell into step beside him, and eventually slipped her arm through his, trying to work out why the hell he'd wanted her to come with him in the first place. A shield maybe. How might things have gone at the flat if she hadn't been there? He didn't say anything else until they reached the train station. Before they went through to the platform, he bought her an ice cream, without even asking her if she wanted one. Three scoops, chocolate sprinkles and little pink marshmallows on top, the whole thing slathered in toffee sauce. As he handed it over, he said, "You're right they can't." That had been that the end of the conversation and, as far as she knew, of his contact with them. Sara thought about her own parents and her sister, who'd been almost embarrassingly happy to see her yesterday. Her father had cried, holding her so tight that she could hardly breathe, and his tears had set first her off, and then her mother and Fee. Everyone crying and laughing at the same time, so much noise and fuss. Even Rob had been dragged into it, hugged firmly by her mother in his role as saviour, despite his protests that all he'd done was drive round with her and be scratched by Bastard. That had led into the (edited) story of Warrick's heroic rescue mission to I&I and and she didn't want to think about that too much. However hard she tried, she couldn't imagine hating her parents, not at all. She was debating whether to pass the notes on or just let him know what they said, when Toreth's door opened. He stood in the doorway, hands braced against the frame, and glanced around the room. There was no one else there. "Well?" he asked, expressionless. "She wants to know if you're all right." Should she say anything else? Probably not. "She sounds worried." His face didn't alter. "Does she really. Well . . . " "Shall I let her know?" "No." She waited. "Yes. Or . . . look, you can tell her whatever the hell you like." I don't want to tell her anything. "I'll take care of it." "Thanks." He disappeared again. First person or third? she wondered, as she started the reply. First might encourage a response, and she didn't intend to spend the rest of her life impersonating Toreth. She made several false starts, distracted by something she couldn't put her finger on, before she realised what was wrong.

The silence. There should be dozens of people, at desks and going in and out of the senior paras' offices. The mess made it worse, a constant reminder of what had happened. She abandoned the letter and started round the office, tidying desks, throwing out everything that couldn't be salvaged. People would appreciate it when they got back. She'd been here when it had started the alarms had rung and she'd tried to leave along with the others, only to find the way blocked by I&I security, frantically ordering people back to the offices. She'd heard the firing then, distant but closing quickly as she'd turned and tried to fight her way back against the flow, and her first assumption had been a breakout from the cells. The security doors should have taken care of that but she'd noticed, vaguely, that they weren't closing. She'd tried another way out, along with some of the other admins. The security doors there had been locked when they shouldn't have been because it was a fire route. So they'd gone back to the section and waited. Everyone milling around, making suggestions as to what might be happening, lost and unsure. She couldn't remember exactly who had been there. Whom she had seen there for the last time. Nor did she know how long it had lasted. People had left, alone or in groups; some had returned, some hadn't. Maybe if she'd gone then, she might have found a way out. However, it had seemed impossible absolutely unthinkable that whatever was going on wouldn't be brought under control. The idea hadn't even occurred to her until there was firing, suddenly, right outside the door and then, before anyone had had time to do more than scream, they'd been there. It had been a relief, because she hadn't thought through the implications. All she had thought was that, thank God, it wasn't the prisoners after all. They'd been thorough, searching the offices and driving everyone into the main section office this office. They'd been restrained then. Only sensible, in retrospect, when they were trying to control so many people with a relatively small force. The resisters had ordered them to split up, and that too, oddly, had felt better that there was someone in charge, someone giving orders. Some of the paras and investigators, quicker on the uptake than the others, had stayed with the admins. It hadn't helped in the end, when they'd . . . Movement across the office caught her eye, thankfully distracting her from the memory, and she recognised the man immediately from Toreth's description. "Lieutentant Payne?" "Yes, ma'am." Also part of the description. "Call me Sara." "Ah! You're Toreth's irreplaceable admin." The familiar tone threw her slightly and she must have looked surprised, because he smiled. "Your name came up yesterday. About every ten minutes, when he was cursing that fact that you weren't here." Whether Payne had any deliberate intent to flatter or not and she thought not Sara couldn't help smiling. "Serves him right. I did want to come in, but he wouldn't let me." He nodded. "He said you were " Unfortunately, she didn't get to find out what she'd been, because Toreth's door opened. "There you are, at last." He turned to Sara. "I'm going down to Medical. I'll be about an hour, I expect I'll send a message if it's going to be longer. Sort out everything you can yourself, call me if it's absolutely urgent, but I'd rather you didn't. There's a list of things to do."

She nodded and they left. Normally she wouldn't even notice it, but the confidence he clearly had that she would be able to handle things up here cheered her. She knew he trusted her to make decisions for him, but just now the reminder was welcome. In a more positive frame of mind, she turned back to the problem of how to reassure Toreth's mother, preferably while convincing her that she didn't have to reply. ~~~ Toreth shared the lift down to Medical with Payne, a couple of maintenance techs and several of the low, upholstered chairs from a coffee room. He wondered what they were for, but the question was answered as soon as the doors opened and the noise hit him. And then the smell. The reception area was packed with people who had until recently been locked in cells with inadequate water and erratic sanitation. Apart from the region immediately by the lifts, the only visible floor was narrow corridors through the mass, kept clear by tape barriers and security guards. He moved out of the lift to let the techs unload, and stood by the wall, surveying the chaos. To his relief, it became apparent that it wasn't quite chaos. There was clearly a triage system in operation, even if some of the assessors were people he knew for a fact had no medical qualifications beyond the most basic first aid. Screens partitioned sections of the area, and he guessed they were to give some privacy to the worst injured and the dying. People dying, despite everything he could do. Service personnel were still thin on the ground down here, and he wondered whether he should have left Payne behind. Better safe than sorry, though, for the time being. The first time he lost a confrontation with Service people was the time he'd lose whatever reputation he was accruing, beyond being Carnac's pet. However, just now he needed to talk to I&I people alone. He turned to Payne, who was standing quietly beside him. "Could you, um " And he couldn't call up an excuse. There were no immediately visible Service officers for him to talk to. Maybe sending him back upstairs would be easier. "Piss off while you're talking to the grown-ups?" Payne enquired, deadpan. Toreth blinked. "Actually, yes." Payne turned obediently to go, and Toreth stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Listen, I'm sorry about that. I meant to apologise yesterday, but it slipped my mind. It was nothing personal." "Don't worry about it, sir. Para." He smiled slightly. "I understand that you needed to show Bevan who was in charge. I'll hang around and look busy until you want me." Toreth watched him go. Definitely a sense of humour under there somewhere. He picked his way gingerly through the injured, glancing at people as he passed, assessing. Broken bones and infected wounds were popular, as was dehydration. There were also a lot of unpleasant-looking bruises all at least two or three days old, which meant that the Service people and resisters were behaving themselves. He was oddly surprised to find how many of the injured he recognised. He ought to, of course. Even given the size of I&I, he'd worked there for fifteen years and had worked his way around before settling in General Criminal. He made mental lists, of jobs rather than names. Lots of investigators and guards, fewer paras, even fewer interrogators. The number of investigators puzzled him until he made the connection they also wore black uniforms. Probably the mob hadn't been that selective. Halfway through the crowd he heard a voice he knew at once. "Para!"

Mistry ducked under a barrier and hurried over. She looked tired but uninjured. "Para," she said again, then stopped, suddenly awkward. Taking care to keep her away from his injured ribs, he put his arm round her shoulders and hugged her briefly. It felt like the right thing to do, and it obviously was because when he released her she was smiling. "I'm sorry," she said. "I heard you were in charge, and I meant to come up to the section. But when they opened the cells they asked anyone with any medical training to report here first. They haven't let go of me since." "That's fine. Are you okay?" "Yes. I was locked up and mostly ignored." She gestured to herself, short and slender in her investigator's uniform. "I'm lucky I don't look like an interrogator." Neither had Sedanioni, and it hadn't done her much good. On the other hand, Mistry would have had the sense to keep her mouth shut. Mistry smoothed her hair back it had lost its usual gloss, suffering more than the rest of her from the days of confinement. "I've seen Andy Andy Morehen," she said suddenly. "He's the only one from the team, except you." "Is he okay?" She grimaced. "He's not dead. They brought him in yesterday evening. One of his legs was " She waved her hand helplessly. "Smashed. I mean, just really . . . And there's an infection in the bone, so the medic said there wasn't a chance they'd save all of it. He'll need a graft. I spoke to him for a couple of minutes, but he wasn't making any kind of sense. He came out of a cell full of PC interrogators, though, so I think someone must've recognised him from back when he worked in Political. How about you? Is there news of anyone else from the team? Or the section?" "Not a lot. Parson's dead, Sed " Suddenly he couldn't be bothered to go on. "Listen, I'm in a hurry. Sara can give you the news when you get up there. Other than that, keep working down here until things straighten out. I don't think we'll get many Investigations In Progress filed soon." "Yes, Para." Then she startled him by taking his hand in both of hers a brief squeeze and release. "It's good to see you, Para." Feeling surprisingly buoyed by the encounter, he left her to get back to her work. Reception was mobbed, despite the efforts of security guards to keep people back. He'd need to send more people down here to ensure order. The place was loud but the atmosphere was calm enough at the moment. He knew that could easily change pain didn't improve people's tempers. Showing his ID to the guards, he worked his way through to the right-hand end of the reception desk, where the crowd was slightly thinner. He collected sufficient elbows in his tender ribs that, when he reached the desk, he had to pause to catch his breath. The receptionists looked harried, but in control. There were more pieces of paper and small squares of card piled on the desk than he had seen in his life. A long table had been set up behind, covered in more paper and cards filed in an eclectic assortment of small boxes. He remembered a note saying that the systems were down in Medical, but he hadn't thought through the consequences of that. He recognised the admin working closest to him from his first visit yesterday, when the place had been virtually deserted. He tapped the desk in front of her. "Excuse me," he said, loud enough to

be heard over the bedlam. "There is a queue," she said without looking up, and in the face of considerable evidence to the contrary. "Not for me there isn't." "I don't care " Then she did look up, recognising him at once. She flushed slightly. "I'm sorry. What can I do for you, Para?" "I'm looking for Don Chevril. Senior Para, General Criminal. Brought in yesterday afternoon about fourish. Dehydration, hypothermia, dislocated shoulder, probably a broken ankle, maybe broken ribs." About most of which Chevril would doubtless whinge for the rest of his life. Toreth waited patiently while she sorted through cards. It took a surprisingly short time before she found the right one. "Yes. Nothing life-threatening enough to warrant a bed. He's been returned to the cells . . . oh, except that Detention delayed taking everyone recommended as requiring surveillance." She didn't sound at all happy about that. Something else to look into. "So where is he?" "Let me check the list." Eventually, she directed him to the high-waiver interrogation suites the next section along from Medical which looked to have been taken over by patients. He found Chevril in an interrogation room, dozing on a couple of coffee room chairs that had been pushed together into something too short to make a comfortable bed, even for Chevril. He had a moulded plastic cast on one ankle, so it looked as if he'd been right about the break. At least he'd managed to get some clean clothes, even if it was only an interrogator's oversuit. That was something else for Toreth to add to the list fresh clothing for the detained staff. It was a list that was growing with depressing speed. Well, at least he'd managed to complete one task on it. Chevril had his arm over his eyes to block out the harsh lighting, and the marks from the cuffs still showed on his wrist. Toreth leaned on the back of the chair and shook Chevril's shoulder. "Wake up." "Uh?" Chevril lifted his arm and blinked at him blearily. "Oh. You." "Great to see you too. How are you?" Chevril moved over to give him space to sit and grimaced as the chair shifted under Toreth's weight. "I'm better than I look, or so the medic said." "How's the ankle?" "Hurts like bloody hell. But a lot less than when they straightened the damn thing out." "They're out of painkillers?" "Unless you're making enough noise to be a nuisance. And I wouldn't want to have most of the things they're shoving into people to get them to shut up the pharmacy's being very creative. They seem to be out of more or less everything. I got a half-strength dose of bone accelerant and told I should be bloody grateful to be alive at all. Which I am," he added. Toreth grinned and Chevril rolled his eyes. "Not that bloody grateful. Did you get through to Ellie?" "Yes that's what I came to tell you. When she got over the disappointment of missing out on the widow's pension, she said to tell you she's fine, and the flat's fine too. No torch-wielding mobs in

your part of the city. I said that if you were up to it, I'd drop you off there tonight on the way to Warrick's." As he finished speaking, he heard a scream from somewhere not too far away someone, female at a guess, in a great deal of pain. Chevril's leg twitched, and he winced. "Up to it? God, yes. I'll be glad to see the back of this place, I can tell you." "I bet you will." The scream came again, higher, more desperate. A familiar sound in these rooms, except that it was a colleague, not a prisoner. He made a mental note to chase up supplies in the pharmacy he didn't imagine that whoever was responsible for that noise would be keen to get back to work soon, if ever. "I'm putting you at the top of the list for the tribunals," he said to Chevril. "We're starting them today so I'll send someone down to fetch you when it's your turn. Once that's done you're free to crawl out of here as soon as you like, if you don't want to wait for a lift." Chevril frowned. "What the hell are you talking about?" "Tribunals. To assess whether you're the kind of person the new Administration wants working for them. Probably Carnac's bloody stupid idea, although he says not. There's going to be an announcement about it. Basically, all you have to do is turn up, answer a few questions and they'll let you out." "Hang on, what happens if I'm not the kind of person they want working for them?" "It's just a formality, I promise. Don't worry about it." "Don't bloody worry?" Chevril took hold of his sleeve. "Toreth, what happens if they say no?" "Carnac's threatening executions." Chevril sat up abruptly, then went pale. Toreth disentangled himself, then patted Chevril's arm. "There's nothing to worry about, I promise. Listen I'm putting the paras through first. We need the senior staff desperately, so they won't reject anyone to start with. And I'm going to get the system scrapped, somehow, before we get too far down the list." Chevril lowered himself carefully back onto the makeshift bed, wincing. "If I end up in front of a firing squad, Elena won't be happy." "All you have to do is turn up, be a bit cooperative, and you'll be out and don't mention that I warned you about it. I'll be there anyway, keeping an eye on things. It'll be fine." "Easy for you to say. I bet you didn't get a bloody tribunal, did you?" No, he hadn't. Which meant, according to what Carnac had said last night, that his own reemployment was 'purely provisional'. Not a happy thought. Before he could reply, a woman's voice broke in on the conversation. "Para Toreth? Someone said you were here. I need to talk to you." Toreth turned to find one of the senior medical officers in the doorway. He recognised her at once he'd put her in charge of co-ordinating medical supplies only yesterday, but his mind blanked completely on her name. Even by the current standards of the medical unit, she looked harassed. "Is there a problem?" he asked.

"Yes, Para. There are Service people in the medical stores, taking things." "What things?" "Everything, more or less." He stood up, instantly forgetting Chevril and the impending tribunals. "Show me." ~~~ In the stores he found a dozen troopers, busy crating up supplies under the supervision of a lieutenant. "What are you doing?" Toreth asked, with what he thought was admirable politeness. The group looked up, then went back to their work, dismissing him. As soon as he'd finished here, he had to get a uniform from the stores. "I said, what the hell are you doing?" The lieutenant sighed, and came over. "I've already explained everything to your colleague," he said. "And now you can explain it again to me." For a moment, the man clearly weighed up the advantages and disadvantages of simply telling him to mind his own business. Then he said, "We have orders to requisition surplus supplies for the use of the Service medical units." Bastards. "Well, they're not surplus, so you can put them back and leave." "Major Bell gave us permission to search the stores here." "Major Bell doesn't have the authority to do that." Then, just too late, it occurred to him that Major Bell very well might. Carnac had mentioned martial law, and he hadn't had the time to look up exactly what that meant. Nothing to do but continue with confidence. "My name is Senior Para-investigator Toreth, and I have operational authority at I&I. If you don't believe me, you can check with Carnac. You do know who he is, don't you?" The lieutenant shrugged slightly. "The order applies to all non-essential medical stations. I suggest that you confirm that with the major." "I don't need to talk to the major, I need you to stop what you're doing, put everything back, and leave. Look outside does this look bloody non-essential?" "It's designated as such. The major will tell you that as well." Was punching a Service officer mutiny, or was there an exclusion that said it was okay if they were being an infuriating tosser? He was seriously considering the merits of finding out, when someone spoke. "Excuse me, sir?" It took him a moment to realise he was being addressed. Then he turned to find Payne behind him. He wondered how long he'd been there. "What?" "There's a message for you. An urgent message." He followed Payne a little way off. "Well? What?" "Let me have a go," Payne said, in a low voice. Toreth blinked. "What are you you mean, with him?" "Yes. You don't have a rank he recognises; he probably hasn't even heard about you if he's from out of the building."

"Well . . . " Toreth thought it over. He certainly hadn't been getting anywhere. "Okay." "Thanks." Payne waited for a moment then added, "If you could . . . " "Piss off while you're talking to the grown-ups?" "That's the one, sir." Once outside the stores, and somewhat to his irritation, he found himself smiling. Payne was turning out to be less of a bore than he'd looked set to be. Not to mention, if he could pull this off, a lot more useful. Maybe he'd try some light flirting later and check exactly how happily married the man was. In the meantime, Toreth's dry run on Chevril had given him some idea of how the seniors would take news of the tribunals. He went back to the reception area, prised a receptionist away from the mob and told her to check the whereabouts of four dozen paras, mostly seniors, whom he'd known long enough that they'd be willing to believe him when he said he wouldn't play tame executioner for Carnac. Some of them were bound to be in Medical and also well enough to be released. For the rest, he could get cell locations from Adams. While he waited, he wondered how many of the names would turn out to be on neither list. The list of dead was too patchy to be useful yet, so he'd just have to see how many on his list couldn't be found anywhere. In the end, the receptionist found less than a quarter of them. Toreth took the paper list, almost reluctantly, then scanned down it. Mike Belkin in the medical unit with a fractured collarbone and a serious concussion not bad, since Toreth would've bet on the resisters killing him. Perhaps, like Bevan and unlike Sed, when the pinch came Belkin had known when to fold. Christofi back in the cells with only minor injuries lucky bastard as usual. Tom Hepburn had been a recent transfer into General Criminal from Political Crimes. He wouldn't be fascinating the office with his tirades at the junior members of his team in the near future, if ever: fractured skull, coma, another paragraph of injuries Toreth didn't bother reading. Scratch him from the tribunals. Turning a page, he found Chris Doyle's name. The junior had left Toreth's team more than two years ago, but Toreth still felt a proprietorial pleasure at seeing him listed as a survivor. Doyle seemed to have suffered almost as badly from the systems failures as the resisters, being brought up to medical with severe dehydration to accompany an impressive litany of broken ribs and fingers, and bruising. Doyle was tough, though, and smart. He'd see the necessity of cooperating with Carnac's charade. A cough distracted him from the list. He pocketed it and turned to find Payne looking pleased with himself. Toreth waited for a moment, then asked, "Well? Did you sort it?" "I explained the situation, and he agreed to clarify it with Socioanalyst Carnac before continuing. Until then, he'll put everything they've already taken back." "Good. Excellent, in fact." Toreth didn't believe in stinting praise when it was due. "Well done." Payne glowed quietly. "Thank you, Para." Toreth decided to test him out a bit further. "Now I need you to go up to the office and do the same trick with Major Bell. Make it a courtesy call. You're not asking permission, you're explaining the misunderstanding so she doesn't get embarrassed later. I'm unfortunately unavailable, that sort of thing." "Yes, sir."

Payne always slipped back into bad habits when there were senior officers involved. "I'm going to call Carnac from down here, so when Bell calls him about it, he's forewarned. Off you go." Personal comm frequencies had gone down again, so he found an office with a working comm and tracked down Carnac, in another part of Int-Sec. Carnac sounded less than thrilled that Toreth had probably managed to upset Bell again so soon, but he nevertheless conceded that having half the staff die of untreated injuries would impair the efficiency of the Division. That done, Toreth went off to pay a few more visits to the sick before the tribunals began sitting. ~~~ Toreth hadn't raised much objection with Carnac to the idea of tribunals, because he'd suspected what would happen. The interviewees were suspicious, frightened and therefore angry; most of them would say nothing at all. Meanwhile, faced with actual people, people they could sit and talk to (or at least talk at), most of the tribunal members lost their enthusiasm for authorising executions. Toreth had decided to give it most of a day before tearing up the procedure and starting again, so that no one could accuse him of not giving the system a fair trial. However, it was so clearly a disaster that he had to make an effort to let the tribunal limp on until late afternoon. They'd done half as many people as they'd hoped to; it would have been only a quarter without his unilateral decision to send back to their cells anyone who hadn't said anything after fifteen minutes. The tribunal had agreed to that without hesitation, frustrated and possibly embarrassed by the lack of cooperation. Of course, they weren't to know he'd picked the most paranoid bastards he could think of to interview first, for exactly that reason. When he finally called a halt, the sense of relief around the table was all he could have hoped for. He walked round the table and faced the panel. Nine members in total: a majority of civilian resisters, two Service officers, a Justice rep Carnac had dragged in, presumably to give the thing an air of respectability, and an empty chair for the senior para fraternizing with the enemy. No wonder the I&I staff weren't keen to talk he didn't much like the view himself. "Right" he said. "I think it's fair to say we're getting nowhere." Nods and murmurs of agreement. "With your permission, I'd like to try a different scheme. The first thing I suggest is to cut the panel from nine to three. We can do more cases, and people will be less intimidated. Secondly, effectively telling people that they're here to answer questions and you'll kill them if they get the answers wrong isn't the best way to conduct an interrogation. Trust me on that." He smiled, and the tribunal looked suitably uncomfortable. "So I suggest that we start with the offer of re-employment set out why they're here, and make it sound positive. If people refuse, let them go anyway." One of the resisters shook his head firmly. "You're saying that we should allow the guilty to escape punishment. While it's understandable you might have some loyalty towards " "I'm sorry to interrupt, but nothing is further from my mind. I'm being practical. We lack the resources to keep people here indefinitely. Most of the ones who go will change their minds in a few days anyway, and those who don't can be re-arrested later when we have a clearer idea of the final number of surplus staff. The more it looks as if we're keeping our promises, the more willing people will be to consider the proposals. News of what's going on here will get back down to the cells, believe me." There was no necessity to explain or suggest. He could simply order them to run the tribunals

any damned way he wanted. However, after Carnac's warning, he thought tact was in order. In the end he didn't have to sell it very hard. The first one in was Chevril, and he was such a model of eager cooperation that Toreth felt sure the tribunal would smell a rat of gigantic proportions. They didn't. Nor did they as he sat with them through the list of pre-briefed interviewees, and onto the beginning of the list of paras, graded by Sara from most to least likely to play along. He decided that they were simply delighted to have some progress to report to Carnac. Sometimes he wondered where the socioanalyst found idiots of this calibre. ~~~ In the car on the way home that night, Sara slept next to him all the way, and he practically had to carry her up the stairs and into her bedroom. Bastard hissed furiously, then retreated under the bed as Toreth aimed a kick at him. Sara was too wiped out even to protest. To the accompaniment of a perpetual low growl from Bastard, Toreth helped her undress, amused by the role-reversal from last night. As he left her room, he met McLean in the corridor. Toreth knew he must be missing Warrick, because he caught himself thinking that McLean wasn't unattractive, from the point of view of fucking him from behind in a darkish room. That was just his cock feeling lonely, and besides Sara had staked out a definite interest. From the way McLean frowned when he saw Toreth coming out of her room, she probably wasn't wasting her time. "How's the face?" Toreth asked. McLean touched the fading scratches. "Fine. Injured almost in the line of duty, so I picked something up for it yesterday from the SimTech stores." Toreth wondered idly what else SimTech had, and whether he could commandeer it to take to I&I's medical unit. "Speaking of which, shouldn't you be at SimTech, keeping an eye on Warrick?" "Normally, yes." The frown had disappeared, replaced by professional politeness. "I was told to stay here." To look after himself and Sara, no doubt. "How long are you lot going to be hanging around?" Warrick, should he ever reappear, didn't like an audience. "Until the risk assessment program decides we're no longer needed. My guess is weeks rather than days. There's still trouble in the city and besides, in the current climate, there's an upgraded risk of corporate sabotage." 'In the current climate' meaning, amongst other things, while I&I was out of commission. Something he hadn't thought of, and which he ought to have done. "Is it a serious risk?" He headed for the kitchen, and McLean followed him. "Well, that depends on how you measure it. The absolute danger is small. But from SimTech's point of view any threat to Doctor Warrick is serious, and worth paying for the security to reduce to as close to zero as possible. He's worth a lot of money to us." He paused, then shook his head. "I'm sorry. That sounded rather cold-blooded, but it's true. In lots of ways, he's absolutely vital to the company." Toreth must have been more tired than he'd realised, because as he opened the fridge he caught himself thinking 'and to me'. Christ, he did need a fuck.

Chapter Five
Carnac was good at not listening. It was an approach based on the general truth that most people only want to listen to themselves; all that was required to make them happy was to sit and nod, making agreeable noises, until they had talked themselves to a standstill. At that point, if one simply told them what they were going to do, nine times out of ten they would agree and think it had been their idea in the first place, since you had listened to them so carefully. He'd expected this conversation with Major Bell ever since Toreth had arrived in the building. As it was, it had taken until the third day after Toreth took up his new duties. Of course, Bell had been regrettably called away from I&I for the first two days; she wasn't the only one with friends at headquarters. Carnac had come to I&I with a detailed, well laid-out plan that was his greatest strength. In the normal way of things, he worked at a distance, analysing and preparing, and leaving the interpretation of his reports and the execution of his schemes to be bungled by others. The current task was different, and he enjoyed the variety it offered, even though his tolerance for dealing with his subjects in person was not an infinite resource. Bell hadn't been part of his original plan, but on discovering her here, he had been obliged to work her into it. She had her own petty agenda, naturally, but it was of no importance or interest to him. As far as his own plans went, she had proved to be moderately useful so far she acted as a minor distraction and irritant to Toreth, spurring him on in his efforts on behalf of I&I. Not that Toreth hadn't proved himself up to the task in hand without Bell's intervention. However, with Toreth it was a good idea to provide opposition and secondary motives for him to uncover, both of which the major supplied in abundance. The major talked a great deal, and said little. Without a doubt, she had missed her calling in life law would have suited her a great deal better than the Service. However, she had a politician's mind that would assuredly see her in the senior ranks at the end of her career, if no one had felt compelled to plant a knife in her back before then. He'd been looking at the insignia on the major's uniform as the woman talked. Now, at a suitable pause in the non-conversation, he lifted his gaze and looked her directly in the eye. "Are you questioning the fundamental correctness of the decision to maintain I&I?" Bell looked startled. "No, of course not. It's a dirty job, but it has to be done." No, it doesn't, and if people like you could see that, things never would have come to this. "Then what, precisely, is your problem?" he asked. "The senior para-investigator you've placed in charge. Whether you are aware of it or not, he's riding roughshod over my instructions, and refusing to acknowledge my authority." Careless of her. He smiled gently. "Authority?" There was a pause, then the major said, "I am well aware that I have no official authority here, at least not over the I&I staff." Implying, 'but over the Service I do'. Not insignificant, since the Service currently made up a substantial minority portion of the occupants of the building. That was partly his own fault it had been, he acknowledged, a gamble that had failed to pay off. Now he had to work round the

consequences. "I do regret that my choice of deputy has caused you inconvenience. However, I appointed him based on my instructions from the new Administrative Council, with which you are familiar. Do you have any specific instances where he has acted against those instructions?" She hesitated. "I've been away from the building. But he has removed Service personnel from the posts to which I appointed them, without consultation. And he seems to feel that he can commandeer the services of my people without bothering to seek permission." "And have those incidents harmed I&I in any way?" "They . . . not directly, perhaps, no. But they are contrary to discipline and good order." "His manner can be a little abrasive, I grant you. I'll ask him to moderate it and respect your authority over the Service personnel here." Not that it would have any positive result, but it would annoy Toreth delightfully. "In return, I would ask you to remember that I&I is not part of the Service, and has never been." As he'd expected, that drew a sharp glance. He kept his expression neutral, and after a moment she nodded reluctantly. "I'll agree that culture clash may be responsible for some of the problems." "Indeed it is. Consequently we must all practise a degree of understanding and tolerance. For the good of the new Administration." Carnac touched the comm. "Send Lieutenant Payne in here, please." He turned back to Bell and smiled again. She seemed to be learning, because she looked at him warily. "Despite your apparent conviction that I am permitting Toreth to create havoc unsupervised, I asked Lieutenant Payne to keep an eye on him. To assess his suitability for the post from, as it were, a position of closer contact." The major frowned. "I wasn't told about that." "No. Ah, lieutenant. Come in." Payne glanced between them, professional caution evident. "Yes, sir." He stopped at the indicated place, saluted, and waited. "Lieutenant Payne. I would like your impressions of Senior Para-investigator Toreth." "He's a capable and dedicated officer, sir." Bell sneered silently at the word 'officer'. Carnac ignored her. "Expand on that, if you would be so kind." "He places the execution of his orders above all other considerations. In the time I've spent with him, I've never seen anything to suggest that the restoration of I&I services isn't his highest priority." "Do you think he's suited to the job? Capable of it?" Payne tried to glance at Bell, but Carnac had carefully positioned him so as to make cueing impossible. In the end, the man nodded. "Yes, sir. In my opinion." "In your opinion, of course. Thank you. Major, do you have any questions?" "No." "You may go, Payne." Carnac hoped the lieutenant didn't catch the glare Bell sent in his direction as he left. "Major?" "In my opinion, Toreth is dangerous, and a potential troublemaker."

Well, at least her judgement was sound. "I am not interested in your personal assessment of his character. I am interested in what you will say to your superiors about his ability to execute the task in hand the restoration of I&I to full function. I'm sure that's how the question will be phrased when you speak to them. Well, major?" "In that regard, his performance is adequate, yes." There was no other reply possible. "Excellent." Carnac waited until the door had closed behind the major before he allowed himself a smile. Really, she ought to have spoken to the Council first, rather than approached him, but she didn't want to appear incapable of handling the situation. She was ambitious, and not unintelligent, but she was no match for him. In due course he would get rid of her, but for now she would do very well. ~~~ Toreth's day had not so far gone well. The medical unit was filled far beyond capacity, with staffing levels that would have struggled to handle a normal work load. The plan to move injured investigators and support staff to outside hospitals kept coming up against the stumbling block that they too were badly over-stretched. To compound the problem further, medical supplies were low and deliveries fitful and inadequate. Similar difficulties beset the restoration of all the other services. After a morning of listening to a string of problems he could do nothing to resolve, Toreth cancelled his remaining appointments, switched off his comm, and settled down in his office to work out some alternative plans. Behind every problem, large and small, was the lack of people to do what needed to be done. So, he first had to find his missing staff. It should have been easy to tell who was present and who not when the building was attacked, but the security logs had been lost in the general chaos. Nor were there complete records of the support staff released once Carnac had taken control. Some of the missing hadn't been in work on the day of the takeover, and hadn't called in since, like B-C and Nagra. They were presumed to be in hiding somewhere, although records of lynchings were still slowly filtering over from Justice the upheaval had turned Justice's normally torpid information processing into something best measured in geological time. Justice had suffered some damage during the revolt, although reports had them far better off than I&I. For one thing, no one had imprisoned a substantial portion of their surviving officers. At I&I, the task of identifying bodies was proceeding far too slowly, because once more there weren't the people to do it. It was a vicious circular problem: they needed more staff, so that they could get more staff. Even if it meant efforts suffering in the short term, he needed to reallocate resources so that they could spare the necessary personnel to track people down. The trick would be doing it with the least damage possible. He'd been working for an hour, and was beginning to make some progress, when he heard the door open then close. Toreth didn't look up. "Sara, I told you I wanted some peace and quiet. Whatever it is it will have to " "I'm afraid I talked my way past her." Startled, he looked up. Warrick stood by his desk, smiling at his surprise. "Warrick? What the fuck are you doing here?" "Well, that makes me feel welcome, I must say. Shall I go?"

"No, I didn't mean it like that." With his own late nights here, and the curfew trapping Warrick at SimTech, seeing him anywhere was a pleasure. Although Warrick didn't look as if he was serious about going. In fact, he looked rather The thought vanished as Warrick leaned down and kissed him firmly. "Mmf?" Warrick pulled back. "I beg your pardon?" "What was that?" "A kiss. I'm surprised you've forgotten what one feels like in just three days." "No, I know what it was, but " What the hell are you doing here, in the middle of the day, in my office, in a building you hate, acting like you're in charge? However, if he said it, Warrick might go. So he shut up and sat back. Warrick smiled again. "Good." He started to strip, briskly. "As a matter of fact, I came here to see Carnac. It seemed a pity to waste my contact within the new Administration, so I asked him to assist in obtaining curfew permits for a few key SimTech personnel. It's going to take him a little time to finalise all the approvals, so I thought that, since I was in the building anyway, I might as well come and see you." Warrick's shirt joined the rest of his clothes in the neat pile, leaving him completely nude. "I hope you don't mind?" At some point during the explanation, Toreth had lost the power of speech. He settled for shaking his head. "Excellent." Warrick opened the top drawer of his desk, rummaged through the contents, and produced a tub of hand cream. "I thought I remembered that you kept something suitable in there." He straddled Toreth's thighs and sat, facing him, reading the label. "Mm. Hypoallergenic, unscented, dermatologically tested." One eyebrow arched. "How very convenient." That was, Toreth felt, a touch unfair. He did use the cream for its intended purpose, because the over-processed air down in the interrogation levels was extremely drying and the gloves made his skin . . . but Warrick didn't look as if he'd be in the least bit interested. "Hold this. Thank you." Warrick gave him the jar, and turned his attention downwards, unfastening Toreth's clothes with the same concentrated efficiency. Toreth watched, still speechless but admiring the contrast of Warrick's pale skin against the black of his own uniform. Next Warrick opened the lid of the jar, took out a generous portion and smoothed it between his palms. "Mm. Very nice." He reached down and began massaging Toreth's cock, long slow strokes that rather distracted him from Warrick's monologue. "But then I assume it cost a fortune. Even Dilly spends less on her skin than you do. I suppose I ought not to complain, since the end result is so appealing. Vain, but irresistible." Leaning down, Warrick kissed him again. Toreth opened his mouth to him, unresisting, letting him do whatever he wanted. At any moment, he thought vaguely, he was going to wake up at his desk and find he'd missed an important meeting. But if he had dreams this vivid, this hot, then he'd never bother getting out of bed to come to work in the first place. Eventually, Warrick pulled back, eyes opening slowly. "Hold the edge of the desk and keep the chair still." His voice had lost some of its cool, but it was still commanding.

He reached round Warrick, depositing the jar on the desk, and as he did so, he thought about the door. It wasn't locked. Had Warrick asked Sara to make sure they weren't disturbed? Warrick wouldn't be doing this if he thought there was the slightest chance they would be caught, but at the same time he had trouble imaginging him saying . . . and then he gave up imagining anything at all as Warrick lowered himself slowly down. The last of the idea that this might've been a sudden impulse on Warrick's part was banished at the same time. He was prepared and open enough to take Toreth all the way in. Toreth arched back against the chair, the protest from his ribs swamped by the pure physical pleasure. God, it felt good. Distractedly, he tried to remember how long it had been since they'd last fucked, then gave up. Too long, anyway. Far too fucking long. "The desk," Warrick said. "What?" He opened his eyes, and found he had his hands on Warrick's hips, pressing him down onto him. "Ah. Sorry." A moment of stillness, Warrick's hands shifting their grip on his shoulders, before Warrick began to fuck him. A few slow thrusts to start with, then faster, hard and deep and utterly wonderful. Not a experience designed to last long, but if that was what Warrick wanted, then it was fine more than fine with him. He had to fight to stop himself thrusting back up, because if he did the chair would surely go flying. The whole situation, the weird reversal, only magnified the excitement. Warrick, fucking him in his office. The door wasn't locked and whether Sara was there or not, someone could walk in. He imagined Carnac's expression, seeing this, and he almost laughed out loud. He tightened his grip on the desk and braced his feet, his eyes closing as he concentrated on other senses. Warrick's mouth on his throat, teeth grazing the skin as Toreth drew in a deep breath, smelling him, still tasting the kisses. Being fucked being taken. Warrick leaned against him now, breathing hard, one arm around his shoulders, the other moving between them. For once, he couldn't tell how near Warrick was to coming, couldn't tell anything at all, disoriented by the strangeness and desperately close himself. "Warrick " "Yes. Don't hold back." He'd managed to keep quiet until now, but at the end he couldn't help it. Muffled, thankfully, by Warrick's shoulder, he cried out, ecstasy mingled with delighted disbelief that this was real. Just a few seconds, and Warrick's fingers dug sharply into his shoulder, and he moaned, surprisingly restrained, as he also came. Toreth let go of the desk and held Warrick in place as he relaxed against him and until, eventually, they were both breathing normally again. Over Warrick's shoulder, Toreth caught a glimpse of the screen waiting for him. He closed his eyes and wished he could stay like this forever, or at least until someone else had sorted out the whole fucking mess for him. Then Warrick sat up, obscuring the screen, and shook his hair back. He studied Toreth's face for a moment, and said, "Very nice." Me or the fuck? Before he could ask, Warrick held his hand up, the gesture more an order than a request, and Toreth obediently licked it clean. Not that he minded doing it, despite the taste of the cream. When he'd done, Warrick stood up, wiped his hands on a handkerchief from his pile of clothes,

and started to dress, at a more leisurely pace than he had stripped. Toreth watched him, bemused and thoroughly enchanted. How often had he thought 'it can't ever be better than this', and been wrong? There seemed to be no upper limit on how good fucking Warrick could be. In the grip of the warm glow of well-fucked contentment, he almost wished he could think of a way of saying that to Warrick that didn't sound . . . 'Tell him that he was the best fuck in the world'. When he had nearly finished dressing, Warrick said, "Assuming that Carnac has finished processing the applications, I shall be able to get back to the flat tonight after work. So I will see you there?" "I yes." His voice sounded strange. "I'll probably be late." "I expected you would be." Warrick pulled on his jacket and smoothed out the creases, looking as if nothing at all had happened. For a moment, Toreth had the weird sensation that nothing had happened, and then he licked his lips, tasting hand cream and come. Tasting Warrick . . . Who was already leaving. "See you," he said from the doorway, and was gone. He gave him twenty seconds to get away, refastening his own clothes as he waited, then tapped the comm. "Sara. In here." She opened the door, grinning. "Yes?" He'd hoped to manage at least an unconvincing pretence of a reprimand, but his smile must have been wider than hers. "I told you not to let anyone in." "I'm sorry." She managed to fight her expression down to a smirk as she came over to the desk. "He can be terribly convincing." "What did he say?" "He asked me if you still had the hand cream in your drawer." Toreth blinked, then started to laugh. "Fucking hell. So you said yes?" "I said I thought you might. And I must've been right." "Why?" "Because it's on the desk. But also because you've got it all over your shoulders, some in your hair, and a blob on your cheek." "Shit." He wiped his face and discovered she was absolutely right. Warrick hadn't had a spot on him, the bastard. "I'll find you something to get it off with, shall I?" She left the room, still grinning. After the door closed behind her, he leaned back in the borrowed chair, which had suddenly acquired a set of very fond memories, and briefly thought about being annoyed with Warrick for leaving him like this and not saying a word. He could've walked out into the office and been seen by anyone. Except, of course, that Sara would've stopped him, and Warrick knew that she would. When Warrick planned, he planned carefully and comprehensively. So instead, he put the top back on the hand cream, dropped it into the drawer, and settled back again to wait for Sara to return. His fingers ached from holding onto the desk and he rubbed them absently, working in the cream that had

somehow ended up there too. In the middle of all the stress, and mess, and impossible problems, he was suddenly having an extremely good day. ~~~ Sara left I&I early she still didn't have a pass of her own, so the choice was to go before curfew started, or wait until Toreth was ready to go, and she was too tired to do that. To her surprise, Warrick was already at the flat when she arrived, sat in the kitchen with a SimTech guard she didn't recognise. They were discussing something with serious expressions, but when she came in, Warrick looked round and stood up, smiling. As it couldn't possibly be her presence that generated something so brilliant, she knew there had to be good news of some kind. "What is it?" Even as she asked, she guessed, because there were only two people she'd ever seen him smile like that over. "I heard from Dilly about an hour ago." "Really?" She hadn't even realised that she'd been worrying about Dillian, but she felt the load lift from her mind. Without thinking she threw her arms round him and squeezed him tight. "Oh, God, that's fantastic!" He tensed, then returned the embrace briefly before he stepped back. "Yes. Yes, it is." "Is she hurt? What about Mars? What did she say?" "Not much. The connection lasted for about twenty seconds. But she's fine and she's trying to get a shuttle back as soon as she can. She didn't say anything about the base." "But they must be okay, if she's alive and there are shuttles." She grinned. "We should celebrate." "Why not?" He smiled again, seeming amused by her enthusiasm. "I'll see what I can find. Do you want something to eat?" "Please. I don't know how long Toreth's going to be, though." She left him to it and went for a long, hot shower. The smell of I&I, which she'd never noticed before, seemed to stick to her hair and skin these days. It reminded her of a hospital, something she'd always found depressing. Perhaps it was still the imaginary residue of the four days' imprisonment. When she returned to the kitchen, the scene was much the same, although the cast had changed. This time Rob McLean stood up as she entered, looking gratifyingly pleased to see her. The food was beginning to smell delicious, and there was an open bottle of wine on the table. Rob poured her a glass, and the three of them toasted Dillian's (hopefully) safe return. Then she joined Rob at the table, and listened to Warrick and him discussing security at the AERC. The situation in the city still seemed to be improving, which was something. After the difficult day at I&I it was nice to hear good news. Toreth came in earlier than she'd expected him. When she'd left, he looked to be settling in for the night. In fact, it was only nine when she heard the door open. He whistled his way down the hall and into the kitchen, and out of the corner of her eye she noticed Rob wince. Obviously a music lover. For a moment, as he came through the door and saw Warrick, Toreth had exactly the same smile he'd worn in the office, only without the hand cream. Then it modulated into something less obviously sex-induced. "Hello, all." It was almost disturbing to see him in such a good mood after work.

"I'm starving," he said, as he went over to join Warrick by the cooker. "I had a snack earlier, but it only made me hungrier." This time, Sara winced. That had the ring of a conversation heading rapidly downhill. Warrick obviously thought the same thing, because all he said was, "Really," in a chilly tone. "Uh huh. And this looks nice. Smells nice." Toreth put one hand lightly on Warrick's shoulder, and reached for the pan with the other. "But how does it taste?" "Be careful, it's hot." "I know that." He licked his finger. "Mm. Nice spicy. And creamy." Warrick's shoulder twitched. After a few moments he said, "It's non-specific curry, I'm afraid. All I could do with what I had. If I don't manage to get some fresh things in, we're down to packets for tomorrow." "Oh, I'm sure you'll be able to find something in a drawer." This time the twitch turned into a coughing fit. Toreth patted his back with mock-solicitude. "Are you okay? I'll get you a drink." Humming happily, he went to fetch a glass. Sara tried desperately not to catch his eye, because she was millimetres away from developing a cough of her own. As she looked away, she saw Rob staring fixedly at the table and clearly in professional deaf mode. She felt fleetingly sorry for him, but not enough to dispel the happiness. It was surprising how quickly Warrick's flat had started to feel like home. Toreth's good mood lasted all the way through dinner, and he even managed to be civil to Rob. Afterwards, he declared, suddenly and improbably, that he was tired, and went to bed. For about ten minutes, Warrick managed to keep going the thin pretence that he wasn't desperate to follow him, then he muttered a carbon copy of Toreth's excuse and departed. It should have provided a good opportunity to spend some more time with Rob but, to her annoyance, Sara discovered that she seemed to be the only one in the flat that evening who genuinely was exhausted. Leaving Rob in the kitchen, she went to the spare room. All was quiet from Warrick's room, but she would've put a large bet on that not lasting for long. She didn't care, as long as they didn't keep her awake. ~~~ They didn't. Instead she was awoken a few hours later by thirst, and the fading fragments of a dream another nightmare, she suspected. The still-strange room disoriented her, and for a moment she couldn't find the clock. One in the morning. No wonder she felt so tired during the day if she couldn't manage to sleep through the night. Heading for the kitchen, she hesitated in the hallway. She didn't know what prompted her to go into the darkened living room a movement, a noise, just a feeling but when she switched the light on she saw Warrick, sitting with his back to the door. As she came round the end of the sofa, she saw him slipping a folded handkerchief into his dressing gown pocket. Even without that clue, it was obvious when he looked up his eyes were red and his lashes damp. She sat down beside him and asked the ridiculous but necessary question. "Are you okay?" "Perfectly, thank you. You?" He checked his watch. "It's late." "I got up for a glass of water." He'd closed the conversation, but she felt compelled to try again.

"Are you sure you're all right?" "As I said, yes. I couldn't sleep, and I thought that, rather than wake Toreth, I'd come in here." "And sit in the dark?" He shook his head. "Not particularly convincing, is it? Although I genuinely didn't wish to wake him up seeing me making a fool of myself would distress him needlessly." He was right about that. Toreth wouldn't have the faintest idea of what to do or say. Although, to be honest, neither did she. She liked Warrick a great deal he was kind, generous, and he made Toreth happy. However, except for rare occasions, there was a distance between them that made her wary of him. She was never sure what he was thinking. After a moment, Warrick cleared his throat and said, "I apologise, incidentally, if I embarrassed you at work today." "Not a bit. Really. Any time you want a reminder of the contents of his desk is fine with me." He raised his eyebrows. "I mean, it only makes my life easier. He was as ratty as hell before you showed up, and after you'd gone I seriously thought about asking for a pay rise, he was in that good a mood. Not that he doesn't have plenty of good reasons to be ratty," she added, in case he thought she was complaining. He smiled slightly. "I doubt it will happen again in the immediate future. Or at least, I hope not." "Oh?" "No. It was . . . I went for lunch at work, and the screen in the cafeteria was showing the damage to some of the Int-Sec complex. It suddenly occurred to me that it was pure luck or pure chance that Toreth survived at all. I don't know why it should have come as such a surprise. He even mentioned it, if you recall, while we were eating on the first evening." "He left Interrogation early, to go to the gym." "Yes." He seemed to consider the problem for a while, then said, "I suppose it's that I didn't allow myself to dwell on the possibilities before you were released, and afterwards there seemed no point in thinking about might-have-beens." "I was sure he was dead. Really sure. There was someone in with us who'd seen the interrogation levels and " She stopped as the images returned, as clear as the instant the lift doors had opened and she'd seen it for herself. Warrick looked at her questioningly, and she shook her head. "It sounded bad. I knew he was down there, so I thought there wasn't much of a chance. Mind you, most of the time I was too busy worrying I was going to end up the same way to think about him, or anything much." There was a pause, then he said, "I can't imagine how awful it must have been." It sounded peculiar, and it took her a moment to realise why. It wasn't simply a platitude. In fact, it was closer to observation than sympathy he'd tried to put himself in her place, and failed. "At least we had you to get us out," she said. "Yes. I have no real grounds for complaint, do I? I was here and relatively safe." She almost said, 'sometimes waiting is the hardest part', but that was slipping into platitudes she'd readily have swapped her four days at I&I for four days in Warrick's flat. And she vividly remembered Toreth in the interrogation room, bruised and cuffed, and stumbling with fatigue. Instead, she said, "So, you saw the Int-Sec stuff?" "Yes. And then I thought a lot of terribly cliched nonsense, and it suddenly seemed very important to see him. I'd intended to ask Carnac to help with the curfew permits anyway, so that was

sufficient justification for indulging myself. Afterwards I felt a great deal better. I think I worked the last of it out of my system just now, before you came in. So I am, now, perfectly all right." She wasn't entirely sure she believed him, but there was no point saying so. They sat for a while, then Warrick looked at his watch again. "I'm afraid I ought to be getting back to bed. Goodnight, and thank you for your patience." "It's, um, no problem. 'Night." When he'd gone, she sat on the sofa, hugging a cushion and feeling unexpectedly lonely. There was no one to mind if she woke up in the middle of the night and felt like crying. No one except Bastard, anyway, and he had been banished down to the basement, where at least he had been granted the privilege of a small open window. She was almost ready to start sniffling, when she heard a movement behind her. "Warrick?" "No, only me." It was Rob, standing in the doorway. "Come in. Where've you been?" "Keeping out of the way in the dining room." The room furthest away from the main bedroom. She couldn't help smiling. "Were they loud?" He stared at her, then his expression smoothed away and he said, "I have no idea what you mean." "Oh dear. That bad? I must've been faster asleep then I thought." Not a muscle in his face twitched. "Can I get you anything?" Fun as teasing him was, she thought she'd better change the topic before she overdid it. "Something hot would be good. Without caffeine." "No problem." After he left, Sara sat and watched the city through the window. The shooting was more intermittent than on previous nights, and there were fewer of the fires that had kept her away from the window before. She wondered how many more people like her were out there, unable to sleep. Stuck remembering for the rest of their lives things they'd rather never think about again. There must be hundreds, she decided, or probably thousands. She wasn't even that badly off. All the people she really loved were alive and safe. It was only people from work who were gone from her life. The still missing and the definitely dead. Parsons, who had she closed her eyes, shutting out the distant fires, and forced herself to think about something else. Rob returned a few minutes later, with a mug of herbal tea. "I'm not entirely sure what it is most of the label on the jar is in some exotic alphabet I don't read, but it smells okay." She took a deep breath and forced a smile. "Is it safe, do you think?" He grinned. "I'll test it for you." He took a sip. "Seems to be. At least it's not instantly fatal. Tastes good. Lemony." "Okay, I'll trust you." He crouched by the chair and offered her the mug. Instead of taking it, she wrapped her hands over his and leaned forwards as if to take a sip. She pulled gently on his hands, bringing him in closer. She couldn't have offered a much broader hint and, finally, he took it, leaning over their joined hands

and kissing her. Lemony, indeed. It lasted only a couple of seconds, then he sat back on his heels and gently disengaged his hands. "Rob?" "I'm sorry," he said. Not the response she'd been expecting. "You're sorry you kissed me?" "Something like that. Except for the part about being sorry. What I mean is " Ah. Daylight dawned. "You're on duty." "'Fraid so," he said, relief evident at the understanding. She smiled. "Well, that's easy. Because you're only on duty until two, and then, when you're not . .." "Yes?" "I'm in the spare room." He looked at her for a moment, still crouched by the chair. "Just like that?" "Just like that." She curled her feet up under her, and settled back into the embrace of the deep chair. Warrick had great taste in furniture, even if it wasn't cat-proof. "I thought it would save a lot of time." He stood up. "Sara, I, er . . . " She took a sip of the drink and rested her head on the back of the chair, closing her eyes. "'No thanks' will do fine." "It's not that not at all. But I'm working for SimTech. For Warrick. If anyone found out I'd done something like that, here, I'd probably get sacked for it." "I understand. No need to say any more." Pity, because she could fancy it. Just a fuck, as Toreth would say. Not something she normally did, or wanted to do. Even with her eyes closed, she could feel him hovering nearby. Eventually he said, "I, um . . . " "It's fine, honestly." The chair was too comfortable to get out of, but the atmosphere in the room was anything but. For a few moments she considered asking him to leave, but that seemed unfair. Besides, she needed to get back to bed or she'd be a wreck at work tomorrow. Even though it was Saturday, it seemed unlikely that she'd be getting in any later than usual. ~~~ They knew her name. They were going to kill her she knew that was true with a certainty that paralysed her with terror. They meant to take her away and kill her. If they found her, they would lock on the cuffs and take her through the door and through the door she could see the bodies. Smell the blood. Toreth was dead. She'd seen him dead in the interrogation levels and they'd handcuffed him too. They knew her name. Calling her name and she thought, I can run, but there was nowhere to go, even if she could have forced her leaden limbs to move. Blood, everywhere, sticky and clinging. So she crouched in the centre of the crowd, trembling, as they searched. Closer and closer. They were looking for her. People creeping away, leaving her alone in the middle of the stinking, blood-slippery room. They knew her name.

"Sara. Sara!" Now she was struggling for real, released from the paralysis of sleep and fighting the hands on her wrists, dragging her towards the door. "Sara, it's me. McLean. Rob." For a moment, caught between dreaming and waking, she knew it was real and she knew it was a trick to make her give herself away. Then her eyes opened and she saw him in the light from the doorway. "I heard a noise." He let go of her wrists and touched her cheek, and it was only then that she realised she was crying. "I was dreaming about " She couldn't say it. He took his hand away and rubbed his thumb over his fingertips, then moved up the bed and she leaned against him, still shaking. He stroked her back, gently. "Shh. You're fine. You're safe. Everything's okay." She swallowed, wondering if she was going to be sick again. Throwing up all over him would be a wonderful next step. "I'm sorry." "Don't be silly." He pulled away slightly, looking down at her. "That is, it's no trouble at all. All part of the service." There were a great number of replies to that, many of them highly suggestive, but as it was all Sara managed was to look back at him, grateful and at the same time wishing he could be a little bit less professional. She put her hand on his shoulder and, gently, pulled him down towards her. He resisted for just a moment, before he kissed her lightly, like the first brief kiss in the living room. Then he kissed her again, and it went on and on, warm and tender. While he kissed her he held her gently, almost impersonally, as though waiting for permission to do anything more. He kissed very nicely. Eventually he pulled back and looked down at her, seeming serious in the dim light. "I wouldn't want it to be . . . taking advantage." "Me either. Would I be?" He smiled, a flash of teeth, then he went across the room to close the door. "I thought you'd get sacked?" she whispered. "I decided I don't care." "You never know if you get caught, maybe they'll let you patrol corridors." There were footsteps, then a pause. "Well?" she asked. Sara listened to him stripping in the dark. It was tempting to turn the light on there was no reason not to but it seemed more fun to leave it off. As he slipped into bed beside her, she realised why. It was just like sneaking a boyfriend into her room at her parents' home. The idea of Warrick and Toreth playing the part of her parents almost made her laugh out loud. Once in bed, he hesitated again, close beside her but not yet touching. She reached out, guessing, and found his mouth with her fingers. "Kiss me again." Sweet. It was sweet; he was sweet. Also gentle, considerate, patient, and lots of other delightful

adjectives, but mostly sweet. He even came sweetly, pressing into her, gasping softly into her ear, sounding almost surprised. Afterwards, he didn't show any sign of rushing off, which was rather sweet too. In fact he seemed happy to hold her, playing with her hair, murmuring compliments. She was terribly tired, but not so tired that she didn't mind staying awake with him for a while, until he finally had to go. He smelt lovely. Eventually, he propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at her, a dark outline against the window. "Can I ask you something?" She turned her face up to him and he kissed her. "Sure. Go ahead." "Do you . . . do this sort of thing a lot?" "What? Meet men, proposition them outright, and screw them?" "Er, yes." "No, not really." She ran her finger along his collarbone. "Usually I get references from friends, check them out, follow a strict dating plan and then screw them, if they look like a solid prospect for a reasonably long-term relationship." "Oh." "Don't worry. I felt like a change." "So I'm what? Not a prospect?" Oh, great. Just her luck to try casual screwing and get a stalker. Toreth would die laughing. "I'm sure you're lovely. But don't you have a girlfriend or something?" He sat up. "No! Of course I don't! What the hell would I be doing here if I had a girlfriend at the moment?" Even better a faithful stalker. "Sorry. I didn't mean " "I don't cheat on my girlfriends." Bloody hell, he sounded actually upset about it. "I'm sorry, honestly. I didn't mean to say I thought you would. Or I didn't think about it. Oh, hell." Too complicated, when she was so tired. "I think my standards are screwed spending too much time with Toreth does that to you." "I'm sure it would." The sudden coldness drove her to sit up too. "And what's that supposed to mean?" Rob paused, then said in his professional voice, "Nothing." "Yes it bloody well is. What?" "All I meant was that it's not exactly, well, moral. Working at that place." Oh, of course. Bloody outsiders. "I work there too, you know." "You don't . . . do what he does." "No, I just screw men I've known for five minutes. I suppose that makes me a whore, does it?" "Don't be I didn't say that." "You didn't need to." She hated him, suddenly and absolutely. Ruining everything all she'd wanted was half an hour's fun with someone she liked. Something to make her feel sure she was alive.

"Sara, I was talking about I&I, not you. What used to happen there was wrong. People knew that, and they were just too frightened to speak out. If it's the only result of all this, I think they did a good job when they started to clean the place out." "You have no idea what happened at I&I, so you can " "And you might not like to hear this, but I'm sorry they didn't finish the job and close it down for good." "Get out." "Sara " "Get the hell out of my room and don't even think about ever coming back." "I just " "Out!" She raised her voice. "Get out!" "All right, all right, I'm going." He jumped out of bed, and she heard him stumble. Then more noise as he tried to find his clothes. Angrily, wanting him gone, she snapped the light on and caught him, frozen, halfway into his trousers. She had to laugh. McLean frowned, gathering clothes. "Don't worry, I'm leaving as fast as I can." He pulled on his shirt and shoes and suited action to words. When he had gone she switched the light out and lay back in the dark, still seething. The arrogant little worm. How dare he talk about Toreth like that? (She conceded the point about morals, but he had no right to say it.) How could he say that what the resisters had done at I&I was good? Of course, he hadn't seen it. He hadn't seen people he knew, dead in a pool of blood. Parsons, screaming as they'd dragged him out of the coffee room along with the other interrogators and the paras . . . Think about something else. What the hell was with 'Aren't I a prospect'? Men. They weren't happy if you tried to 'trap them', and they weren't happy if you said you didn't want to. Well he could go to hell. She wasn't going to think about him any more. She didn't think about him for fifteen minutes or so, until she finally fell asleep.

Chapter Six
Working at the weekend was an annoyance made only marginally more bearable for Toreth by the knowledge that Warrick was also working, so he wasn't missing out on the chance of a long, leisurely weekend fuck. Nevertheless, leaving for I&I early on Saturday morning put him in a black mood even before he reached his office and found the stack of messages that had been left overnight. As he plodded his way through them, he kept thinking of what he ought to be doing on a Saturday. A swim at the university gym first thing, then back to Warrick's flat for breakfast in bed and afters. One of the more enjoyable of the routines that normally made up his life. It would've been nice to have had something that hadn't been utterly disrupted by the revolt. As far as work went, Saturday was hardly better than Friday. The water to the cells had failed totally overnight, and Toreth was ten minutes away from ordering Detention to open all the cell doors when the service crew called to say the pumps were working again. Once they were fixed, power breakers tripped and the air cycling went down. This time he'd already given the order to open everything when the cycling came back on. It was only yet another fault, this time in the cell security overrides, that saved him from a building full of angry and uncooperative paras and interrogators. The near disasters did nothing for his temper or his nerves. To top it all, Sara crept into his office at lunchtime, and he knew by her expression the news was bad. She offered a screen, hovered for a moment, then left without a word. A fresh death list. He scanned down the screen and found the highlighted name. Starr, Joel, junior para-investigator, General Criminal. Starr had joined Toreth's team only last October, fresh from training, and Toreth hadn't been greatly impressed by him so far. However, it was another blow, another part of pre-revolt I&I that could never return to normal. Still no news from B-C or Nagra either, and the idea of having to build an entire team virtually from scratch depressed him. Toreth opened the associated report file. By the look of the post-mortem report Starr had been caught in the periphery of a grenade blast. Not discovered until today because he'd made it down to the waste recycling level where he'd crawled into a corner and eventually died a couple of days later of blood loss, dehydration and injuries sustained. Toreth wondered for a moment if the body had been found by that morning's repair teams. When Toreth ventured outside, he found Sara crying at her desk. He went straight back into his office. By midafternoon, he was desperately hoping that Warrick would turn up again. Regrettably, he'd already put that down as a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Payne proved to be only a slight distraction from the stress. Direct flirting would probably scare him off, so Toreth amused himself by playing accidental touching whenever they were in the same office not often enough to create suspicion, but enough to be sure that there was some spark of response buried down there. It wouldn't take many days before he'd have the lieutenant trained to lean back in his chair whenever Toreth walked past behind him. Apart from that, the day was generally dismal. Sunday brought no better news. For every problem solved, two more appeared. Unless things started to improve soon, he'd have to admit to Carnac that he couldn't perform as requested. God only

knew what would happen then. I&I closed down and the remnants returned to Justice, or subsumed by another part of Int-Sec or the Service. Which meant Carnac winning. That thought kept him at I&I until past midnight, only finally forced back to Warrick's flat by sheer exhaustion. However, on Monday he began to see some results from his attempts to reallocate resources. Sufficient admin staff had been cajoled back that he had something approaching a skeleton personnel department. He sent Sara to brief them, and get them started on the task of tracking down the missing, checking the list of dead and presumed dead, and drawing a fuller picture of what the final staff complement was likely to be. Wheeler sent a report an hour after Toreth got in, saying that the water, food and heating systems in the cells had been completely restored. Toreth had read similar reports before, but this one used words like 'guarantee' rather than 'believe', so he was inclined to put more faith in it. The cells had been emptied of all those who could walk out, except for the interrogators and paras, and the tribunals were beginning to nibble down the numbers of those. Medical was still a disaster, and people were still dying unnecessarily, but even there things were slowly improving. Some supplies had arrived nowhere near as many as were needed, but enough to raise the morale of the medical staff. A second pleasant surprise came midmorning, when someone knocked on his office door. "Come in." Toreth looked up from the screen in time to see Barret-Connor open the door. "Morning, Para," B-C said. The sudden shock of normality left Toreth speechless. "Sorry I'm late," B-C added as he crossed to Toreth's desk. "There's hardly any transport running, and then the Service people had trouble with my ID. I thought for a while they were going to throw me into detention." His team. With Mistry and Sara, and maybe Morehen, who was still hanging on in the face of the shortages of drugs and decent facilities, that made five of them alive. Toreth cleared his throat. "Where the hell have you been? Why didn't you get in touch?" B-C looked surprised. "Didn't you get my message, Para?" "No." "Oh. Sorry about that. I sent it on Friday, as soon as I got the general call for everyone to come back in." "Must have been lost in the comm problems." How many other, more important, messages were going astray? "Does that mean you don't know about Nagra either?" B-C asked. Six survivors? "No, I don't. Is she okay?" "Yes. When it all happened, we started back here from Justice, but we couldn't get onto Int-Sec grounds and pretty soon after that we realised we didn't want to. We both laid low at my mother's place until the troopers appeared, then Nagra took off. She's gone up north somewhere, she didn't say exactly where. I got a note to say she was safe, though, and I sent it in the message to you." Toreth realised he was grinning, but couldn't squash the delight. Six of them. God, maybe things could be normal again one day. In the meantime, B-C provided a skilled and reliable pair of hands, although even he looked

dismayed by the time Toreth had finished delegating. To make up for it, Toreth gave him Hepburn's office. The senior wouldn't be needing it his name had shown up on the death list yesterday. As the morning drew to a close, Toreth found himself with no desperately urgent life-or-death tasks to complete for the first time in four days. Given the chance to sit back and look at the situation as a whole, he found himself beginning to worry not because things weren't now going better but, oddly, because they were. When Sara returned, sounding optimistic about the new admin arrangements, he left her in charge and went off to have a coffee and a think. As he reached the corridor he heard Sara's delighted cry of, "B-C!" followed shortly by, "Toreth, why didn't you tell me?" Without looking back, he waved and walked on. ~~~ Toreth sat in Tillotson's office, with his heels scuffing the section head's desk, sipping section head grade coffee, and thought about the bigger picture. He'd been too preoccupied by the chaos and problems to give much thought to Carnac's ultimate plans, and perhaps that had been part of them. Trying to second-guess Carnac's motives was simply a waste of time, so he considered only what he knew had happened so far. Carnac had stayed in Warrick's flat until Monday morning. That was three full days after the start of the revolt and two and a half days after the resisters had control of Int-Sec. On Friday (and he smiled without noticing) Warrick had come here to see Carnac in his capacity as new Administration higher-up with special interest in I&I. And something Toreth had said to Payne on the first day back: if Carnac had made it to I&I a day or two earlier, Sedanioni might not have died. Why had Carnac been hiding at Warrick's flat when he should have been directing the revolt and taking charge here? No doubt he'd laid his plans carefully, but it wasn't like Carnac to trust the lesser mortals to carry out his directions unsupervised. Payne might know more, and seemed amenable to questioning. Payne's presence was something else that might bear closer consideration. Carnac wouldn't have chosen him at random. The reason Payne had offered seemed a thin connection, but it might make sense if Carnac was looking for someone favourably predisposed towards I&I. He was reasonably certain that Payne was telling the truth as he knew it, but a chance conversation with Carnac had a ring of plausible coincidence that made him certain that the socioanalyst had set it up. The question was why, and he doubted he could find out from Payne. When he left the office, he took Tillotson's chair with him. Handy as the armless admin chair had been for Warrick's surprise visit, he thought he deserved something more comfortable. Back in his office, he found Payne waiting for him with good news he had somehow managed to divert some technical supplies to I&I from some unspecified alternate destination. There was a strong suggestion that it was better not to ask how or where, so Toreth didn't. Instead he said, "If only Carnac had pulled his finger out and got here sooner in the first place, we'd be a lot better off." "Yes, there was some trouble about that," Payne said. He'd struck gold. "Really? Where?" "At headquarters. As I understand it, Socioanalyst Carnac decided to direct the operations at IntSec in person. There was some confusion, I believe, and the, uh, irregular forces involved in the

original uprising were allowed to run out of control here for longer than planned." He didn't say it, but it didn't take a trained investigator to spot the subtext: involving civilians in military matters was a mistake. "You got here before Carnac?" "Yes not me personally, but the Service. Not by long, but Major Bell took control on Monday morning and the socioanalyst arrived later in the day. This is all what I've heard since, though, so it could be wrong." It certainly fitted in with what he knew. "Nice to know even Carnac can fuck things up." "I know what you mean he is a bit unnerving, isn't he? But it was a pity for I&I. By the time we arrived, I'm afraid most of the damage had been done." "I didn't think you'd care that much." Payne looked slightly offended. "I won't pretend that there aren't some pretty unflattering views within the Service about the status of some Int-Sec departments, I&I included. But you're Administration, just like us. Or that's how I see it." After Payne had gone, Toreth sat in his newly acquired chair and thought about what he'd said. There didn't seem to be any doubt that Carnac had deliberately delayed getting to I&I. Maybe he'd been hoping that the mob would kill enough of the staff that the Division would be destroyed at that stage. That made sense, because not rebuilding I&I would be politically easier than persuading the new Administration to eliminate it. I&I wasn't loved, but it was useful. It seemed sound enough, except that Carnac had then given Toreth operational authority and let him use it, knowing full well that he would never let Carnac close I&I if there was any way to prevent it. Carnac had backed him up against the Service, both over Bevan and over the medical supplies. He'd given him Payne, who was both useful and sympathetic to I&I. He'd appointed an embarrassingly softhearted tribunal panel. First he'd left I&I to be torn apart, now he seemed to be doing his best to put it back together. Over the last couple of days, the interview panels had been set up and trained, ready to start processing interrogators and paras at full speed tomorrow. If Carnac genuinely wanted to see I&I blood, then the tribunals were perhaps the strangest thing of all. Why go to the trouble of legitimising the reemployment of the interrogation staff by the new Administration? Of course, the tribunals also had the power to order executions. Four days ago, Toreth had stacked the interviewees to get the outcome he wanted. What if Carnac had done the same with the tribunal members? Had he chosen them so that Toreth would underestimate their willingness to schedule 'surplus staff' for elimination? Toreth pulled up the lists of names of tribunal members, and scanned through it. None of them were familiar, but that was only to be expected. However, he had the authority to dig deeper another one of Carnac's gifts. To his surprise, he managed to get a connection to the security files on the first try. He called up the members' files and read a few at random. He found nothing in them to suggest they were of any higher calibre or any more ruthless than the members of the test tribunal. Reassuring, to a certain extent. Still, it was a puzzle, and a worrying one, because the tribunals certainly weren't something Carnac had allowed by accident. He considered it for a while, then gave it up. It was only a matter of time before he'd find an excuse to scrap the tribunals for good, and it was highly unlikely they'd be started up again later. Once that happened, Carnac's plans, whatever they were, should be neutralised.

That thought was a worry, not a comfort, because it suggested that Carnac's plan to take down I&I and he was still convinced Carnac had a well-hidden agenda would have to come into play soon. There was something going on, something he knew nothing about, and with Carnac involved, that ignorance could be fatal. How? 'How' was the big question. He doubted that anyone at I&I besides Carnac was in on it. It wasn't as if he could simply take Carnac out for a drink and ask him what he was planning. Toreth spun himself round in the chair, the beginnings of a smile mirroring the beginnings of an idea. It wasn't as if . . . ~~~ Sara had already gone to bed when Toreth finally let himself into the flat. He heard Bastard, scratching at the inside of the door to her room, no doubt hoping to be let out to wreak havoc. From that he deduced that McLean must be guarding bodies elsewhere only the totally insane would try to get near Sara with Bastard in the vicinity. The animal was possessive to a disturbing degree. Toreth was convinced that, given half a chance and a bit of cooperation, Bastard would be screwing Sara with the same enthusiasm he applied to stealing food and destroying furniture. When he'd mentioned as much to Sara, she had been unamused to say the least, which made him wonder if she thought the same thing. He found Warrick in the bedroom, still awake, or almost so he was sitting up in bed, a screen on his knees, his head nodding. "Warrick?" He jerked upright. "Mm? Oh. I was wondering where you'd got to." "Sorry, I should've called." While he undressed, he thought about how bloody domestic that little exchange sounded. He needed to get his own flat back, soon, before he ended up imagining that he liked it. "You don't have to wait up for me." "I wasn't." Warrick yawned and put the screen down. "I'm trying to work out how long we can keep paying our employees if our customers use the current difficulties as an excuse not to honour their debts." Toreth hadn't even thought about how all this might be affecting SimTech. "Is it serious?" "Not yet. Or at least Asher says not, and I trust her judgement. I was going over the numbers she gave me, just to double-check. Two pairs of eyes are better than one." He yawned again. "Although possibly not at this precise moment." Toreth went to kneel beside the bed, still brooding about the idea of being waited up for. Being positive, at least it meant that he knew where Warrick was when he wanted him. "Warrick, I need a favour. A big favour." "Ask away." Warrick ran his hand across his shoulder. "I'll do my best." "I need the address of Carnac's hotel, and his medical records." That woke him up. "Medical records? Why?" "Warrick " "Yes, of course. And I very much doubt I want to know, in any case."

"Can you do it?" There was a long silence, then Warrick shook his head. "The address I have, as you know, but as for the other no, I don't think I can." At first, Toreth thought he must have misheard. Then, briefly, that Warrick meant he wouldn't do it. "Why not?" "They'll be in the Socioanalysis Division system somewhere, and I have no idea how to go about getting into that." "You can get into Int-Sec, why not Socioanalysis?" Warrick smiled. "You let me into Int-Sec originally, remember? Once you're part of the way in it's much easier. And I can get the less secure files ordinary citizens' files, medical files from Central Medical Services. But it's unlikely that Carnac's file will be stored there." "Fuck." "If it's that important, I can try. But it won't be easy or safe. I can't do it from here. I'd need to find somewhere to start that can't be traced back to me." "No . . . no, if it's going to be that hard, don't do it." Carnac was too damn dangerous to risk attracting his attention. "Is there anything else I can do to help?" "No." That was it. He didn't have a Plan B, because he'd been so confident that Warrick would come through. "I'll have to think of something else completely." "I'm sorry. Is there anything else I can do?" Hadn't he just asked that? Toreth looked at him blankly, then focused on the smile in his eyes rather than his still serious expression. "Yeah, maybe." It certainly wouldn't hurt to stop worrying about Carnac for a while and there was no better distraction than Warrick. "What did you have in mind?" "Nothing elaborate." Suited him he was too tired for games. "Just a basic fuck?" Warrick laughed. "Sometimes you're so amazingly charming. Well, come on then. Get into bed." Ten minutes into nothing elaborate, Toreth had managed to forget I&I, Carnac, and everything else except the fact that Warrick really was better at this than anyone else he'd ever fucked. He wanted nothing more than to come in Warrick's mouth and then fall blissfully asleep before he even felt him stop swallowing. He heard an indistinct exclamation from under the sheets. "What?" he asked, hoping it wasn't anything important. When Warrick lifted his head, Toreth bit back a moan of protest. "I'm an idiot," Warrick said. Didn't look like blissful sleep was imminent after all. "I can't believe I didn't think of it straight away." Warrick threw the sheets aside and knelt up. "Does it have to be current?" Did what? Then he realised what Warrick meant. "Not as long as it's not too old. No more than a few years." "How much of it do you need?"

"Biochem and metabolism, known drug reactions, genetic predispositions nothing fancy." "Then I can do it. In fact, I can do it right now." Eleven minutes earlier, that would have been music to his ears. Now he wished Warrick could've thought of it a bit later. "How long will it take?" "A couple of minutes." He took Toreth's hand, licked the palm, and placed it onto his salivaslicked cock. "Keep yourself amused and you'll hardly notice I'm gone." "What?" Toreth sat up. "And I thought you said it would be risky?" "Couldn't be safer." Warrick was already out of bed, pulling on his dressing gown. "Carnac's been in the sim, which means that his medical file will be in the volunteer archive at the AERC. I've got a copy of that here. Just the basics, but if that's all you need . . . " Toreth started to follow him out of the room, remembered that they weren't alone in the flat, and went back for something to wear. By the time he reached the office, he found Warrick already working. "All the medical details are anonymized. It won't take me long to undo it." Toreth watched for a few seconds, trying not to ask the question. Then he said, "You were thinking about Carnac?" "Mm?" "You were thinking about Carnac while you had my cock in your mouth?" "Not really." Warrick didn't even look round. "More along the lines of a sudden flash of inspiration." "You must've been." "Well, I suppose he might've been at the back of my mind. I can think about more than one thing at once, you know, especially when one of them is technically exacting but hardly intellectually demanding." What were you thinking about him? Toreth decided to drop it. There was no point in asking questions until you got the answer you didn't want to hear; he of all people ought to know that. "Ah. Here we go." And then Warrick paused. "Before I give this to you, I ought to ask you to promise me that whatever you want it for, Carnac won't be harmed as a consequence." "I didn't know you cared about him that much." "I never said that I did." Warrick's face, reflected in the screen, was utterly serious. "But in any case, I don't need a promise because it would be suicidally stupid of you to do anything to him, and I know you're neither of those things." "Thanks for the vote of confidence." Now Warrick did smile, slightly, as he brought the information up. "Is that enough?" He scanned the details over Warrick's shoulder. It was indeed just the bare basics, but it held more or less everything he needed to know. "Can I have a copy? On paper." "Of course. I'll take the name off, shall I?" "Please. And don't take too long." He rested his hands on Warrick's shoulders. "How strong is this chair, do you think?" Warrick laughed. "Go back to bed. I'll be there in a minute."

~~~ After she closed the door quietly behind her, leaving the room pitch dark, Sara nearly changed her mind. This was so stupid. But she couldn't bear to try to sleep on her own again, and she was almost ready to cry from sheer exhaustion. Even sneaking Bastard into her bedroom hadn't helped her sleep he'd refused to cuddle, and spent his time scratching the door and sulking because she wouldn't let him out. The only other option was McLean, but after their disastrous night, she couldn't think of anything to say to him. So it was this or nothing. Her stealthy entry didn't seem to have disturbed the occupants. She'd heard them both in the hall outside her room the second or third time she'd woken up, but that was an hour ago. Now the only sound in the room was the quiet breathing of deep sleep. It took a few minutes' careful groping in the dark before she even found the bed. It was only then that she realised she wasn't sure which side Toreth slept on. Mostly she only saw him asleep on sofas. The right side, she guessed. Well, if she had to make a mistake, at least it would only be with Warrick and hopefully he'd understand. "Toreth?" she whispered. No response, so she tried a gentle touch on his shoulder. "Toreth?" "Mm?" Movement in the dark, then, "Sara?" Oh, shit it was Warrick. Well, it would be. She should think of something and leave. However, exhausted as she was, should and could proved to be two different things. In the end, she said, "Sorry. I thought you were Toreth." A pause, then he said, "Housekeeping, minimum lights." Slowly, the lights came up to a dim glow, revealing Warrick lying on his back, propped up on his elbows, blinking up at her, with Toreth sound asleep beside him. He studied her face for a moment, then frowned. "What's wrong?" "It's . . . I had a nightmare, about I&I. Blood and people screaming and they were looking for me and . . . and then I went back to sleep, and it happened again. I'm so tired, and I just can't " To her horror, she felt tears starting. "I'm sorry I woke you up. I wanted to ask Toreth to " To make it all better, somehow. "To come and sit with me. Or something." Warrick smiled slightly. "Or something?" She blushed, hoping the dim light would hide it. "Let me sleep with him. Or, on the floor next to him, I mean," she added quickly, because it was Toreth. "Would you like me to vacate the bed?" Warrick asked. The kindness in his voice, and of the offer, brought the tears back. "No! I mean, I don't want to throw you out, I just don't want to be alone and " She couldn't carry on, so she looked away from him, blinking quickly until the tears subsided. This had been a stupid idea. "I'm sorry I woke you up. I'll be fine. I'll " "Please, don't worry about it." Toreth moved, sighing in his sleep, then stilled again, and as Warrick turned away to look down at him, she caught a glimpse of a smile. Sudden envy chased the tears away. It wasn't fair. If Toreth woke up, Warrick would be there. Then Warrick sat up. "Very well. Turn your back, please."

She did, wondering why, until she heard him get out of bed and cross the room. A drawer opened, and clothes unfolded, then he returned. When she looked round, she found him clad in a pair of dark pyjamas, blue or green in the low light, made of something silky. Silk, very possibly. After a moment, she realised she was staring. Warrick looked quite unperturbed. "After you would be best, I think," he said. She probably ought to go through a few minutes of protestations and apologies. Instead, she climbed into bed and moved across, next to the still oblivious Toreth. Once she had settled in, Warrick joined her, keeping a discreet distance which must have placed him on the very edge of the bed. "Do you want me to leave the light on?" he asked. "No, thanks. I mean I'll be fine without." "Housekeeping, lights off." Darkness again, but a different darkness. Not lonely, or full of lurking horrors. Toreth was warm beside her, his slow breathing almost a snore. Warrick's quiet breathing from her other side made her feel surrounded and secure, as if she were in the safest place in the city. Suddenly, Warrick laughed she felt rather than heard him. "What?" she whispered. "I was thinking that this will give the security team something to discuss in the morning, should they notice you coming out of here." Something she hadn't thought of. She turned to face him. "God, Warrick, I'm sorry. I'll go. I don't want to " "Shh. There's nothing to apologise for go if the idea makes you uncomfortable, of course, but not on my account. And I don't imagine Toreth will mind." Before she could reply, a voice from behind her said, "Uh?" "Nothing," Warrick said. "We have a visitor, that's all. Go back to sleep." "Huh?" Toreth reached out and found her, his hand sliding over her, breasts down to waist, before she could react. "Who the fuck . . . Sara?" "Yes," she said. Other people normal people would have wanted an explanation at this point. Toreth, falling outside that category, simply pulled her closer, and said, "Always wanted to fuck you. You and Warrick. Together. Do you think?" Then, while she was still trying to come up with a reply, he apparently fell asleep. Warrick laughed again. "What an educational night." "I don't think he meant it," she said. "Don't you? I find that if you catch him partly unconscious, he can be startlingly honest. However, I am sure that he won't remember saying it in the morning." Which would be good enough. "I wouldn't do it, you know," she said. "Certainly not without my cooperation." The wry tone made her laugh. "No! I mean, I wouldn't screw him, on my own, with you, or with anyone else. I don't screw friends' boyfriends. Ever."

A pause, then he said, "And I'm honoured to be considered as such. Now, Sara . . . " "Yes?" "Goodnight." Giving up on the last shreds of reluctance, she snuggled back against Toreth, who tightened his arm around her and muttered something thankfully incomprehensible. After a minute or so, she felt Warrick moving across to reoccupy the vacant space. With the last worry removed that he might fall out of bed at some point due to over-consideration she finally fell asleep. ~~~ Voices woke her in the morning voices talking about her. She drifted slowly up to consciousness from a deep and dreamless sleep, listening to the warm, male voices, matching the physical warmth surrounding her. Toreth had his arms around her, holding her tight against the hard, reassuring strength of his body. She also couldn't help noticing his equally hard erection trapped between them, twitching against her from time to time. However, that was nothing more than bodies in contact, and the morning it felt friendly, rather than anything else. In front of her was the warmth of Warrick's body, still at a distance but closer than he'd been last night. "If you move, she'll wake up." That was Warrick, sounding concerned and slightly amused. "I have to get to work." The low voice ran right through her from Toreth's chest. "And so does she." "I don't think she ought to go." Amusement gone. "Well, good luck talking her out of it." "You ought to tell her not to. She'll make herself ill if she keeps forcing herself back to that place. She has made herself ill. You didn't see her last night. She was nearly in tears." "I need her." Toreth's 'end of argument' voice. "And getting your filing done is worth Sara's health?" "It's not " He lowered his voice. "It's not fucking filing, and you know it. I can't do my job without her. She runs the bloody place all I do is go around kicking Service arse to get things moving." "I'm sure that isn't true." "Yeah, well, maybe not quite. But I don't have time to break in a new admin and work a sixteenhour day. Which would be a twenty-six-hour day without Sara." She ought to move, or to say something, and let them know she was awake. But Toreth didn't often bother to say things like that to her face, unless he was deliberately flattering her to get something. The rest of the time it wouldn't occur to him it was simply taken as given. He needed her, and they both knew it. Still, it was nice to lie here and hear it. For one thing, it made the idea of I&I a little more bearable. "You can't even do without her for a couple of days?" Warrick asked. "I can't do without her for a morning. A morning I'm going to be late for already."

"Just for " "No. Just nothing. She's coming in to work, full stop." There was a pause before he added, in a softer voice, "Not that I'd mind staying in bed with her. And you." After a moment, Warrick said. "I don't think Sara would concur." "Oh, I don't know. If you don't ask, you don't get. And it was you she woke up last night, wasn't it?" "Under the misapprehension I was you." "So you say." "So Sara said." "And I bet you offered to go sleep in the spare room, didn't you?" A silence, and she could imagine Toreth's smile. "Talk about looking a gift fuck in the " "Toreth!" Outraged whisper. "Be quiet! What if she wakes up?" "I'm only saying it because she is awake." He tapped her nose with his finger. "Aren't you?" Flushing, she opened her eyes to find Warrick looking between her and Toreth behind her. He didn't seem to know whether to be relieved or shocked. Toreth released her and sat up, pulling the sheets back as he did so. She grabbed at her dressing gown, which had slipped in the night, and managed to wrench the front together before she had further cause for embarrassment. "Bastard!" she snapped. He laughed, naked from mid-thighs up, still erect and completely unconcerned. "Yeah, yeah, so I've been told. Now clear off and let me put your contribution to the morning to better use, since Warrick's going to be boring about it if you stay." She scrambled out of the bed, not fast enough to avoid a slap on the behind as she passed him, and fled for the door before he could say anything worse. ~~~ Toreth whistled for most of the journey in to work and all the way up to his office, ignoring the pained looks from both Sara and the guards they passed. In his book, waking up to a bedful of Warrick and Sara was as near as damn it a perfect way to start the day. Even better, he had a plan with regards to Carnac. The atmosphere in the building seemed brighter than it had done since he returned. However, when Toreth reached his office, he found Bell waiting for him, which took some of the shine off the morning. Worse still, she looked pleased to see him. "I'm sorry to disturb you, Para-investigator, but I wondered if you had time to answer a few questions I have about the restoration of interrogation services." His instinctive reaction was to give nothing away at all. "You've seen the state of the place, you've got Service people everywhere. Why are you asking me?" "Because you are in charge." A pause while they both acknowledged the unspoken 'at the moment'. "And progress seems to be slow. I'm doing my best to reassure my superiors, but questions are being asked." "Everything's on schedule," he told her, trying not to sound too irritated. "Unfortunately, the schedule's unclear. Do you have an estimate for when services will be restored?"

"No." Then, seeing the beginnings of a smile on her face, he added, "Soon, for a basic service." Time to shift the responsibility as far away as he could. "But that's only if the other Departments can cooperate we aren't the only place in chaos. You'd better go and talk it over with Justice and come back when they're saying something intelligible. If you can find anyone to talk to at all, that is they're making the most of the damage they took." "I'll talk to whoever's necessary." "Good." As she left he called after her, "Let me know if you get anywhere." He doubted she would, but with any luck it would keep her from reporting his supposed incompetence to her bosses. Wrestling with Justice was something he wouldn't usually wish on anyone, but for Bell he'd make an exception. With her out of the way, and hopefully harmlessly occupied, he set about the real business of the morning. One advantage of Toreth's temporary promotion was that he had access to the security systems. A glance showed at once that Daedra was in residence at the pharmacy no one else there wore their hair in hundreds of long, thin, bleached-blonde plaits. Better still, she was alone. Unfortunately, the check also demonstrated that the sound feed was working. He debated switching it off, but that left too obvious a trail when you were talking about Carnac. He'd have to work round it, and Bell had unintentionally provided him with an excuse. Once he was sure Bell had gone for good, Toreth slipped past Sara without her asking where he was going. ~~~ Down in the pharmacy, Daedra didn't look deliriously happy to see him, but by now he was used to that. "Toreth? I heard you're doing very nicely out of all this." "Great to see you too." At least she seemed to have come through the revolt unscathed she looked unhealthily pale and thin, but then she always had. The only obvious change was that one of her plaits, hanging down by the left-hand side of her face, was now dyed jet black. She must have caught his gaze, because she reached up and ran the plait through her long, bony fingers. "It's for Digger Devon Eldridge. Did you know him?" Toreth shook his head. "Grade three interrogator. Worked for Mike Belkin. I'd been seeing him for a few months." "Ah." Belkin he knew well, but not all of his high-turnover team. "I'm sorry." She shrugged, fingering the plait again. "It was this or get a tattoo, and we weren't that serious. What can I do for you?" "How's the shop?" She wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Looted to heck. I'm surprised the resisters running all over the place could even see straight, never mind kill anyone. If you've come to pester me about the medical supplies, we're still doing our best and we can't do any more. As far as I can tell, we're bottom of the list for deliveries in the whole of New London." "No, I appreciate the problems and I appreciate what you're doing to work round them. I came down to get some professional advice." He took the paper out and handed it over. It held the outline of Carnac's medical records and a

list of drugs beside it. He'd tried to provide as many alternatives as he could, but as he hadn't dared run it through the analysis system, he needed an expert human opinion. "I'm trying to get a shell of an interrogation service running again," he said as she scanned the list. "I need to know if it'll be possible to do that with what you've got." "Don't worry I can see what you're trying to do." She hunted under the counter and found a pencil. Tucking a handful of plaits behind her ear, she started running down the list, moving between the drug names and the medical details. After a while she said, "Nope, I can't fill this, I'm afraid." In the margin she wrote, 'U'll kill him!!!' and underlined it a couple of times. Good job he'd checked. "Are you sure?" "Positive." "Well, that's what I'm here for. Tell me what you've got and what we can use." "Hmm . . . Oral dosing?" "Yes. Ethanol compatible." She tapped the bottom of the list. "Is that a requirement?" "No point at all without it." "Okay. Let me think." She started going down the list again, slowly, crossing out names and making substitutions. He waited, hoping that no one would turn up and interrupt. Eventually, she handed the paper back. "This should provide approximately the same basic service. I've made a few notes; let me know if there's a problem." He read the list. Bless her, she'd even written in the doses, which was good because a couple of the things on this list he'd never heard of. At the bottom of the page she'd written, '5-10% poss. bad react ?50/50 fatal. Can't do better." A five percent chance of killing Carnac was practically a bonus. More worryingly, the last drug on the list was marked as injectable only, dosing four hours apart. That would drag things out. However, he didn't bother arguing if Daedra said that was the best she had, he was willing to believe her. "Thanks. That looks great." "While you're here, do you want me to work up a sample kit? For a try-out?" "That'd be great." He'd been wondering how best to phrase it. "You're a sweetheart." She grinned. "It's good to see you again. How's Sara?" "Fine." The sudden friendliness threw him slightly, but Daedra had never been one to hold a grudge, and she always enjoyed a professional challenge. "I'll tell her you were asking after her." "And tell her we'll go out, when they get this flipping curfew sorted out." She disappeared into the stores, her voice fading. "I'll be glad when everything gets back to normal."

Chapter Seven
Toreth had expected to find it difficult to find a suitable opening with Carnac to implement his plan. However, the very next day presented a perfect opportunity. It came about, ironically, as the indirect result of a blazing row. When he arrived on Wednesday morning, he found Adams already waiting for him. Early morning visitors had begun to induce a sinking feeling; they never had good news. "Can I have a word, Para?" The senior security officer looked nervous. Toreth was used to talking to nervous people, and this seemed to him like someone about to broach a subject they thought the audience wouldn't want to hear. "Of course you can. Sara, can you get a couple of coffees?" Once in his office he sat down and offered Adams a chair. "Go on." "It's the prisoners, Para. I appreciate your confidence in us, but I don't think we'll be able to cope." He felt as though he'd walked into a conversation halfway through. "What's changed? Have more of the systems gone down?" "No, Para. I mean the new prisoners. They're arriving now, and we " Adams stopped dead. "I'm sorry, Para. I assumed you knew." Bloody Bell it had to be. "I don't know anything about any new prisoners and I'd appreciate it if you could fill me in." And then I'll go fill her in. "There are fifty to arrive today and more scheduled. I'm afraid we can't accommodate them, never mind start the interrogations." Interrogations as well. "Are they from Justice?" "I don't think so, Para. There are Service troopers with them." "Right. Don't take any prisoners leave them in the transports, tell whoever's bringing them that you won't process them unless you see properly authorised transfer documents and arrest records, which they won't have. I'm going to sort it out." On the way out of the office, he nearly collided with Sara. She took one look at his face, and said, "No coffee, then." "Give it to Payne and B-C, if the lazy swine are in yet." ~~~ By the time he reached Carnac's office, his temper had reached a nice simmering point. He ignored the protests of Carnac's admin, and the numbers of waiting visitors, and went straight into the office. Carnac sat at his desk, discussing something with Major Bell. Whether that was good or bad, Toreth wasn't sure. They both looked up as the door opened. "I need to speak to you. Now," Toreth said, making an effort not to slam the door behind him. Carnac frowned, then shrugged. "Very well. If you would excuse us, Major. We can finish this

later." Bell stood, but made no move to leave. "If there is a problem, perhaps I might be able " "I hear there are prisoners arriving," Toreth said, ignoring her. Carnac nodded. "You hear correctly." "Why wasn't I told?" "The decision was made by the Administrative Council yesterday." His eyes flicked briefly towards Bell. "I wasn't informed until this morning I left a message for you immediately I knew." Toreth didn't believe a word of it, except possibly the implication that Bell had been behind it. "You're telling me you didn't know?" Carnac smiled fleetingly. "Even I am not omniscient. Or omnipresent." "Well, whether you knew or not, the decision will have to be unmade, because since you're not omnipotent either, it's not possible. And certainly not if you want us to do anything more than lock them up." Maybe Adams had been mistaken about the interrogations. "It has to be done." Carnac glanced at Bell, who shrugged slightly. "Confidentially, there are still elements within the various resister factions who are not satisfied with the current progress of reform, and want to see more, and even more radical, action. The Council is nervous justifiably so, perhaps, but the arrests are somewhat precipitous and against my advice." Bell shook her head. "They are necessary," she said, with the calm confidence of someone who is supporting the official position. Toreth addressed Carnac directly. "If we had the equipment and parts for all the systems, and if half the staff weren't dead or in hiding, and if people didn't keep interfering in things outside their authority " he looked at Bell, who remained impassive, " then we might be able to provide an interrogation service. We can't do it now." Carnac frowned. "I thought that the interrogation levels were virtually ready?" "That was the impression I was given," Bell added, sounding surprised. After you manoeuvred me into it. Toreth kept a firm grip on his temper, because the woman was trying to provoke him. "The levels might be ready, just, in a day or two. That won't give me the extra cells to keep the prisoners in, or the qualified staff to run the interrogations properly." "Then run them any way you can," Bell said. "But the information must be obtained." Carnac nodded agreement. Toreth looked between them, judging his chances of succeeding in changing their minds with a reasoned argument, then said, "No." Carnac stared at him. "I beg your pardon?" "No." Toreth looked at Bell again, including her in the refusal. "If you want it done, one of you two can tell them to do it. SSO Adams is in charge down in Detention, and I've told him not to accept any prisoners without the proper paperwork. I'm not changing that order." "Paperwork?" Bell paced across the office and turned. "They're to be interrogated. They're resisters suspected of performing sabotage or otherwise trying to destabilise the new regime. What more do you need?" Toreth sat down and crossed his legs. "How long a list would you like?" Bell merely glared at him, so he carried on. "Prisoners brought in here ought to have been

arrested by a warranted investigator or para, or arrested and processed by Justice. Then they need to be assigned Justice reps; some of them might have the right to independent representation, although not if they're political. Let's say not, to keep it simple. If, after assessment, there's a case for interrogation above level two, then we need a damage waiver from Justice." All the paperwork which normally frustrated him so much, and he suddenly appreciated its value as a symbol of I&I's legality. This was what differentiated them from the mob that had been tearing interrogators limb from limb. "Interrogations have to be carried out according to the P&P that's the 'Protocols and Procedures for Interrogation', if you didn't know. They need to be recorded, and assessed for evidential value by qualified staff, and then sent back to Justice with the prisoner for trial, assuming the rep doesn't object." Bell snorted. "I think, in this case, we can dispense with all that. There won't be any trials all we require is information." Toreth shook his head, secure in his own territory. "If you want information, then you're looking at witness interrogation authorisation and that's a whole different game. You'll need to " Carnac lifted his hand sharply to cut him off. "I have no interest in further legal discussions. Take the prisoners, interrogate them. That is an order." He'd changed his fucking tune, Toreth thought sourly, from when interrogations were a regrettable necessity. "No." Toreth took a deep breath, realising that his preparations with Daedra might not be needed now. "Sack me, have me arrested for mutiny or whatever the hell you want to call it, but I'm not doing it. Because if I do, then I'm breaking the law." "The law?" Carnac's voice rose, for the first time Toreth could ever remember. Even the imperturbable Bell stared at the socioanalyst. "For torture?" "Interrogation. The technical definition is, 'Using legally sanctioned methods, including but not limited to verbal, pharmacological and physical persuasion, to obtain proof of guilt or innocence by questioning'. It's at the front of the P&P if you'd ever bothered to look." Carnac paled, then flushed, his hands clenching. The outrage, Toreth was convinced, was utterly genuine, which made it all the more interesting that Carnac was so keen to accede to the Council's demands to have interrogations started up again. Yet another glaring contradiction in Carnac's behaviour Toreth wished to hell he knew what it meant. "If you don't want to sack me," Toreth said, "calm down and we can talk about it sensibly." Bell was clearly hoping Carnac would accept Toreth's implicit offer to resign, but after a moment, Carnac nodded. "Do you have anything sensible to say?" "I want I&I back on its feet as much as you do," or almost certainly more, "but I'm not going to turn it into something else." He turned to Bell. "You want unlawful interrogations, let your troopers have a crack at it and you can find out why it takes so long to train an interrogator. Or take your prisoners over to Justice. I'm sure they'd love to help. There's nothing they like more than holding someone's head under water until he confesses to something he didn't do." Why was it always that example that sprang to mind? He could see the scene in his mind's eye, as clear as the day he'd stood aside and let them do it. And, earlier memory, he could feel the water filling his lungs as he struggled; he could hear the I&I instructors and other trainees laughing in the

endless few seconds before he blacked out and it stopped being funny. He swallowed down the feeling, the cold panic. Not now. Fortunately, Carnac didn't seem to notice. He waited for Toreth to continue, then said, "You are a member of a professional, legal body. I understand this. Nevertheless, as the major says, present circumstances make the matter urgent." He sounded serious about that, anyway. "It can be done, and it can all be done legally, if you release the paras and interrogators." Bell started to protest, but Carnac beat her to it. "No. Out of the question." "It'll free up the cells for the new prisoners, and there'll be the staff to handle the interrogations. God knows, they won't all stay, but a lot of them will, if you'll let me offer them the same incentives we're giving at the tribunals." "The Administrative Council made the tribunals a condition of I&I's continued existence," Bell said. "We all know that," Toreth said. "And we know that you can get round it with provisional pardons. You can still run the tribunals retroactively, because we simply don't have the staff spare for you to execute in order to keep the rabble happy. So far they've passed everyone, including a few of the interrogators who I'd happily see dead. There's no damn point keeping people in cells until there's a slot free to rubber-stamp their release." After a moment, Carnac said, "It is politically impossible for me to do that." It's all in the phrasing. "I'll do it on my authority. I'll take responsibility for it." Carnac steepled his hands, considering. "On your authority?" "Yes." Bell leaned down to Carnac. "Socioanalyst, I urge you to consider the consequences of this. I cannot recommend this course of action to my superiors." Carnac looked up at her, his expression suddenly cold. "No? You recommended to the Council that the interrogation service could be resumed. Without consulting either myself or Para-investigator Toreth." "I " Bell stared. Obviously, she'd thought that her name had been kept out of it. "Yes, I did. That was the impression I had been given." "Well, it appears that your impression was incorrect. I realise, of course, that it was merely a careless mistake and not an attempt to embarrass myself or the para-investigator." "Of course not." Carnac continued as if he hadn't heard her. "Nevertheless, embarrassment will result if we cannot complete the required interrogations. Unless you wish to take up Toreth's suggestion that your men familiarize themselves with the P&P, then I'm sure you would wish to do everything you can in order to correct your error, yes?" She nodded, reluctantly. "Then you will support my decision, whatever it is?" A moment while she looked for a way out, then she nodded again. "Excellent." It was nice, Toreth thought, to see someone else in Carnac's field of fire for once. Another few

seconds' thought, then Carnac looked back at him. "Very well, Toreth. I agree to your proposal." Bell stepped back a little, distancing herself from the decision, but said nothing. That was the beauty of the Service for ninety-nine point nine percent of the time, they did what they were told. Of course, in the other point one percent, the treacherous bastards jumped into bed with fucking resisters. Toreth sat up straighter. "For the first batch of prisoners, you can look at the charges or whatever the hell kind of information they've got with them and set an interrogation level. Then make a special Director's order for each one and I'll get the processing done retrospectively by Justice. They'll make a fuss but they always do. But from tomorrow onwards, they go through Justice first, okay?" "Very well." "The Council will have to be told about this," Bell said, clearly hoping to get to do the job herself. Carnac shook his head, answering her unspoken question. "I will explain the legal necessity to the Council in person. I'm sure they will be delighted by our adherence to the letter of the law." Toreth ignored the sarcasm. "Great. And you can make out release orders for all the paras and interrogators. Individual clearance, so they can walk out of the cells and go wherever the hell they want to." Carnac frowned. "That will all take time and I have other things to do." "I'll help. Do it this way and I guarantee I'll have the place running smoothly by the end of next week." When Carnac still hesitated, he added, "Do you want these bloody prisoners interrogated or not?" Carnac closed his eyes briefly, then nodded. "Bell, you may deal with anyone waiting who absolutely cannot delay seeing me." Toreth smiled, thinking about the busy room outside. "Of course." Bell saluted, immaculately, and left. Carnac moved aside to let Toreth sit next to him at the screen. "Let's get started." As Carnac called through to his admin and cancelled his appointments for the morning, Toreth reflected that it had been surprisingly worryingly easy. All along, he'd assumed that Carnac's real motivation was to stop I&I recovering. And now he had simply handed the interrogators and paras over to him on a plate. It was possible that Carnac might have seen the virtues of interrogation if his own neck was somehow on the block. He wasn't sure he believed that it felt wrong, for no reason he could put his finger on. Still, for the first time, he wondered if Carnac had been telling the truth to Warrick about his reasons for supporting the revolt. He didn't doubt that Warrick had accurately reported Carnac's words he was an extremely reliable witness but Carnac could have been lying. If so, then he had also been faking his anger a few moments ago, and Toreth didn't believe that either. Which left him with . . . what? Even less of an idea what Carnac intended for I&I and, for some reason, an even stronger conviction that it was nothing good. ~~~ Sara had never really liked Parsons. Toreth didn't recruit people to his team based on personality, but on how well they did their jobs. Few of the interrogators were what Sara called likeable; if they

had more people skills, they'd be paras. Parson's had done his job efficiently and unemotionally coldly and that was all. He'd rarely joined the rest of the team in the coffee room and never on evenings out. She'd barely known him. She'd never wanted to. There was a difference between not liking the man, and reading his autopsy. Not that there was much there: a photograph of the body, a sketchy description of the injuries, and the cause of death, which she didn't need to read at all. Certainly not a dozen times, until she could virtually recite it from memory. At least Parsons was a corpse now, not one of the gradually dwindling list of missing. He was always known to have been in the building she'd known, to start with. She'd seen the resisters take him away, and he hadn't shown up in Medical, so he'd been put on the 'missing, presumed dead' list. Now the body had been identified, she could fill in the notification to registered contacts form, write a personal note of condolence from Toreth for him to sign, and it would be finished. It shouldn't bother her so much. Over the last few days, she'd read dozens of similar documents. She'd seen countless more over the years, although they were only prisoners. Only a couple of days ago she'd dealt with the details of Toreth's second junior. Starr hadn't been bad, for a para. At least he'd understood that being polite to the senior's admin was a good tactic. She'd processed his death report and cried, but it had felt healthy. This was different. Every time she saw Parson's unsmiling picture on the screen she wanted to throw up. She finished the note much like all the others because what was there to say? and stared at the photograph. Parsons looked older then she remembered. Who'd told them? She'd often wondered about that. Their captors hadn't scanned IDs, so someone must have given up the names. Someone had looked at the room full of frightened staff and picked out the paras, investigators and interrogators taking refuge there. One of the people who'd been working for the resisters from the start perhaps, or someone desperate and terrified enough for the betrayal. She might have done it herself, if it had come to that. Parsons had been one of the few who'd made it up to level five from Interrogation after the initial attack, and he'd told her about it. In fact, he'd told anyone who was prepared to listen, as if repetition would turn the memory into something comprehensible. She couldn't remember, now, much of what he'd said. Only, 'They opened the cells. They opened all the cells'. He was normally so cold, so reserved, that it had been strange to see him agitated. Shaken, like everyone else, by the enormity of what was happening. Not distressed, not crying, like so many of them were angry, if anything, and simply unable to sit still. But he'd screamed. When they'd come for the interrogation staff, he'd screamed. He'd known what was going to happen. It wasn't hard for anyone to guess, but he was the only one who'd seen it. She stared at the report on the screen, not seeing it through the tears blurring her vision, but not needing to. That had been Saturday morning. The report gave time of death as 1800 (provisional) on the same day. Not even half a day, really, and he would've been unconscious for some of that. Quicker than many of the other reports she'd processed. Quicker than poor Joel Starr. She wished that she'd done something. She had no idea what rationally, she knew there was nothing that she could have done to save any of them, but that didn't change the feeling. She should have done something for Parsons.

Liked him better, perhaps. She wished even more that he'd shut up and gone with them quietly, like the others. She couldn't even remember who they were, because she'd been watching Parsons. If he hadn't screamed, she wouldn't have to remember him either. "Sara?" She looked up, expecting Toreth or B-C, and found Lieutenant Payne. She sniffed hastily, wiping her eyes with her hand. "What's wrong?" he asked. "Nothing. I'm fine. If you want Toreth, he's with Carnac." The bastard. "And B-C's off somewhere chasing medical supplies." "Hm. Would you like a coffee?" "Coffee?" He smiled, disarmingly, looking improbably young for an officer, even a lieutenant. "Brown stuff with caffeine. It seems to be the standard response to anything going wrong around here, so I thought I'd try it out." "I'd love one, thanks." She assumed he meant to fetch it, but instead he said, "Come on, then." As they turned down the corridor, she realised he was heading for the room where she'd been held. She almost stopped, but she forced herself to keep going. It was impossible to avoid the place forever. Tillotson's office would run out of coffee or become out of bounds again before long. However, at the doorway, she found she couldn't follow him in. It wasn't that her resolve was any less, but her feet simply wouldn't move. " or take them back with us?" Payne's voice, disappearing with him into the coffee room. He'd been talking all the way from her desk and she hadn't heard a word until now. After a few seconds, he reappeared. "Sara?" "Sorry. I don't think I want a coffee after all." She meant to go back then, but her legs were shaking so much that it was all she could do to stay upright. "What's the matter?" He took her arm, gently. "You're white as a sheet. Come and sit down." "No!" She pulled her arm away, and he let go quickly, only to catch hold of her again as her legs finally gave way. She let him lower her against the wall and waited for the tears to start, but her eyes remained dry. She was too terrified to cry, sick with the intensity of the fear, and she clasped her hands together tightly to still their trembling. "Shall I get someone? Toreth?" Payne looked a little panicky himself, and she made an effort to pull herself together. "No. I'm . . . that's where we were, that's all. In there. They put all the admins from our section in there. I've not been in since." "I'm sorry I had no idea. Look, let me help you back." "No." She held out her hand and he helped her to her feet. "I can't hide from a bloody coffee room. Just . . . get ready to catch me if I do anything stupid, like faint."

He smiled. "Will do." Three steps and she was at the threshold. The room had been cleaned, and it looked nothing like it had the last time she'd been there. However, once more she couldn't force herself to take the next step. When the guards had called her name, no one had reacted. No one had done anything, just as she'd done nothing when they'd taken Parsons and the others. Faces had turned away from her, pitying and frightened and so, so grateful that it was her and not them. When they'd locked the handcuffs around her wrists and led her out, she'd thought . . . she'd been sure . . . She struggled to keep her breathing even. Hyperventilating herself into unconsciousness wouldn't help at all. It was only the coffee room. Birthday cakes. She'd eaten dozens probably hundreds of birthday cakes in there. She'd sat and dunked vanilla creams while listening to Toreth's improbable fuck stories. She'd fished for rumours and planted rumours. She'd bought tickets for sweepstakes on big name prisoner interrogations. She'd held hands and listened to broken hearts being spilled out. One New Year she'd spent a drunken and ill-advised ten minutes on that exact chair over there with one of the accounts admins, until Toreth had pried her away from him. And she'd made enough coffees to float the building. "Are you feeling like keeling over yet?" Payne asked. "No. I'm fine." Compared to all those memories, four days was nothing, and she wasn't going to lose her coffee room for that. In the end, it was surprisingly easy. Being one step inside was just like being one step outside horrible, but possible. Then it was only one step after another away from the safety of the door, until she reached the coffee machines. Payne shadowed her, and she must still have looked awful because he all but had his hands out ready to catch her. "Here, let me get it for you," he said "Mugs . . . oh, thanks. Milk? Sugar? Actually, there doesn't seem to be any of either, so that keeps thing simple. There you go." He handed the coffee over. "Do you want to go back now?" Yes, she did, but determination made her shake her head. "Not yet." She sat down, keeping a tight grip on the mug, holding it up near her face. The aroma of coffee masked the sting of disinfectant, and the faint smells beneath it that she had been trying to ignore. Looking at the door was the worst thing, because it was only a tiny step away from thinking about Parsons again. "Talk to me," she said. "Tell me something not about this bloody place. Are you married?" "Oh. Um, yes, I am." He looked fleetingly uncomfortable, and she wondered why she'd never bothered to ask him before. "Would you like to see her?" "Sure." He opened his hand screen and brought up a picture. "There you go. Marianne." "She's very pretty," Sara said, although in truth the woman was an insipid blonde she knew she'd forget the moment he put the picture away. "How did you meet?" "We didn't meet, as such we've known each other forever. Our families were friends, in fact,

before we were born. Everyone always said we were meant for each other." She'd always thought that kind of arrangement sounded creepy. "That's so sweet. Is she Service too?" "Oh, no. She's a teacher. Little kids." He grinned. "We're going to have one of our own. The conception license is being processed right now. It's just a formality really I've got my commanding officer's approval and the pre-application genetics were clear." The smile switched abruptly to a frown. "God, I hope all this trouble doesn't mess it up." "I'm sure it won't. The Department of Population wasn't hit anything like as badly as here." "But if they've lost the records . . . " He shook his head. "Mary would be heartbroken." "Why? How old is she?" "Oh, it's not that. It's just that her sister had an application approved not long ago, and Mary wanted to have hers ours born around the same time. So they'd be able to play together. Do you have any kids?" "No. I don't even have anyone to have them with." She thought, briefly, of McLean. He'd been so sweet, so unlike her usual run of rich, good prospects. Silly idea. "Oh, that's " He stopped, teetering on the edge of pity. "I don't mind. I mean, I've always promised my quota to Fee anyway. Transfer to a sibling's routine enough and she's far more maternal than I am." "I could never do that. I've always wanted kids." He ducked his head slightly. "I know it's not the kind of thing men usually say, but " "No, no." He was sweet too sweeter than she imagined a Service officer should be, anyway. "I think it's lovely that you do. And I'm sure everything will work out fine. You never know, maybe they'll abolish the system anyway." He stared at her. "Abolish reproduction control?" She shrugged. "Why not? For a while at least. For popularity. It's something that resisters press for a lot, isn't it?" "I, er . . . I wouldn't know." Now he sounded distinctly uncomfortable. She'd forgotten, briefly, that he was still an outsider. "Well, it is," she said. "I listen to a lot of interrogation transcripts." "Ah, I see." She grinned at the relief in his voice. "I don't know what you're worried about I mean, you work for resisters now, don't you? Carnac and his friends." He stiffened slightly. "I'm an officer of the Service." "But " "No. I swore an oath to the Service and to the Administration. We all did. I haven't broken that oath. Service Command did what was best for the Administration." He really believed in it, she realised. The novelty was vaguely charming. She felt tempted to tell him that loyalty to the Administration, like saluting and sirring, wasn't a big feature of I&I, but she didn't think he'd like to hear it. "Yes, of course," she said. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to suggest . . . um, shall we go back? I've got things to do."

"Yes, good idea." He still sounded brittle. After they had rinsed the mugs and started to walk back, he suddenly said, "Is Toreth married?" It had the sound of a question he'd been trying to think of a subtle entry for, and given up. "Toreth?" Actually, her first instinct was to say, 'practically', but Payne still worked for Carnac, whatever he said and however nice he seemed. She'd learned her lesson there no mentions of Warrick, or anything personal at all. "No, he isn't." "Oh." He sounded pleased, and her heart sank as the other possible motive for the query occurred. She shouldn't interfere in Toreth's plans, assuming he had any, but she felt she owed Payne for the coffee and sympathy. Instinct and caution warred briefly. "He's " He's a professional bastard who specialises in fucking married men, the more happily married the better. "He's anything but married. He's really not the type for fidelity." Maybe that would be a warning of sorts. At least she'd tried to do something. ~~~ When Toreth had finished with Carnac, he went back to his office, intending to ask Sara to start organising the releases. She wasn't at her desk and, to his surprise, he found Major Bell waiting inside his office. She was sitting at his desk, looking perfectly at home. He didn't bother asking her to move. Instead he went over to the window and looked out, forcing her to turn to follow him. "There was no one here, so I thought I'd wait," she said. "Always a pleasure to see you." He turned and sat on the windowsill and smiled at her. "Is this a social call?" "That was an impressive performance this morning, Para-investigator." It hadn't occurred to him before how much the way she used his title annoyed him. He could hear the quote marks round it, the contempt for a non-Service rank. "You can call me Toreth, or you can fuck off. We've got the staff now, so we don't need the Service around here any more." His deliberately aggressive tone didn't ruffle her in the least. "You might want to give that some thought. Carnac might feel he can ignore my concerns the Service's concerns but he has his place on the Council. You don't." "The Service doesn't run the Administration, it doesn't run Int-Sec and it certainly doesn't run I&I." She smiled, coldly. "No. But it has plenty of influence, especially right now. And it will have more in the future, when its traditional place in the Administration has been restored." For a moment, he didn't understand her. "What? They're . . . Jesus! They're planning to undo the reform? Put the old Department of Security back together?" "There is a feeling within the Service that the reunification of the military departments might be best for the Administration as a whole." Which sounded like a yes. "It'll never happen. Service Command are tripping if they think the other Departments'll stand by and let the DoS take over again. And Int-Sec and Ext-Sec would fight them every inch of the way." "Do you think so? I&I may be an exception, but you forget that the majority of staff at both Internal and External Security were in Department of Security divisions before the reforms. They'll be

glad to get back where they belong with the Service." "Maybe ten, fifteen years ago, when everyone was still pissed off about being ripped out of there into new departments, but not now. It's too late. People are used to it. They like their independence too much to want the Service calling the shots again." "I think those in charge of the divisions concerned will see that cooperation is in their best interests, as well the interests of Europe." "People like me, you mean? And if you get my cooperation, you get I&I?" She carried on as if he hadn't spoken. "Every division which cooperates makes the task easier. Don't doubt that the Service will reward loyalty loyalty to the needs of the Administration." Interesting redefinition of loyalty. Not that he had much, but if Bell thought he wanted to spend the rest of his life saluting people like her, then Service Command weren't the only ones on drugs. Still, he must be doing better than he'd thought if she was trying bribery instead of threats. Something else occurred to him. "Does Carnac know about this?" "Of course. He accepts the inevitable." If Carnac was behind it, then I&I and the rest of Int-Sec were in deep trouble. But putting the military in charge of the Administration didn't feel like Carnac's style, not even to get at I&I. He had no real evidence either way so, with absolute confidence, he said, "You're lying." He caught the flash of surprise and, yes, fear in her eyes. And then a classic, guilt-confirming response. "Why would I lie?" "Because you think Carnac doesn't have a clue about it, and you don't want me to tell him." The odds that Carnac didn't know already were vanishing small, but he didn't see any reason to tell her that. "Because you know that when he does find out, he's going to be with the civilians in the new Administration, not with you lot." The major lowered her voice, unnecessarily. "If that were true, and if you stick with Carnac, you'll go down with him, and anyone else in the new Administration who doesn't fall into line." "Yeah?" He'd back Carnac against the Service any day. "All very interesting. But not very concrete, is it? You can tell whoever's interested that I'm not sticking my neck out to give them I&I on a plate on the basis of some vague promises about rewarding loyalty. Mind you, if they pull it off, I wouldn't say no to staying on. I think I'll take my chances sitting on the fence, if you understand me." After a moment, she nodded. "Are you going to tell Carnac about this conversation?" "Fuck, no. I've got no love for that bastard. He isn't Int-Sec or Service. And I'm not political never have been." She smiled. "A healthy attitude, Toreth." He watched her go, thinking that she really ought to take her own advice about that. On balance, he thought he'd handled it about right. From her point of view, buying his neutrality was a victory of a sort and there was always the chance he might be open to further persuasion. In the meantime, the conversation might provide some useful leverage for his own plans. ~~~ Carnac leaned back in his chair and frowned thoughtfully at his visitor, more for effect from than from genuine puzzlement. He'd wondered how long it would take Bell to make her move. "Why are you telling me this?" he asked.

"I thought you might be interested. Actually, I assumed you already knew. But in case you didn't " Toreth shrugged. "I didn't think the idea of the Service running the Administration would appeal to you any more than it does to me." "And you would be right, in all three cases. I am aware of their plan, I am interested in it, and I do not support it." Toreth cocked his head, considering. "Are they going to carry it through?" The obvious confidence in his ability to answer that definitively was mildly flattering. "Doubtful. Your assessment of the attitude of the other Departments is accurate and, despite the major's presentation of the situation, the Service itself is divided over the question. My prediction of the most likely outcome is that they will procrastinate until the political climate makes success impossible." "But they might make it stick?" Was Toreth wondering which side to choose? "Lots of things are possible. I can only deal in probabilities." "Fair enough. It all adds to the fun." Toreth yawned, and stretched, making Carnac remember why he'd picked the man as his liaison on his first visit. The effort required to keep his body in that kind of condition was, in Carnac's opinion, excessive and narcissistic in the extreme, but the results were exceptionally pleasing for onlookers. The healing scar on his right eyebrow was an interesting addition to the look. A romantic might call it piratical. A realist such as Carnac would say thuggish an external marker of the innate violence of Toreth's life which had otherwise left him surprisingly untouched. A useful reminder to the world at large of his true nature. Toreth stretched further, arching his back up out of the chair, then stopped abruptly and put his hand to his side, wincing. "Are you all right?" Carnac asked. "Fine." A predictable flicker of irritation at having displayed weakness. "Left-over reminder of your friends' visit to I&I, that's all. Has anyone ever cracked any of your ribs?" "Fortunately, no." "You surprise me." The tone implied that Toreth himself was frequently tempted by the idea. "But in that case you won't know that they hurt like fucking hell." "My sympathies." "Thanks." Toreth looked at his watch. "God, I'm starving." "I also. Fortunately, the restaurant at my hotel is excellent, even under the current circumstances." "Really? Is that an invitation?" Carnac smiled. "If you like. I didn't think that you would be amenable to the suggestion, after the opinions you expressed so firmly when we first met." "I was in a bad mood." "And I don't suppose I can blame you for that. Now your temper has been restored by the idea of I&I back in business once more?"

Toreth shrugged. "I can bear to eat with you in the same room, if that counts." Actually Carnac doubted that, but Toreth was clearly trying hard to make it sound true. The one hundred and eighty degree shift of attitude caught his interest. Transparent as it was, it might be entertaining to go along with for a while. It would probably be the easiest method of determining the motive behind it. "Then I would be delighted to extend the invitation," Carnac said. "You'll have to give me the address." "No need." And no need to compound any risks by letting Toreth know in advance where the meal would be. "I can take you back in the car when we finish this evening." "Yeah, okay." Toreth stood up. "Why not?" A number of reasons sprang to mind at once. However, he doubted that even Toreth was stupid enough to try to simply kill him. A kitchen-cooked dinner with wine in sealed bottles was harmless enough. ~~~ Carnac had never believed in heaven. Not until now. Heaven was being fucked. Heaven was being fucked by Toreth, right now, here, every second of it drawn out into what felt like an hour, diamond sharp, glittering and exquisite. Only his vision was blurred, turning everything in the hotel room into restless shadows. But who needed sight, anyway? Better to keep his eyes shut, and feel. Oh yes. Feel. Everything was perfect, except that at the back of his mind, persistently annoying, was a voice. It seemed to have a lot of comments about his current situation, none of which he wanted to hear. However, he couldn't shut it away because it was inside him. Inside him. Toreth was inside him. Inside him, above him, everywhere around him. He normally found fucking face-to-face uncomfortable. Physically . . . [Well, we're not as young as we used to be.] . . . and emotionally. Unpleasantly open and vulnerable, to be on your back, with someone lying between your legs he'd always thought that women must hate it. It was embarrassing. Not now, though. Not with Toreth. Toreth moving slowly inside him, so slowly, never stopping, not a millimetre of movement wasted. Arms around him he liked to be held, although he'd never given much thought to it before. Lips against his throat, on his mouth, whispering in his ear. You could fall in love with someone who could make you feel this good. [You're pathetic. Pull yourself together.] He had a vague, hazy memory that Toreth had hurt him. Once. A long time ago. This didn't hurt. This was ecstasy endless, warm waves of bliss washing over him. He'd never felt anything like it before. Fuck of his life. Never let it stop. This is heaven. [This is drugs. He drugged us. He put something in the wine, somehow.]

"Carnac?" Voice near his ear. Beautiful voice. "Yes?" "Why did you come to I&I?" [Oh, come on. He's asking us questions. Does that sound like a man having the fuck of his life? Don't tell him anything.] Some sense in that, perhaps. He tried his best. "Toreth, just . . . keep doing that. Don't . . . " "Carnac, I know there was a reason behind it." Lips brushed his ear, right against it now. Every word fired nerves he'd never felt before. "You didn't pick us at random for special attention, out of all of the Divisions at Int-Sec. You don't do anything without a purpose. So why us?" Not trusting himself to speak, he shook his head. [At last. Now keep your mouth shut and we'll be all right.] Toreth stopped moving inside him, and he moaned. "No, please. I can't." He had to explain, because he desperately wanted Toreth to keep going. He just desperately wanted Toreth. Had he ever wanted anything more? "Voice. Won't let me." [Oh, for pity's sake. Tell him everything, why don't you? No forget I said that.] "Like that, is it?" Low laugh, thrilling him. "Well, don't worry. It won't keep talking for long. I'm not relying on my overrated performance alone. But let's see what I can do to shut it up." Toreth's weight shifted as he took it all on one arm. Carnac knew what would happen next and he tightened his arms round Toreth, trying to prepare himself. Hand on his hip. Hand brushing over his stomach. Hand . . . Too much. The feeling was too much. He should have come the moment Toreth touched his cock, but miraculously he hadn't. [If you don't stop him, I won't be held responsible for the consequences.] Hand. He moved his own hand. It was the most difficult thing he had ever done in his entire life. Closing it round Toreth's wrist. He couldn't bear to try seriously to stop him doing the incredible thing he was doing, but it was a gesture to go with the words. "Stop. Please." "You don't mean that. I know you like it." Words like warm honey and treacle, flowing down his spine. And true. So very, very true. Where had he heard them before? [You said it to him. When you were trying to get him to trust you. When you were trying to break him. For God's sake, get your brain out of your prick and think.] Somehow, his hand was no longer where he'd ordered it to be. After a moment he found it again, wrapped around the bed post, holding on as he thrust up into Toreth's hand. It was too good to last and he found himself wishing it would end, wanting it to finish. It was going to be so . . . oh, yes, if it felt like this now, what would it be like when he came? But it wasn't enough fingers too loose around him. He needed more. "Toreth, please " "Tell me." Tongue in his ear, nearly making him scream. "If you want me to finish it, you'll have

to tell me what I want to know." [Listen to him. He's interrogating you. Don't you remember how much we hated watching him work on that poor bastard? Don't you remember why we're doing this?] He remembered. He really did remember, although he had to fight to hang onto the fact that the same man who'd done that was the man now coaxing such exquisite sensations from his body. He arched his back, whimpering helplessly as Toreth's mouth abandoned his ear to brush across his nipples. [What do you remember? Think.] He remembered the interrogation. He remembered the prisoner: his voice, his body jerking against the restraints, his overwhelming fear and pain. He remembered fighting down nausea as he watched Toreth's hideous, professionally detached handiwork. And he knew the memories wouldn't help for long. For now it gave him the strength to clench his teeth, shake his head. "Tell me, lover." Voice in his ear again. Compromise. Maybe that would be enough. "After. I'll tell you after." "Come on. That last glass must be kicking in about now. You want to tell me, don't you?" [If you tell him about I&I, we're dead. Is any fuck so good that you want to die for it?] Yes. Yes to both he didn't care if he died here and he did want to talk. It was taking every gram of willpower he could summon to keep his lips closed, the words piling up in his throat. The voice in his head still talked to him, berating him, but the words grew increasingly indistinct. He couldn't even remember why it mattered any more. Nothing mattered, except Toreth. [Well, that's it from me. You're on your own.] "Why did you come to I&I?" "In order to " Last hopeless effort, and then his control slipped away. "In order to destroy I&I, I had to be inside it, in charge." "Go on." "They think it can be reformed. Morons. You can't change psychopaths. It has to go. It's everything that was wrong about the Administration. Pure evil, if evil exists." "That's very good." Kisses. Angel's kisses, rewarding him. "Now tell me how." "By letting them see what it's really like. They don't know. I didn't know, until you showed me. When you broke that prisoner, just to demonstrate how it was done." How could he speak so clearly? He should be panting, writhing, begging for more of the indescribable caresses he could still feel. But he wasn't he talked on, telling Toreth what he wanted to know. "That's why I gave you that pathetically repressed lieutenant. I knew you'd charm him, and he'd back you up to the Service. I could stand back and let you run, and then in the end, they'd all see there was no choice and it would finally be destroyed." "So why me?" "Because I love you." Some distant part of him knew it wasn't true, but he felt it. "Of course you do. But that wasn't the reason, was it?" "No. I knew you'd get done what I needed you were the perfect tool. You'd destroy the

tribunals, you'd manage to get all the interrogators and paras reinstated. You'd insist on the damage waivers. You'd make certain that they saw the whole obscene structure, because you're proud of it. You disgust me you and all of the rest of the animals there. I'm sorry." "No need to be, love." Sunshine voice, stroking him like the hand on his cock, pushing him closer towards orgasm. It was all right Toreth understood. Silly of him to think that he wouldn't. He could hear himself panting now, the strange detachment slipping away, everything becoming too real. "Is there anything else I need to know about?" Speaking faster, trying to get it all out before it was too late. "There's going to be a report, an inspection. Weeks. Two . . . two weeks. That's when it'll be decided. And then they'll be . . . executed. Everyone. Paras and interrogators. Investigators. Eradicated. I'll make it happen. Toreth, please make it " "And is that everything?" "Yes. Everything. Everything." Everything falling apart. Holding on to Toreth, holding him close. Soon . . . God, please, soon. "Everything." "Good." Even through the blissful haze, he heard the voice change. "Then let's get this over with." Sudden, hard thrust, pushing him down into the bed, shattering the beautiful intimacy. "No. Toreth, don't " Hand over his mouth, pressing down, making him struggle for breath. "Shut up, you worthless . . . lying . . . piece of shit. Just be grateful . . . that I'm going to finish it . . . at all. I should . . . break your fucking neck." Short, vicious strokes, grinding deep into him. "Bastard. Treacherous . . . treasonous . . . bastard. I Warrick." Toreth's weight bearing down, as his hands tightened on him mouth and cock and that was enough to carry Carnac over the edge. Coming and coming, endless shivering spasms, jerking up against the body pinning him. By the time he could think again, he was alone in the bed. Gasping for air, utterly spent. Knowing he'd failed. I'm sorry, he told the voice, wondering if it was still there. I couldn't . . . [It doesn't matter. We'll deal with him in the morning. He won't get away with this.] A cold touch against his neck startled him. Hiss of an injector. [Ah. Yes. Unless, of course, he makes sure that . . . we . . . don't . . . remember . . . ] Darkness, reaching up to swallow him.

Chapter Eight
When Carnac awoke, the light through the window seemed unbearably bright. He made the mistake of rolling away to shield his eyes, and the nausea and pounding headache that awakened made him moan out loud. Too loud. It took him a moment to make sense of his condition, because it was something he experienced so rarely. Hangover. He had the most horrendous hangover of his life. Carefully, he turned over onto his front and pushed his face into the pillow. Dark. That was better. Not much better, but without the glare of daylight painful even through his eyelids he could just about manage to think. Hangover. Which meant drinking. He was on assignment, on an important assignment, so why would he be drinking at all, never mind to the extent that he must have done to cause this? He couldn't remember. He absolutely couldn't remember, and that was far worse than any of the physical symptoms. Theoretically, he knew that the consumption of a sufficient quantity of alcohol could induce memory loss. It was theory only, because the Socioanalysis Division didn't permit the brains of their young charges to be affected by anything other than carefully controlled chemicals. By the time he had been old enough to be within reach of temptation, the lessons had been thoroughly absorbed. Two glasses of suitably expensive wine was the maximum he ever permitted himself. He loved clarity of thought too much, feared the idea of damaging himself, and above all, he hated the loss of control. Not last night, clearly. Last night had been different. How, and why? Something familiar distracted him from the exploration. A small pain, more of a discomfort and insignificant beside the monstrous pain behind his eyes, but nagging at him, insisting on its importance. He directed his attention down his spine and shifted carefully, assessing. Well and truly fucked, by the feel of it. He backtracked, looking for a point where the darkness became memory, until he found it. A single, horribly clear scene. Himself, leaning against the wall of a corridor, needing the support, and pulling Toreth against him. Toreth's mouth on his, demanding. His hands on Toreth, fondling him through his clothes. The sharp, dizzying excitement at finding that Toreth was hard. He'd said something then. Something to Toreth, the words thankfully blurred. However, he remembered Toreth laughing, kissing him again. "I'll do it here if you really want me to. But wouldn't you rather wait until we get back to the room?" Staring into the pain-filled blackness behind his eyelids, Carnac sincerely hoped that he'd said yes, because Toreth had certainly fucked him somewhere. He should, perhaps, have tried to remember more, but right now he couldn't bear it. He struggled up to sit on the edge of the bed, almost sobbing as the headache intensified, setting the room spinning around him. Managing a painful squint around the room, he found no sign of his presumed lover, and no clothes other than his own. Toreth must have left already, last night or this morning. Of course, he had

far more practice at this sort of thing. After he'd showered and dressed everything taking at least twice as long as normal Carnac discovered that he'd missed breakfast at the hotel. To he honest, he felt relieved. He felt obliged, on medical grounds, to eat something, but his stomach was not impressed by the importance of replacing lost salts. Black tea, perhaps, might be acceptable. Before he left the room, he searched as carefully as he could, looking for any kind of note from Toreth. He found nothing, which was another relief, but also pointed to a tiresome scene ahead. No doubt Toreth would have a great deal to say about the night before. He had appointments elsewhere that day, but he decided to detour to I&I first. Better to clear things up than to let the situation disturb his concentration during the day. ~~~ Toreth wasn't in his office, but Sara was outside, and she directed him downstairs to Security. Carnac searched her face but found nothing. Interestingly out of character for Toreth not to have told her everything at the earliest opportunity. He held little hope that Toreth had learned some discretion since their previous encounter at I&I. In the Security offices, Toreth was in earnest consultation with Bevan. When Carnac asked to speak with him for a moment, he expected Toreth to delay, to make him wait. However, he excused himself at once and followed him out. Carnac found a quiet corner, and decided to tackle the problem head on. "Toreth, last night " He smiled. "Enjoy yourself?" There was no point in pretending. "In all probability, yes. The latter part of the evening is a little unclear." The smile widened. "Really? Want any reminders?" Perhaps he should have left this until later, when he felt more in control. "I believe I have an idea of the main points of the evening." "We should get a coffee and compare notes." "No, thank you." And suddenly, he saw a potential escape route from this tedious, childish confrontation. The hangover really was slowing him down. "I hope Warrick wasn't unduly inconvenienced by your absence. I must remember to apologise for detaining you, the next time I see him." Toreth froze, the smile turning into a mask. "What the fuck does Warrick have to do with anything?" A button so reliable that pushing it was hardly even amusing any more. Not at this trivial level, anyway. "You were going to tell me what happened, I believe?" A brief, visible struggle, then Toreth said, "Nothing happened. We had dinner, we got pissed, and I put you to bed. End of story." The pleasing realisation that he might be able to come out of this ahead on points did a great deal to dispel the misery. "Very much as I recollect it." Toreth nodded sharply. "Right." He waited, looking distinctly uncomfortable, then said, "Was there anything else?" "No. Just to let you know I shall be out of my I&I office today. I'm sure you'll be able to manage

splendidly without me." As he left, he heard Toreth mutter something under his breath. He couldn't hear the words, but the tone was perfectly clear, and kept him smiling all the way back to the car. ~~~ When Toreth went back into the office, Bevan was still behind his desk, looking sourer than ever. "What did that tosser want?" "Morning after the night before." Toreth considered sitting down, and decided pacing would feel better. God, he hoped Carnac had bought it, because if his suspicions were aroused now "Sit down and stop panicking." Toreth stopped dead. "I'm not fucking panicking." "No? Well, maybe you should. I'd be giving it serious fucking consideration if that bastard was gunning for me." He forced himself to sit down and not fidget. Bevan was the last person he needed thinking he couldn't handle things. "I wouldn't look so bloody smug about it if I were you. He's very fucking thorough and he likes you about as much as you like him." Bevan opened his desk drawer, produced an unlabelled bottle of something clear and a couple of paper cups, and poured them each a generous measure. "Here you go." The first, incautious mouthful burned down his throat like acid, sending him into a coughing fit that lasted a good minute. When he managed to stop, eyes watering, he asked, "What the fuck is that?" "Friend of a friend of a friend makes it." "Where does he work, a chemical factory?" Bevan took a sip himself. "It's good for the nerves." "I bet it is. As a solvent." The second sip went down more easily. There wasn't much of a flavour, although that might be attributable to unconditional surrender on the part of his taste buds. "Thanks." "Pleasure." No one could say that less convincingly than Bevan could. "So, to get back to business, how did you find all this crap out?" "I fucked it out of Carnac last night. With some pharmaceutical help." Bevan snorted. "Talk about devotion to the bloody cause." "Yeah." Toreth rubbed his temples, and wondered how Carnac felt. "I've had better nights. He had a lot more fun than I did. I bribed the waiter to doctor the wine with a needle before he opened it, so I had to drink the fucking stuff as well, at least until Carnac was well gone I spent five hours afterwards throwing up from the antidotes and blockers." His ribs hadn't enjoyed that one bit. "I can't believe you can put most of that shit into prisoners on a level four." "You're sure he was telling the truth?" "Give me some credit for knowing my job." Bevan nodded. "So why the hell are you in my office?" "Looking for advice." "No, I asked why the hell you're in my office." "Collecting favours owed. And I trust you." He shrugged, deciding to go for all-out honesty. "Or at least, I don't trust anyone else here any more, and I've got no chance of stopping him on my own."

"You can cut and run." Bevan said it without any particular inflection, just offering an option. "Like I said before, this is personal. I won't let him win, if there's any way to prevent it." "Giving your life so that we might live?" Toreth didn't recognise the quotation, but he could spot irony. "Fuck, no. If it comes to that, you won't see me for dust." "Just checking. I'd hate to be thinking about throwing my lot in with someone who's completely fucking insane." "So you'll do it?" Bevan drained his cup, coughed, and stared down into it. "I said I was thinking about it." Toreth waited while Bevan considered the proposal, or pretended to. He didn't have much doubt as to the outcome. Bevan lived for his job here, for the considerable personal power he'd hoarded over the years and the niche he'd cut for himself. Without his post as I&I Head of Security, and with the people he knew so much about dead or dispersed, he'd be nothing more than a late-fifties bureaucrat with a string of ex-wives and a CV that wouldn't endear him to anyone in the new Administration. Prompting seemed to be required, though, and persuasion. Bevan liked to feel that he was being obliging. Toreth moved to the edge of his chair and spoke quietly. "I need your help, Bev. If you say no then I might as well start running now, because I can't do this without you." Bevan looked up and shook his head. "I can see how you got that fucking spook bending over for you. Switch it off, for Christ's sake." He waited another few seconds, then said, "I can't say as I give a shit for many of the interrogators, or most of the paras come to that, but it'll be my fucking pleasure to screw Carnac over. I'm in." Toreth grinned, not hiding his relief. "So what's the plan?" Bevan continued. "I haven't got one yet. I wasn't kidding about needing you. If you'd said no, I'd have been booking tickets out of here by now." Bevan nodded, looking even more morose than usual, which meant he was pleased. "Well, yell when you want me." "Before I can do anything or talk to anyone, I need to know about the interior surveillance. What can Carnac see?" "Everything that you can see from your office you've got all the clearance there is." "I know about all the official surveillance. But I don't know about whatever else is out there." Bevan's eyes crinkled in what was nearly a smile. "Well, I've got a few little tricks. I had feeds from the Director's office, from " "Carnac's office? Fuck. Can you put that through to me?" "I said 'had'. About the only positive thing Captain Clueless managed to do was rip it out. From there, and a few other offices the Service people are in now." Toreth bet he knew exactly where the orders to remove those feeds had come from. He also had the acutely uncomfortable feeling that Carnac had seen this moment, this conversation, coming a long time ago and planned for it. If he closed his eyes, he'd see black and white squares all around him and feel Carnac's hand, moving him across the board.

It was paranoia. Nothing but stress and paranoia. However, right now 'cut and run' didn't seem like such a bad option. If Carnac would let him go, which was a bloody big if. "Toreth?" "Sorry. Thinking. What about senior paras?" "Office surveillance was on the original plans, but the tight-arsed bastards cut it for cost. So they're all clean, except a few I keep a special eye on you don't rate that, by the way. Not before today, anyway. I'll have to put something in." Possibly a joke, but as Bevan's expression didn't change he couldn't be sure. "A few other places," he continued. "Nothing important for this. All the comms are monitored, obviously and that's personal comms used in the building as well. If there's anything more, then it's nothing to do with me. There could be an office somewhere in Int-Sec that has us on screen right now, and the bastard upstairs could have a link to it, considering the friends he's got. But if that's true, then it's bloody well put together, because I've never found any evidence. And, believe me, I've looked." Toreth nodded. That would have to be assurance enough. At least it set out the parameters of where was safe. "Who else are you going to tell?" Bevan asked. "I don't know. Probably no one, until I've got something sorted out. Except Sara, of course." "Jesus, you could just tell everyone straight away." He pushed down the sudden surge of anger. "She won't say anything." "Are we talking about the same bloody admin here? Gossip queen of I&I? I didn't get my regrettably graphic knowledge of your sex life from wiring up your bedroom." He waved the point aside. "That sort of thing doesn't matter. For the important stuff she can keep her mouth shut." Usually. "Okay. Who else? Carnac's going to be watching you, you know. You'll need someone to get things done, and people will notice if I start running your fucking errands." Toreth considered. Sara was his first choice, but Carnac would be watching her too and besides, she was already too busy. B-C and Mistry might attract less attention, but while they were good investigators he wasn't confident of their skills as conspirators. "What about Chevril?" "Don Chevril? Senior Para? He's a pillock." "True. But he's a pillock I've known for a long time, and he owes me. He's a senior, he's got the rank to get things done. Besides, he's still on the sick at the moment, so he can limp back in and potter around without it looking suspicious." Bevan shrugged. "If you think you can trust him. Prat. At least don't tell him until you absolutely fucking have to. When you've got a plan and you need some help. No point going out of our way to make sure Carnac hears what's going on." "Fair enough." Toreth looked at his watch, surprised by how much time had passed. "I've got things to do. Work hasn't stopped just because Carnac wants to kill everyone." "Yeah." Bevan leaned back in his chair, and looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. "It all makes sense, you know." "What does?" "I've been shoving screenfuls of requisitions and orders across that wanker's desk and he's signed

off every sodding thing without a murmur. I've been tempted to try putting a case of Scotch past him, see if he notices. But of course he isn't going to care about the bloody budget, is he, if his major future expense is fucking cremations?" Carnac must be getting a huge kick out of that. Laughing at the lot of them as they went about their doomed lives while he counted down the days. Well, the bastard was going to regret it, that was for sure. Knowing about Carnac's plan was the first step towards stopping it. Now he just had to work out what the hell he was going to do. ~~~ "So?" Sara asked, following Toreth into his office. "What's going on?" She'd been waiting for him to get back ever since Carnac had been and gone. From the socioanalyst's manner unusually readable she'd known that something was up. Toreth paused, halfway into his chair, then sat down. "We're in shit, that's what's going on." "Carnac?" He nodded. "Short version: he's planning to drive a pack of his traitor friends through here and bounce them into taking I&I apart while they're still throwing up from the shock of seeing how the real world works." The short version was too short for her to handle in a single piece. "Taken apart?" "Yes. We're going to be shut down, dismantled and this is the good part executed. Paras, interrogators and probably investigators. Basically, it looks like anyone who's done the interrogation intro course is for it." Her first instinct was to say it couldn't happen. That only lasted long enough for her to remember her walk through the blood-stained interrogation levels. Judicial murders, with Carnac's hand guiding them, would be just another facet of the hatred that had fuelled the slaughter there. "What about the admins?" she asked. Toreth shrugged. "Don't know. He didn't say anything about any of the support staff." "But that doesn't mean " Then her brain caught up with his words. "He didn't say anything?" Toreth nodded. "It's all straight from the horse's mouth, courtesy of Daedra and a far more enjoyable fucking than he deserved." "So that's where you were last night. Warrick did wonder, and so did I. Why didn't you tell me what you were doing?" Toreth shrugged. "I don't take chances where Carnac's concerned. The fewer people who knew about it beforehand, the better." "I wouldn't have told him." He didn't say anything. She wanted to say it wasn't fair, but she couldn't. She'd talked to Carnac before, and told him things about Toreth that only she knew. Even though it had been three years ago, and although it had happened before either of them had appreciated what Carnac was, Toreth wasn't interested in excuses. He had a long memory for betrayals of his trust. "I wouldn't have told him," she repeated. Then, seeing him start to frown, she added, "It doesn't matter now, anyway. What're we going to do?" "I'm still working it through. But I know one thing he's not going to get what he wants. When

he walks out of here for the last time, I&I is going to be as rock solid as ever. I'm going to fuck him a lot more thoroughly than I did last night." Her heart sank at the determination in his voice. She'd been thinking more about how they could get away. "Are you . . . sure that's the best thing?" He stared at her, surprised. "What the fuck else can we do? Let him execute everyone?" "No, of course not!" Blood. Blood and bodies people she knew. Friends. "But maybe we should be thinking about the longer term than just screwing up Carnac's plans." His eyes narrowed. "Such as?" "Toreth, if we survive this one, what's to stop it all happening again in a few years? Next year? Give Carnac what he wants. Shut I&I down before his inspection and that'll be the end of it. He said we were an anachronism and maybe he was right about that. Nobody wants us, not really they were just too frightened to speak out." Not her words. They sounded strange, even to her own ears. She'd been angry when Rob had said it but now, through the filter of fear, it made a lot more sense. "Well, well, well." Toreth leaned back in his chair, appearing interested rather than annoyed. "Where's all this coming from? I can't see you being suddenly struck with revolutionary fervour. Or spontaneously joining Carnac's crusade, not even given his usual wet-knickers effect on you. So it must be something else. Someone else, maybe?" Oh, hell. He was too good that this. She must have given something away, because he smiled. "Am I getting warmer? How about . . . Rob? Rob, with his safe, clean corporate number? Putting in a hard night's work, sitting on his arse, drinking Warrick's coffee and fucking his guests. Rescuing pussy cats." She wasn't going to rise to the bait. "It's got nothing at all to do with R with McLean. I'm " I'm frightened. He wouldn't want to hear that, and wouldn't care anyway. "I'm just trying to be realistic. This isn't section politics with Tillotson, or fighting Psychoprogramming over budgets. This is Carnac we're talking about. Do you really want to play against him for those kinds of stakes?" Toreth ignored her question. "Does McLean think his nice little world would stay safe if we all packed up and went home? Or maybe we should let the resisters go around blowing up reeducation centres and inciting discontent? That sort of thing isn't going to go away just because Carnac and his friends are in charge now. All it comes down to in the end is that McLean is too fucking gutless to accept what has to be done. He's no different to Carnac." Although she had no obligation at all to defend him, she couldn't help it not for that. "He's nothing of the kind. Just shut up!" "Hey, you're the one who wanted to talk politics. Now you see why I never bother discussing that kind of bollocks with my fucks." It was far too late, but she tried for icy dignity. "For your information, I'm not screwing him." "Really?" He put his hands behind his head. "Well, maybe you should be. It might put you in a better mood, at least. I see I see?" ICIC. Insufficient Cock In Cunt. After that, the choice was between hitting him, and leaving. The problem with Toreth, one of the many problems with him, was that he was too damn fast to land a punch on. So she left. She'd been at her desk for five minutes when Toreth came out of his office. For a moment, she

thought he would apologise, but of course he didn't. "I'm going to see Warrick. If anyone turns up . . . " He frowned. "Just tell them something. B-C's in charge while I'm gone. I'll be back later." It was only after he'd gone that she realised he was frightened too. She should have seen it in the office, hidden behind the taunting. Or at least, if he wasn't scared in the same way that she was by the mere idea of Carnac wanting them dead, then he was deeply unnerved by the scale of the threat. And he hadn't suggested a single thing they could do about it. ~~~ Carnac had declined to travel to this session of the New Administrative Council in person, something for which he was now profoundly grateful. A flight or train journey to Brussels first thing that morning would have been insupportable; a comm link was quite bad enough. Over the course of the meeting, the proportion of Carnac's attention devoted to listening to his esteemed colleagues slipped from ninety percent to somewhere around five. Mutual congratulation was the order of the day, and it always pained Carnac to see people who had so little justification for it feeling pleased with themselves. He had half an hour's entertainment flicking the view away from the current speaker to watch the rest, picking out the beginnings of bitter rivalries and back-stabbing emerging among the participants. In many ways, the New Administrative Council was not easy to distinguish from the old, and the comparison both amused and disgusted him. He'd set out with grand plans for reform, and he'd ended up here, with his achievements constrained as ever by the inadequacies of others. Still, with these tools, however blunt, he would at least achieve something. The more idealistic resister networks he had found and investigated were pathetically ill-organised. Worse, they were so out of touch with political and social reality that examining their so-called 'plans' was nothing short of depressing. He'd been forced by circumstances to turn a number of them in to Int-Sec many of those had no doubt ended up at I&I. Cruel as that seemed, it had been necessary to keep his reputation intact and above suspicion, as well as to unify and strengthen the overall resistance movement. While he deeply regretted it in one way, from another perspective he couldn't help feeling it had only improved the net intellectual quality of the human race. He'd settled on this uninspiring coalition of dissatisfied corporates and dissidents within the Administration and Service because they were at least marginally competent. More importantly, they appreciated the role he had played in the coup and understood (as he had made a point of ensuring they did) that without him they would have got nowhere. They were manipulable, and currently grateful enough to him that they would serve as his instrument of destruction. Not, regrettably, sufficiently grateful that they had been willing to eliminate I&I straight away. There was simply too much inertia in favour of the status quo. Hours of debate and weasel words had boiled down to the summary that they might not like the idea of torture, but they accepted it as a useful and necessary tool. The ends justified the means, so long as they didn't have to think about them too much. Well, he'd damn well make them think, and see, whether they liked it or not. When it was all over he might go, or stay on, depending on how much longer he could stand their self-interested hypocrisy. Not long, he suspected, since they were beginning to bore him already and that always lowered his resistance. Nor was he so certain of their stamina in power that he was willing to tie his name to theirs irrevocably. For now, he would participate in their interminable meetings, and keep an eye on them while he thought about other things.

Today, it was his current star pawn that occupied him. Toreth. With the hangover an unpleasant fading memory, he reassessed the encounter at his hotel. The sex itself wasn't entirely surprising, given the starting point of the evening. Buoyed by the excellent progress of the plan so far, by the nearness of his final goal, he had allowed himself to become careless. Toreth's newly acquired scar had clearly failed in its role as reminder of that man's dangerous nature and violence. Why it had done so was something he felt compelled to think about, although he doubted he would like the answer. 'Hated' was perhaps too strong a word, or perhaps not, but at the least he disliked Toreth. He despised him, for what he represented and for his unpleasantly damaged psyche. At the same time, he recognised that, physically, Toreth was extremely attractive, and he was, when he chose to be, a skilful lover. In all honesty, Carnac was forced to admit that under the right circumstances the latter considerations might outweigh the former. He was accustomed to sex with men he despised, because there were so few who fell outside that category. Keir Warrick was one of those few. He almost regretted now that he had let the days in Keir's flat go past without any attempt at greater intimacy, but it had been painfully obvious that Warrick was caught up with the fate of his paramour and family. Trying to seduce him then would have been tactless and counterproductive. He smiled, unconsciously. There would be time enough to remedy that omission later. For now, he disciplined his mind back to the hotel. He had been drunk extremely drunk. Although it was probably too late to have a screen done, it was likely that Toreth had found a way of administering some kind of drug or drugs as well. That would economically explain both the alarming degree of memory loss and the fact that he had been induced to drink as much as he had. He did wonder why Toreth had bothered. 'Pathologically unfaithful' might be an acceptable working description of Toreth's sex life, but he was by no means out of control. It was a pathetic defensive mechanism to shield him from feelings he feared, and to that extent it was compulsive in the extreme. However, he was certainly capable of choosing who he fucked, and when, and in what condition. So why had he chosen Carnac, and gone to so much trouble to have him? A desire to rub his face in it the next morning was the most obvious explanation. The combination of revenge and physical gratification would certainly appeal to Toreth. Fortunately for the peace of his remaining time at Int-Sec, the plan had been fatally flawed. It surprised him that Toreth hadn't realised that he was placing power in Carnac's hands by setting up the encounter. However, he knew from previous experience that Toreth was accomplished at banishing Warrick from his mind while he perpetrated his serial infidelities. In any case, a more pressing problem was what he might have said to Toreth. He hoped that, even drunk, he had had the sense to keep his mouth closed about his plans for I&I. What if he had let something slip? The most likely outcomes were that Toreth might run, or he might plot against him. Running would be an irritation, although not a major one, because the work of restoring I&I was well underway. It would disturb his plans, but not damage them significantly. Besides, he doubted that

Toreth would do anything of the kind. The man was psychologically incapable of it, unless absolutely convinced that he had no other choice, and his native arrogance made that unlikely. That left the second option. Carnac smiled again, at the idea of Toreth trying to outmanoeuvre him. He almost hoped he had been a little indiscreet. At least it would in some small way alleviate the current stirrings of boredom. ~~~ The sim room wasn't one Toreth had been in before a clearing in a forest, which fuzzed out a few yards into the trees, suggesting that the room wasn't completed yet. They stood in a tangled garden of vivid flowers crammed into tiny beds. Narrow paths, paved in multicoloured pebbles, wound between them. A grassy orchard held a few apple trees, bearing an improbable mix of blossom and fruit. In the centre of the garden stood a small house cottage, he thought the correct term was. The building was as colourful as the garden, its shiny brown walls patterned and painted. The warm breeze carried a strange smell, out of place in a countryside setting. He couldn't identify it something sweet and spicy. "What do you think?" Warrick asked. The most tactful thing he could think of was, "It's a bit . . . twee." Warrick laughed. "Special room for a well-paying customer. It's adapted from a children's story." "Never read any." "Here, try this." Warrick bent down and broke off one of the more lurid flowers. "Go on, taste it." Toreth took the flower and tried it dubiously. Then he spat into the flowerbed. "Oh, God. That's revolting it's like neat sugar. Pink-flavoured neat sugar." Warrick gestured around the garden and the cottage. "It's all flavoured. The house is gingerbread, which wasn't easy, texturally speaking. At the moment, it's just a shell, but when it's finished the interior will be edible as well. Silis is trying to generate something to make furniture from that's strong enough but still behaves sufficiently like toffee to satisfy the spec." A fat bumblebee droned past and Toreth wondered what it would taste like, and if it would still sting. "Jesus, some people have more money than sense." "I wouldn't dream of saying that about any of our clients." Warrick led the way over to the tiny orchard and they sat down under a tree. On closer inspection, the apples were coated in toffee and the trunk proved to be slightly sticky to the touch, but at least the grass felt normal enough. "Well, what's so urgent that it can't wait until this evening?" Warrick asked. "We're not on record?" "The session is being wiped as it goes. There'll be nothing." "Good. Right. I need to tell you something." Concise and straightforward would be best. "I didn't make it home last night because I was seeing Carnac outside work. I put something very relaxing in his drinks, then I fucked him, and got him to tell me what he's planning to do at I&I." Warrick looked at him for a long moment. "Was the fuck absolutely necessary?" "Yes." He smiled wryly. "Technical reasons?" "Something like that."

"So why are you telling me?" "Well, for one thing, because I expect that Carnac will try to find some way to mention it, and if I hadn't told you first, you'd be thoroughly pissed off about it when he did." Warrick said nothing. Well, it had been a fifty-fifty bet which way round would prove more hassle in the end. "Warrick, if there'd been another way " "No, no. I understand. I was merely contemplating the fact that informing me that you had sex with someone else last night after drugging him falls under the heading of your being unusually considerate." God, he hoped this wasn't going to turn into an argument. "And?" "And I came to the conclusion that I have a strange life. Not at all how I once imagined it would turn out. However, on balance, it's not unsatisfying. Was that it?" "Er, no." For a moment, he wondered what Warrick had really thought about it. Then he dismissed the speculation. There were more important things than Warrick being difficult. "I need you to come up with a bloody good idea. Probably several." Warrick smiled. "I'm flattered by your confidence in my abilities." "At the moment they could be all that's standing between the staff at I&I and a busy execution schedule." Warrick stared, eyebrows lifting. After a moment, he said, "All the staff?" "Paras, interrogators and investigators. And I wouldn't put it past Carnac to include everyone down to the maintenance staff if he can get away with it." "This is what you got from your . . . from last night?" "Yes. He's going to do to the new Administration what I did to him show them high-level interrogations. Then he's going to persuade them to give him carte blanche in stopping them." "And carte blanche means executions?" "Yes. I'm serious, Warrick." "I can see that." "He wants I&I destroyed. Finished for good. And I haven't got the first fucking clue what I'm going to do about it." Warrick raised one eyebrow slightly. "You're asking me to help you save I&I?" "Yes." Put like that, it did sound unlikely. He'd hadn't thought about "No. I won't do it." Won't. No apology along with it. Clear enough this time. "Why?" Warrick sat up straighter, considering his response carefully before he spoke. "I've never made any secret of how I feel about some of the functions of I&I. If I help, then I'm perpetuating something fundamentally wrong. Everyone who is subsequently interrogated, everyone who dies there it would be my responsibility." Toreth didn't believe it. No he did believe it, he just didn't want to hear it. He clenched his fists, suddenly aware of his real body, lying in the sim couch. "Responsibility? You fucking hypocrite." Warrick started to protest, but Toreth carried on over him. "What about all this? I remember that first fucking lecture some stupid bastard who probably

ended up on level D asked you about the applications. 'Tool for oppression' or the usual bollocks like that. I know the Administration keeps sniffing around; Psychoprogramming are still drooling for a chance to get at it once they can scrape up the budget. You're happy enough to make money off it, and you won't help me?" By the time he finished, Warrick was pale with anger. "That is not the same." "No? I knew what you could do with this thing the first time you showed it to me. I could reel off a dozen interrogation scenarios for the sim right now, but you know what? I don't need to, because you already know, don't you? You can pretend all you like that it won't happen, but it will. It started as an Administration project, for Christ's sake. Do you think they wanted it for fucking children's stories?" "'All this' " Warrick waved his hand to indicate the clearing, " is what I do with the sim. I am not responsible for the uses others may wish to put it to. I can only make it as difficult for them as possible, which I also do." He was overarticulating, every word sharp with anger in the way that usually started Toreth looking forwards to the make-up fuck. Not this time. "You made it, you're fucking responsible for it. Seems simple enough to me." "No doubt. But if you cannot, or will not, see the distinction between helping to invent a technology which may have undesirable applications and helping to protect a collection of an organisation whose sole function is destructive, then I think the discussion is over." He was right about that, anyway. He could recognise Warrick being insufferably, infuriatingly stubborn when he saw it. "'Sole function is destructive'? That could be considered seditious, you know defamation of the Administration or a part thereof." A childish, spiteful threat, which didn't impress Warrick at all. "Really?" He smiled faintly. "Apparently not under Carnac's new definitions." No, now Toreth was probably the treasonous one. "So . . . what? You make a fuss over us annexing a few resisters, but you're happy to let that bastard kill everyone?" Warrick looked at him sharply. "No, I'm not happy about that, and if it had to include you, I'd be very unhappy indeed. But it doesn't." "You mean I should walk away and let the fucker win?" "Yes. He gave you the chance before, he'll do it again." "No. No fucking way. No fucking way in hell. Clear?" "Admirably." Cool and precise. That left only one important question. "Are you going to tell him that I know?" Warrick looked down at the grass, pulling virtual blades between his fingers, releasing a faint scent of mint into the already sickly air. Eventually, he shook his head. "No. But it's not necessary. Not where that place is concerned." "What the fuck do you know about us?" "I'm not claiming a comprehensive knowledge of I&I, but I do know that if you try to implement any kind of plot again Carnac, he will find out about it. There will be too many people involved. And " He began placing his words carefully, like fragile crystal, which was always a bad sign. "Someone told me once about the psychological profile of interrogators and para-investigators. I can't provide a citation, but it's not one conducive to successful conspiracies where personal danger is involved. Someone will betray the plan in the hope of saving their own skin." Toreth stared at him, speechless with fury.

"If you still want my opinion and advice, then " Warrick shrugged. "You know what it is." Fuck you, basically. Warrick lifted his hand, his fingers moving to click for the control panel. Toreth leaned forwards and grabbed his wrist. "I'm going to stop him," he said quietly. "I'm going to think of something, and I'm going to make it work, and you're going to take back every fucking word of that and apologise for it, before I fucking touch you again." Then he let him go. Warrick snapped his fingers and the control console appeared in the air beside him. Toreth noticed distractedly that it had acquired a pink sugar trim. "Ending the session now," Warrick said. ~~~ Back at the flat that evening, Warrick wasn't surprised to find only Sara there. She was in her room, packing. Bastard sat in a carrier cage on the bed, ears flat, growling intermittently. "What happened?" she asked. "I've never seen him in a mood that bad." It was obvious that she didn't mean the cat, which seemed to be in a perfectly normal state. "We had an argument, that's all. Nothing more exciting than that. Has he gone already?" "Yes back to his flat. He said to tell you he's borrowed a few things and thanks for all the hospitality. Well, that's not how he phrased it, but it's what he meant." Nothing more than he'd expected, but it still caused a tiny twinge of something. Irritation at Toreth's utterly predictable reaction, or possibly regret. He'd enjoyed having Toreth living here more than he ever imagined he would, even though they had both been exhausted for most of the time and had, in fact, seen surprisingly little of each other. Perhaps that had helped. "You're welcome to stay, of course," he told her. She shook her head. "I don't think that would be a good idea. You know what he's like." "Jealous, irrational, demanding and utterly unreasonable covers most of the relevant attributes." She grinned. "Just about. Do you want me to tell him anything tomorrow?" "Thank you, but no. I think a cooling down period is in order. Do you have somewhere to go?" "My sister said I could stay for a while. Have you ever met her?" He shook his head. "She's great you'd like her." She smiled again. "And she'll let me creep in bed with her if I need to. Only problem is she's miles from work. Closer than mum and dad, but still a pain. I put in a housing request, but I bet it'll take forever. I might be back yet." He wondered how much she knew about the events at I&I everything, he guessed. Toreth hadn't specified that the admins were in danger. "You are always welcome. And . . . " She put down the clothes she was holding. "What?" "Should you wish to consider a change of employer, I'm always interested in talented administrative staff." "Oh." She sat down on the bed. "So that was what you were arguing about. He asked you to help?" "Yes. It seemed to come as a surprise to him that I declined."

"'Course it did. Oh, fuck. He's going to be . . . " She sighed. "It's always me who suffers for it, you know." She wasn't entirely joking. "I'm sorry for that, at least." "Forget it. I understand. I mean I even think you're right. In a way, anyway mostly the way that Carnac scares the shit out of me, to tell the truth. You know what he was like before, and that . . . " "Was for his personal amusement, yes." "He's going to enjoy this, too. God, in that interrogation room, he was so . . . " She shook her head. "I told Toreth we should shut the place down; at least that way everyone gets to live." "And?" "He said no." She frowned slightly. "And a few other things. Couldn't you talk him out of it?" "I didn't really try." "Why the hell not?" A good question. "For one thing, I was sidetracked into, ah, losing my temper somewhat. For another, I don't see that it would have helped." After a moment, she nodded. "Probably not. Carnac's got Toreth wound up so bloody tight about it, there's no way he's going to let it go. I don't want the bastard to get away with it either . . . but not enough to get killed trying to stop him. But as long as Toreth stays, I've got to stay with him." He was, selfishly, glad. If he couldn't keep an eye on Toreth himself, he trusted Sara to do it for him. "The offer of a job remains open, indefinitely." "Really?" She smiled. "I'll think about it not just because of Carnac. It'd be fun, I bet, working at SimTech." She looked down at the bed, briefly, and he wondered whether to ask, because he suspected he knew the reason. In the end he didn't need to, because she said, "Is McLean here?" "I think he's off shift." She sighed. "Oh. Figures." Before he could say anything she stood up, and continued folding clothes. "I ought to get going. I've got a pass, but it just gets worse later and the taxis will stop soon." "Stay for dinner, at least. You can use the car." "Yeah? Thanks." While she was still there, he should try to get as much as he could out of her regarding Carnac's plan. He ought at least to know what Toreth was getting into. ~~~ Dinner had been as good as Warrick's cooking always was, although it had been a little spoiled by his subtle but unmistakable fishing for information. Since Toreth hadn't told her that much yet, she was saved the difficulty of not knowing what to pass on. Afterwards, he helped her carry her things down to the garage and made her promise to come back, if she needed somewhere to stay. To her surprise, as he left, McLean appeared and joined her in the car. "Warrick asked me to go with you," he said, as he closed the door. A typically Warrick way of going about interfering in someone else's business set up the situation, then retire from the scene and let them make of it whatever they would. "Okay. Thanks." She moved across the seat, letting him sit beside her and thereby provoking a

growl from the fortunately-caged Bastard. After giving the car her sister's address, she sat back. She wasn't sure whether she was grateful for Warrick's initiative or not. She'd avoided speaking to McLean since she'd thrown him out of her room, with the vague idea that she would talk to him again at some point, when things were calmer, but they never had been. Certainly she had regretted the idea of leaving the flat without saying goodbye to him, which must be some kind of a hint. He sat in professionally shielded silence, so to break the ice she said, "I hope you don't mind Warrick said it was your night off." "There's not a lot to do down in the staff accommodation, if you don't like playing cards." "There's not a lot to do here either." "We could talk," McLean said. "If you don't mind." "What about?" "Well, to start with, the things I said before." She waited, not prompting him. If he said he hadn't meant them, she would tell him to forget it. If people were going to have opinions, they should have them. An honest change of mind was all right; lying to get another fuck most definitely wasn't. "Well, what I said before wasn't exactly tactful, considering where I was and what you'd been through. I'm sorry." Honest enough to be going on with. "Good. I mean thanks. It's okay." He smiled. "Thanks. So . . . what now?" Honesty in return seemed like the best policy. "I don't know. There's too much going on, with everything, and . . . I don't want to rush into any decisions." That was designed to sound optimistic without promising anything, and it seemed to work because he nodded. "I understand. If you'd like to get together again, dinner or something, once the curfew's lifted, let me know? You can do your dating plan the wrong way round." She smiled. "Yeah, sure. When everything's back to normal." The rest of the journey passed in pleasant enough conversation, leaving her in a good enough mood that when they reached her sister's flat, she invited him in to meet Fee. However, he declined and, after walking her up to the door of the building, he left her there. She lingered, watching him get back into the car and be driven away. She hadn't been sure before that he'd been serious in her bedroom. He really wanted there to be a 'what now' that wasn't simply another night or two. What did she want? It felt too complicated for right now. Something else that could satisfyingly be blamed on Carnac, the bastard. If it hadn't been for this morning's bombshell, she might have been able to think things through sensibly. The idea crossed her mind that Rob would probably get on with Carnac they certainly shared the same opinion of I&I. On the other hand, so did Warrick, and somehow things worked out for him and Toreth. Not that they were much of a pattern for a normal relationship. She found herself envying them again, though, because despite all the fights and difficult compromises and, okay, the plain weirdness of what they had, they still had it. All she had was the cat grumbling in the cage at her feet. Feeling sorry for herself again. She had family, and plenty of friends, and her job at I&I, which she loved or had loved. The idea that she might seriously be thinking about changing her life

because of the opinions of a one-night stand didn't appeal. Had she liked the sound of Warrick's offer because of Rob, or because of the fear she still felt every time she walked into I&I, every time she stepped into the lifts there even every time she made a bloody coffee? Or was it the new awareness of how fragile things were? A consciousness of time ticking past, brought on by four days of believing that it had nearly run out? Abandoning I&I could give her freedom from the fear, a new job, a new relationship. As Fee kept pointing out, she was getting older and . . . leave it. She'd think about it again, when imminent execution occupied less of her attention. Picking up the cage, she pressed the comm. "Fee? Yeah, it's me."

Chapter Nine
The next day, Toreth had hoped to take some time off from I&I to devote to Carnac's threat, but he was tied to the building by the influx of prisoners. It didn't help that he now knew his response to the problem had played right into Carnac's hands. Every arrival reminded him of how beautifully he'd been manipulated used and brought another distracting surge of anger. The newly released paras and interrogators presented a fresh set of headaches. A surprisingly large number of them had accepted the reemployment offer or not that surprising, factoring in the common rumour that refusal was a shortcut to arrest and execution. After careful consideration, he hadn't tried too hard to dispel it. He needed the staff and the truth of the situation would become clear with time. One way or another. Interrogations had begun already, bringing still more trouble. He dealt with problems with the interrogation levels, with the cells, with the scarcity of drugs and the fact that the medical section had no space for prisoners. He'd even had a few people make it past Sara with complaints about broken furniture and missing admins. He told them, as politely as he could manage, to fuck off and tell someone who cared. In his office, between work and interruptions to work, he thought about Carnac's plan. He talked it over briefly with Bevan, and later with Sara, but he didn't want to show either of them exactly how uncertain he was; Sara was frightened enough already, and he couldn't risk spooking Bevan. He wished he could discuss it with Warrick, but Warrick had made it absolutely clear what he thought about the situation and Toreth's own heat-of-the-moment declaration about apologies had destroyed any remaining possibility of a truce. Briefly, he even considered whether Bell could be brought into play against Carnac. However, she despised I&I as much as he did if she couldn't guarantee its loyalty to the Service, she'd happily let Carnac destroy it. Besides, once he told her anything, he might as well write what he knew in fivemetre letters on the side of the building. During the day, the new Administration announced that the curfew would move back to ten. So, after leaving work as early as he could, he went out and tried thinking about the problem over a drink in one of the bars that immediately reopened at the news. If he didn't find inspiration, his reasoning went, he might at least find a distraction. However, other customers were thin on the ground, and the atmosphere dead. People were probably too scared to come out. He turned down a couple of offers without thinking about it, and went home when the bar closed at half past nine. Back in the flat, he tidied up, or at least moved the debris round. He stacked broken furniture in the corner of the living room; he could throw it out some other time, although there wasn't any reason not to do it now. There weren't likely to be complaints about the noise, because the building was halfempty most of the tenants had been Int-Sec staff. His neighbours on both sides seemed to have gone dead or not he had no idea. Pity Warrick wasn't here for once, Warrick could be as loud as he liked without generating tedious notes from the building administrator.

The gear was indisputably gone. He checked round the bedroom, knowing Warrick would've searched, but hoping anyway. All that remained were the leather straps on the bed posts, and even they somehow looked wrong. Everything out of place, everything damaged in some way. The heating was barely functional and the place was freezing. At least building maintenance had repaired the door, or tried to, and the broken windows had been sealed over. The looters had left the bed and the sofa, although most of the kitchen was gone. He'd have to get a new fridge, if he was going to stay. Not that he had anywhere else to go. Living at Warrick's had been . . . convenient. Being able to walk in at night and not have to worry about anything had meant more than he'd thought. It had been fun having Sara around. Then there'd been the good food, laundry service, a warm, comfortable bed . . . and when he caught himself thinking about what else he'd be missing, he put his mind firmly back to the problem at I&I. Tomorrow morning he would be buried once more under mundane but important tasks that would only distract him. Carnac would still be there and the deadline would be another day nearer. Toreth sat on the sofa and drank beer, and thought his way through a dozen dead-end plans, all of which served only to highlight what a good idea it would be to run like fuck. Carnac would love that. He'd watch him scuttle off back to hide under Warrick's protection, then he'd tear I&I to pieces. Compared to Carnac triumphant, execution didn't seem so bad. Eventually, since there was nothing else to do and he was tired, he went to bed, without undressing. Lying in the chilly darkness, shivering, anger stirred directed primarily at Warrick. He'd been utterly unreasonable yesterday. He should've helped because . . . and Toreth ran up against a dead end. There was a sense of obligation he didn't care to examine too closely, and also the fact that Warrick hadn't apparently felt the same, which was even worse. Whatever it was, it was entirely Warrick's fucking fault. Then, somewhat to his surprise, he discovered it was one o'clock in the morning and he still couldn't sleep. ~~~ "You're drunk," Chevril said, two seconds after he opened the door. He wore only a pair of pyjama bottoms, slit at the side to accommodate the cast on his ankle. He stayed blocking the doorway, leaning on his crutch and looking less than pleased to see Toreth. "Not much, but well spotted. I suppose that's why they made you a senior in the end." He heard a laugh from behind Chevril and looked past him to see Elena standing at the far end of the hall, dressed in a startling red silk nightdress. "Hi, how're you?" She came to stand behind Chevril, almost a head taller than her husband. "Very well, thank you," she said, unruffled as always. "You?" "Go back to bed," Chevril said to her, over his shoulder. "And you can just go. What the hell do you want at this bloody time of night?" "Well, either I've come to declare my undying love for Elena, or I've come to talk to you. Which do you think?" Chevril didn't move to let him in. "Come back in the morning, sober, and try again." "Don't be rude, Don." Elena moved Chevril gently aside. "Come in, Toreth. What's wrong?" He slipped inside quickly, closing the door behind him. "I need to talk to Chev about something.

Something important." He heard a strangled protest from Chevril, but he and Elena both ignored it. "Come through to the living room. Would you like something to drink while Don's getting dressed?" "No thanks. I think I've had enough already." They sat on the sofa in the living room, and made small talk while Chevril went to dress. He liked talking to Elena, or at least listening to her, because she had the kind of soft, low, amused voice that it was easy to imagine hearing in bed. The view wasn't bad either flawless olive skin, hair like a black waterfall and a beautifully proportioned body, tall and slender. Shown off to perfection by the nightgown, too. "Toreth?" He blinked. "Sorry?" "I said, 'how is Warrick'?" They'd only met once, but she always asked after him. He felt a flicker of irritation. "Fine, probably. We had a huge fucking row and I'm not seeing him until . . . well, sometime. If ever." She smiled, amused or sympathetic, he couldn't tell. "I'm sorry to hear that." "Right, I'm here." Chevril limped back into the room, dressed but clearly not in a better mood. Toreth smiled at Elena. "I hate to say it, but I need to talk to Chev alone." "Of course." She rose gracefully. "Don't keep Don up too long." He watched her leave, thinking that she looked ten years younger than she must be. Chevril lowered himself carefully into a chair. "If you've finished eyeing up my wife, do you think you could get on with whatever it is so I can get back to bed?" He'd had practise at summarising Carnac's plan, but Chevril proved the hardest to convince so far. The way he'd obtained the information was, surprisingly, the thing he had the least difficulty with. "Everyone? Executed as in dead? Are you sure?" he asked, after Toreth had run through it for the third time. "Yes. Absolutely. Listen, if I had the drug list, I'd show you what I gave him. He's got beautiful genetics for that sort of thing you couldn't ask for anyone more susceptible. He was well gone, but he wasn't hallucinating and he wasn't making it up for me. Textbook confession, if you don't include the fucking. I almost wish I'd taped it, if it wasn't too dangerous to have around." "Oh, God, no." Chevril shuddered. "Jesus, talk about an image I don't need. Okay, say I believe you. What next?" "That's what I don't know. I can't see a way of getting rid of Carnac, short of killing him. I can't see a way of stopping the inspection. But if I don't think of something soon, it'll be too fucking late to matter." "Um. I see." Chevril frowned, sucking his teeth thoughtfully. Eventually he looked up and said, "Can't we make sure there's nothing for them to see? No interrogations?" Toreth had thought of that himself. "He'd bring them back. Or show them recordings there are plenty of those around." "I didn't mean just for the morning. I meant, change the whole system completely. Stop interrogations. You've got the authority to do it, haven't you?"

"Stop interrogations?" "That's what I said. Bloody hell, it's not that complicated, it is?" "No, it's . . . " Extremely simple, actually, although he hadn't thought of it. He turned the idea over, examining it. "I&I without Interrogation?" "Well . . . no. I didn't mean that. There'd have to be some. We'd have to rewrite the P&P, that's all. Let's see." Chevril leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. "Level one, level two stay in, of course. No one can have a problem with verbal only, can they? Levels three and four . . . maybe okay, if we tighten up the medical guidelines for the level four drugs. Level five if no. Cut all the neural induction better to be on the safe side. And definitely nothing with tissue damage, so that leaves us with nothing level five or higher. Keeps it simple, anyway." He looked back at Toreth. "What do you think?" It would never work. "What about the prisoners who won't crack for one to four? We let them go, drop the charges?" "Why not? If the new Administration don't like unsolved cases, then they can come up with something. Not our problem. And anyway, I don't know about you, but I won't miss all the screaming. Gives me a migraine." "It's . . . " He hunted for reasons, trying to work out why the idea felt so wrong. "It'd be unprofessional." "And we'll be able to do a good professional job when we're six feet under, will we?" There was that. "Okay. Maybe. But Carnac won't like it. Not one little bit." "I thought it was high-level interrogations he had the twitch over?" "He thinks we're dangerous animals that need putting down. He really believes it. You had to hear it." Chevril grimaced. "No, thanks. So this isn't going to do the trick for him?" "No. He wants everyone dead, it's that simple. Classic resister obsessive, in fact. The Socioanalysis higher-ups would go into spasms if they heard him their psych screening must be shot to shit. But he'd put a stop to everything as soon as he got wind of it." "Yeah, you're right. Sorry. Stupid idea." He was about to agree, when it struck him that, stupid or not, at least it was an idea, which was more than he'd managed to come up with. Why else was he here? He sat and thought it over, while Chevril watched him. There were problems a lot of problems. But fundamentally, it seemed sound. If there were no interrogations for the inspectors to see, and no reason to think there would be again, then Carnac's plan was sunk. He thought about Sara, suggesting that they shut I&I and give Carnac what he wanted. This was much better it would be exactly what Carnac didn't want and he'd have to swallow it anyway, because the new Administration would love it. Comprehensive reform of I&I something he'd heard dozens of prisoners mewling about. "You're a genius, Chev." "Am I?" He looked pleased, but wary. "What about Carnac?" "We don't tell him. It can work. The hard part is going to be rewriting the Protocols, just because there's so much of it. And then putting it all into the computers for when the inspectors start nosing around. I'll have to have a word with someone in Systems." He ran through it again, looking for

critical flaws that would sink the whole idea. "We don't know the date that's going to make it harder." "I thought he said two weeks?" "Yeah, but not exactly two weeks. Could've been two weeks to the day, or a couple either side. It was no use asking for a date at that point my fuckup. I should've pressed for it when he was sharper. But once it's done we can have everything ready to go, and brief the teams the day the inspection turns up." "Or the day before that'd be better. And even then we'll need to bring a few more people in beforehand. Some of the seniors, so it'll all happen smoothly. And the bloody interrogators." Chevril shook his head. "It'll be a bloody miracle if Carnac doesn't twig." "Doesn't matter, if it's too late and he can't do anything. He'll have to bite his tongue and let it go." Chevril looked at him dubiously. "Carnac?" "If we do it right, yes." He grinned, savouring the words. "We'll have him and there won't be a fucking thing he'll be able to do about it." They talked for a while longer, and then Chevril started looking pointedly at his watch. To Toreth's surprise, Elena reappeared to show him out of the flat. On the doorstep, she stopped him, with her hand on his arm. "Warrick," she said, then stopped. After couple of seconds, he nodded, uncertain. She seemed to take that as permission, because she glanced over her shoulder then said, "Call him tomorrow. Whatever you fought about . . . these things can be always be mended." She smiled slightly, mysteriously. "Always. I know." He nodded again, surprised that she'd said anything at all. There was a last flash of red silk as she closed the door, and he shook his head. She was wasted on Chev, she really was. ~~~ He didn't call Warrick, of course. He had far too much to do, and anyway he'd made a promise. No way was he crawling back before he'd done what he said he'd do he might as well buy a new collar, put it on, and hand Warrick the chain. Instead, as soon as he arrived at work on Saturday, Toreth explained the plan to Sara. She seemed approving and (to his relief) unfazed by the prospect of rewriting the Procedures and Protocols. She called it up on her screen, and a depressingly large document it looked. However, after she'd skipped through it, she said, "If all you want to do is cut the top levels, it won't be too hard." "It needs new guidelines for when to finish interrogations, that kind of thing happy, fluffy resister stuff. Then it needs going through with a fine-tooth comb to make sure there aren't any references in there to high-level procedures. You could split the remaining levels on the old upper level/lower level divisions, and then we'll be back to eight. Should make it easier to keep things consistent." She nodded. "Good idea. B-C and I can do most of it, if you or Chevril check the procedures afterwards." She paused. "B-C doesn't know about any of it, does he? Do you want to tell him?" He'd recited the story too many times already. "You can do it. Don't forget to tell him it's confidential information. It goes no further without my say-so, and make doubly sure he understands that includes Nagra if she gets in touch." "Can I talk to Daedra about the drug sections?"

He considered. This was a problem he knew he'd have to face over and over again: who was safe? With Carnac involved, the answer was 'no one'. So the question became: who had to know? The new contents of the P&P had to be convincing, if they were going to sell them to the inspection as the result of careful thought and consultation. "Yes. No one else, though, not without asking me first." She nodded. "No one. I promise." "The P&P's got to look good, Sara." He knew that she knew, but he couldn't help it. "If they think we're faking it, Carnac wins." "Don't worry, it'll look great." She grinned. "I'm looking forward to it, actually. Make a change from running this place single-handed. I can delegate most of that I don't know if you saw, but now the curfew's later there are more people back in. A few in our section." He'd been too preoccupied to notice. "Anyone else on the team?" "Not yet, but Kel's back and a few more admins called to say they'd be in on Monday. Enough to take some of the load, anyway, while I do this." She stood up. "I'll get started with it." No arguments this time about whether shutting the place down would be the best thing. It was reassuring he trusted Sara's judgement, and if she thought the plan was workable, that gave him a lot more faith in it. When she had gone, Toreth walked over to the window and looked out, considering the list of 'must knows'. Bevan, and soon, because he'd guess something was up and he couldn't risk pissing him off. The Systems people, because they would need as long as possible to get ready. They always did. And Chevril was right some of the seniors would have to be told, if not yet, or there would be no chance of implementing the changes at short notice. Sara was dealing with Daedra. B-C could handle the technical investigative sections in the P&P, but they'd probably need to talk to one or two of the interrogation specialists soon. Far too many already. Much as it annoyed him, Warrick had been right. Eventually, they would pick someone willing and probably eager to sell them out, and the senior paras and interrogators were the most likely candidates. I&I had never made any secret of the criteria it used to select its staff. They'd been open with him, when they'd offered him a place on the interrogator training programme. Psych assessments were mostly bollocks, but still . . . Across the enclosed courtyard, the building was still scarred by broken, boarded office windows. One of the remaining reminders of the troubles. However, the important thing was that there were prisoners in the cells and people at work. Worries aside, for the moment he was winning; I&I was coming alive again. All he had to do was make sure Carnac didn't kill it.

Chapter Ten
Trying to fit the planning around the rest of his workload proved to be a nightmare. On Saturday and Sunday, he didn't leave the building until well after midnight, and he was back in at six, with Sara keeping the same hours. Chevril was in less, but complained a lot more. Monday was no better. It was necessary but exhausting, and potentially suspicious if Carnac started to take note. He tried to cut back on legitimate duties where he could, but that was suspicious again, and he wasn't sure which was worse. The only thing that gave him hope, as well as worrying him slightly, was that Carnac had pulled a vanishing trick. He was out of his I&I office almost all day, only putting in brief (and irritatingly unannounced) appearances in the building. It made it easier that he wasn't around, but it also made Toreth wonder if the inspection might be closer than he'd thought. Further evidence for that was the fact that Bell was also out of the building. She had been recalled to headquarters for an uncertain length of time and, from the rumours he heard, was not at all happy about it. It had to be Carnac behind that as well, pulling in favours to prevent her from interfering during his absence. Clearing the decks, ready for the inspectors. The remaining Service personnel were a nuisance to work round. Payne in particular had moved from being useful, slightly annoying and mildly amusing to being, well, a pain. Keeping him away from anything important took up more time, but Toreth was careful not to let his irritation show. The indefinite promise of sex he'd carefully built up and maintained might be all that stood between them and disaster, if Payne became suspicious. On Monday evening, he answered the comm and found himself staring at his last missing team member. "Wrenn?" he asked, wondering if the long hours were finally causing hallucinations. "Yes, Para." She smiled sheepishly. "I'm sorry I didn't get in touch before." "So am I. You're still down as missing. Where the hell are you?" "At home, Para. I made it out of the building when it happened and . . . " He nodded. "Kept your head down. Good for you. But we sent a call out days ago. Didn't you get it?" "Yes. I I'm not coming back." And now he was hearing things. "Well, there's no hurry, but " "No, Para, I mean I'm not coming back. I wanted to tell you before I sent my official resignation. And I'm not working out the notice. If Tillotson doesn't like it, he can whistle for it." "He isn't back yet either. All the spineless bastards are still in hiding." She winced a little, but her expression of resolve didn't flicker. "I'm sorry, Para, I really am. I've got family to think of." What the fuck did that have to do with him? "Fine. Good luck." "Para, I'm " He cut her off in mid-apology. Years. Wrenn had been on his team for bloody years. He couldn't believe how much the betrayal hurt, even though he knew she certainly wasn't alone in having cut and run. Admins and investigators had been the bulk of the non-returners. More paras and interrogators had stayed, because, really where the fuck else could I&I's broken employees go? Corporates wouldn't

be so keen to flaunt their ex-I&I bodyguards and security now. Fucking Wrenn. Much good it would do her when Carnac rounded up the escaping rats and had them exterminated with the rest of the vermin. ~~~ On Tuesday morning, there was a tense meeting in Bevan's office. The three Systems staff in the know disagreed violently with each other about the best way to implement the changes, with irreconcilable, highly technical and in Toreth's opinion probably irrelevant viewpoints. When that had been sorted out to their dissatisfaction, the techs left and he, Chevril and Bevan discussed the question of when to tell the other seniors about the plan, and who should be told. After a long and increasingly heated argument, they ended up agreeing to draw up shortlists and choose people included on two or more lists. When he returned from the meeting, in a simmering bad temper, he found Payne waiting in his office. In fact, he was pacing across the room, and Toreth got the impression that he'd been doing it for a while. When he entered, Payne stopped and turned towards him. "Toreth, there's something going on, and I'd like you to tell me what." Well, it had taken him nearly a week to work out what Sara had spotted in a morning, which probably said something about the intellectual standards of Service officer admissions. "There's nothing going on that you don't know about already." "I had someone from Systems up here half an hour ago. She wanted you, and when I said you weren't here and I'd take a message, she started talking about system changes. Then when she realised I didn't know what was going on, she shut up and went away quickly." "So? That's all? Someone wanted to talk to me?" When he found out who'd been so fucking stupid, he would make sure 'she' never had the chance to talk to anyone again. "No, that's not all. Captain Shoen was looking for you because you'd cancelled a tribunal sitting without warning him. And you've been away far too many times, with Sara claiming not to know where you were, for it to be nothing. What is it?" "Have you been to Carnac?" "No. No I haven't. And I should've, but I wanted to give you a chance to tell me about it first." Somehow he kept the relief out of his voice. "I'm making some changes to operations, that's all. Nothing for Carnac to worry about." "So it won't matter if I tell him?" Damn him. "Yes it will. It will matter a great deal." He went over to sit on the edge of his desk, getting the story straight in his mind. "What I'm doing is something Carnac doesn't want to happen. But it's something that needs to happen for I&I and for the whole of the Administration. I can only ask you to trust me and not to tell him." "Toreth, I'm sorry. Believe me, I do trust you, and I don't want to do this to you. But I have my orders, direct from Carnac, requiring me to report anything like that. If you can't explain, I have to do it I should do it anyway." So Carnac had told him to spy. Fair enough he'd expected no less and he certainly didn't blame Payne for it. That was the problem with the Service: ninety-nine point nine percent of the time, they did what they were told.

He could only hope this would be the other point one. "Will you let me show you something first?" Payne hesitated. "It'll only take a few minutes, and I can do it here. Then if you still feel the same, you can go and tell Carnac. I won't try to stop you." Payne nodded. "All right." "Sit down," Toreth said, indicating his desk. Payne sat, and Toreth moved behind him, leaned across him to get to the screen and brushing against his shoulder. He could have done this part before Payne sat down, but it seemed wise to take every chance he could get to improve his position. Despite his determined, dutiful expression, Payne wasn't leaning away from him. "Right. Watch this." Toreth took a step back, and let the recording play. It was one of the late-stage interrogation habituation recordings. Shown cold, out of sequence in the programme, it was famous for cracking even the cockiest of new recruits. He'd picked it up in the middle, at about the point when the darkened training rooms would start to fill with the sound of vomiting and the thuds of the fainters. Toreth had no idea what Payne's wife looked like, but the female prisoner was generically young and attractive enough to add an extra edge to the experience for him. To his credit, and somewhat to Toreth's surprise, Payne neither threw up nor fainted. He did, however, go pale and still. After five minutes, he said, "How much longer?" "Thirty-five minutes until she breaks. Two hours and twenty until the end of the session." "I've seen enough." "Sure?" "Yes." He turned his face away from the screen. "Absolutely sure." Toreth leaned past him again and killed the sound, leaving the picture running. He crouched down beside Payne, resting his arms on the arm of the chair. "That's what I want to stop," he said, keeping his voice quiet. "If Carnac has his way, that will keep happening, over and over. I've been here for nearly fifteen years, seeing things like that." Doing things like that, in fact. "I'm tired of it. Do you think we all enjoy what we do here? Do you think we get some kind of sick kick out of interrogating prisoners?" "Well, I . . . no." That clearly was what Payne had thought, at least at some level. "My wife's cousin works here, you know she's a medical technician. I know the people here aren't inhuman." He hesitated, eyes flicking down and back, then he added, "I know you aren't." The best sign he'd had so far. "No, we aren't. We do our job, and we get despised for it by people like Bell, to start with. But the Service doesn't have clean hands either. Haven't you ever worked special actions?" "A couple of times. That's not the same." "Really? We get the survivors in here sometimes." "It's not the same," Payne repeated firmly. "Riot suppression, breaking up illegal meetings, that's necessary for public order. That " He waved at the screen. "That's . . . " "Yes?"

"That's cruel." Clearly, the idea that interrogations might be cruel had never occurred to him before. It still stunned Toreth sometimes that people could delude themselves so comprehensively about what other people did to keep them safe. He nodded, serious. "Yes, it is." Payne glanced at the screen, then looked away and swallowed heavily. "Turn it off. Please." When the screen went black there was a brief silence, then Payne asked, "Have you tried to persuade Carnac that things need to change?" "No, and there's no point trying it either. He knows what goes on here. He did a report on I&I, a few years back, praising our good work I can show you a copy if you like." "Has he seen that?" "More than that he's been in a live interrogation." Fragments came back of his own early days, before the reflexive responses to the stench of shit and vomit had been trained out. He let the memories through to colour his voice. "And let me tell you, that's nothing like sitting in an office and watching it. What the microphones don't pick up, what you can smell . . . Carnac knows what it's like. If you asked him, he'd tell you it disgusted him. But he chose to come back here and get I&I running again, didn't he? Do you think he'd be here if he didn't want to be?" Payne shook his head. "Toreth, what you say might be right, but I've got my orders." Now it was an excuse, not a statement of fact. He wanted to be persuaded. "You want me to find you a way around the wording? I could do that there'll be something, if you look hard enough. What did he tell you to look for? Something against the orders to get I&I up and running? Something against the best interests of the Administration?" Payne started to speak and Toreth cut him off. "But if you're going to do this, I need you to do it because you want to. Because you believe it's the right thing to do. I don't want you using some excuse that means I don't know if I can rely on you tomorrow." He waited out the seconds while Payne pretended to himself that he was thinking it through. Then he nodded. "All right. Yes." He put his hand on Payne's arm friendly grip, nothing more. "Thanks." "No, don't. I'm going to pretend that I haven't seen anything at all." "I won't mention anything about it again, I promise." He stood up and leaned on the desk, studying Payne. Only ninety percent convinced, and that was an optimistic estimate. If he changed his mind and went to Carnac, everything would come crashing down in ruins. He needed a stronger hold over him. "Do you play squash?" Toreth asked. Payne looked up, frowning. "Do I what?" "Play squash. I heard a rumour that the gym was open again today." "Yes, I do. Or I used to, a bit. I'm pretty rusty, I should think." "We can take an hour or so get away from this damn place for a while. I'm beginning to feel like I live here." "I don't know. I mean . . . " "I could make it an order, if you like."

"No." Payne smiled, although he was still a touch pale. "No need. I haven't got any kit, though." "I'll find you something." ~~~ The gym was open, as Toreth well knew. He booked a court, and a sauna for afterwards, and paid the usual little extra to make sure no one would disturb them in there. They borrowed kit for Payne, and Toreth was pleasantly surprised to discover that his own locker had survived the troubles undamaged. If Payne was rusty, it didn't take long to flake off. He was fit, talented, and young enough for it to make a difference. Toreth's early lead slowly disappeared, and by the time he was eight points down he was breathing heavily, and more than a little irritated. He felt he had legitimate reasons for not having made time for the gym lately, but that didn't make him feel any less unfit. It was amazing how quickly the edge could wear off. He should've made the time to go to the University gym with Warrick and then he remembered that he hadn't seen Warrick for nearly a week, and wouldn't see him for at least another nine days. The burst of annoyance that produced won him the next seven points in a row, and then Payne called it a day, claiming a strained calf muscle. He did have a genuine-looking limp, so it probably wasn't entirely due to the prospect of losing. They showered, with Toreth trying not to look too obviously. What he could see in casual glances made the prospect of the fuck seem less like a chore. It was, he realised, days since he'd fucked anyone at all, never mind Warrick. Far too much work and not enough play. He'd thought Payne might balk at the sauna, but he seemed willing enough to delay going back to I&I. When they'd made themselves comfortable (respectably clad in towels, sitting on the same bench, close, but not too close), Toreth said, "I thought you said you didn't play much." Payne looked slightly embarrassed. "Well, I haven't for a while. I was first year champion at the academy, though. Then I didn't have time for everything, so I gave it up for football." "Jesus. No wonder I'm fucking knackered." "You're good." "I play a lot. I enjoy it. Personally, I'd have given up the football." "Oh?" "Yes. I don't get on with team sports. Too much fucking around waiting for other people to do things. Too much like work." He smiled at Payne, making it an invitation. "I much prefer one-on-one." He waited, but subtlety was clearly not going to be enough to do the trick. "How's your leg?" Payne stretched his leg out and bent forwards, rubbing his calf and incidentally providing a delightful view. "It's fine, I think. Or, ouch, mostly fine. I tore the muscle once, playing football as a matter of fact, and it's been a bit off ever since." "Should've stuck to squash. Let me have a look at it. I'm good with muscles." If it had been Warrick, Toreth would've said, 'I'm good with pain', and watched him react, disgust and desire, infinitely exciting. As it was Payne merely hesitated, albeit for longer for than the request merited, then shrugged. "Sure. Thanks." "Thank me later. Lie down." Payne nodded and lay down on his front. A few seconds of awkward shifting suggested that the

idea of being touched was enough to get him going all by itself. With luck, this wouldn't require too much in the way of dancing around before they got to the point. The bribe to keep the room free of interruptions also provided a bottle of oil, which Toreth had already spotted in its usual place under one of the benches. He fished it out, lightly coated his hands, and set to work on the calf. He didn't waste long there before he let his hands wander, further up Payne's leg, across his back and shoulders, slipping his fingers under the edge of the towel and hearing his breath catch. Still sticking to the thin pretence that this might go no further, Toreth had plenty of time to study Payne. He wasn't at all unattractive more muscular than he appeared when dressed in his uniform. He also smelt agreeably of hot skin and fresh sweat, but all that said, it was still a massage, and it was still boring. He could just about tolerate doing this to Warrick, but here it was nothing more than a necessary preliminary. After ten minutes, he said, "Turn over." "Mm?" Faux-sleepiness from the tension he could feel under his hands Payne was very much awake. But if that was what it took to get him to play along, then he wasn't about to shatter the deception. Toreth nudged his hip. "Turn over." Payne complied, the towel loosening as he did so. He lay with his eyes closed as Toreth started on the front of his thighs, working upwards, pushing the towel aside until it slipped away like unwrapping a present, Toreth thought whimsically. If New Year had more presents like this, he'd hate it less. He slid his hands up over Payne's hips, down his stomach. His breath caught slightly but he didn't protest. He repeated the manoeuvre, closer every time, until Payne's hips started twitching under his hands, and the final sweep took his thumbs up the underside of Payne's cock. No protest, no faked shock. Good, because he wasn't in the mood for gentle persuasion. Abandoning all pretence, he moved further up the bench and concentrated his attention on his groin, easing Payne's legs apart a little, stroking and fondling, trying to judge his response from his breathing. That part wasn't easy. He'd been hoping for a bit of acknowledgement by now, but Payne, eyes still shut, was desperately trying to keep his breathing somewhere near sleep. Jesus, it was hardly worth pretending at this point. Besides, he wasn't a bloody charity. He took his hands away, and after a few seconds, Payne's eyes opened. "Val " Tell him that wasn't his fucking name, or let it go? "Yes?" "Don't . . . I mean . . . " He smiled. "Don't worry, I won't. I just wanted to make sure you were enjoying it." "Oh. Yes." "Good." He lowered his head slowly, keeping eye contact for as long as possible, watching Payne's eyes widen in anticipation. As he slid his mouth down around him, Payne gasped. "Oh, Christ." That was the only thing he said, which was fine with Toreth. The last thing he wanted to do with

casual fucks was talk to them, or even listen to them, since talking wasn't an option. However, in this case, he'd known he might have to, given the necessity of keeping Payne sweet. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Payne's hand clenched in the towel, knuckles whitening. He slowed down, stretching things out, listening to Payne's ragged breathing. Finally, Payne grabbed his shoulder, fingers digging in. "I'm going to " Then he did, thrusting up hard as he came, making one, brief cry. Toreth pulled back expertly, holding him, swallowing, then finally sat back on his heels. Warrick had told him once that he should take this up as a career. He'd chosen to consider it a compliment, despite the unspoken corollary of 'since you're doing it to half of New London anyway'. He hoped that in this case it was good enough to tie Payne to him, to keep him away from Carnac. The added dimension certainly gave more of an edge to the proceedings. After a minute or so, Payne sat up, reaching automatically for the towel to wrap around himself. "And?" Toreth asked. Payne didn't say anything, so he added, "I said you could thank me later." "Oh. Yes." Payne grinned, making him look ridiculously enviably young. "Well, then thanks." "My pleasure." Let's see if he could take a hint now. Apparently he could, because the grin faded. "What next?" Payne asked, and there was an irresistible hint of reluctance in his voice, more trepidation than unwillingness but still exciting. Toreth smiled up at him, reassuring. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to. But you do want to, don't you?" There was a silence. Thinking about his happy marriage, maybe. He was about to do, not be done to, and that was always a decision Toreth enjoyed watching them make. "Yes," he said finally. "Yes, I do." "All right then, what?" Payne stared at him. "Come on, what do you want to do? Your choice. I can fuck you, you can suck me, or whatever else you want." Might as well make the bribe a good one and he didn't care which. "I don't know," Payne said, and licked his lips. Toreth laughed. "Liar. Go on, tell me." "I'd like to . . . " He nodded towards Toreth's lap. "With my mouth." Toreth shed his towel and sat down on the bench, leaning back against the wall, not saying anything. Waiting for Payne to take the last step and come to him. ~~~ Afterwards, Toreth stayed leaning against the wall, eyes closed, enjoying the endorphins. It had been far too long since the last time. For a complete beginner, Payne hadn't been bad. At least he'd been eager to please and willing to take directions, which went a long way to make up for a lack of technique. It hadn't been good enough that Toreth would normally bother to fuck him again, not when he'd given up so completely this time. After a long chase, the kill was often a disappointment. But, like scratching an annoying itch, the encounter filled a need. Tiresome, though, if he had to do it too much over the next week. Still, as sacrifices went, it wasn't the worst he could imagine.

He opened his eyes to find Payne back on the bench, watching him. After a moment, Payne looked away, down at the floor between his feet. "I wasn't going to tell Carnac, you know. You didn't have to do that." It took Toreth a moment to frame a reply, before he sat up and moved along the bench, up beside Payne, touching thigh to thigh. "You think that was . . . what? A bribe? Jay?" Payne wouldn't look at him. "It's a bit of a coincidence." "Coincidence? This is the first time we've been out of I&I together. I was hardly going to fuck you in my office, was I?" Payne glanced round, then looked away again, but the tension in his shoulders eased a little. "Well, no, I suppose not. But " "Jay, to be perfectly honest, I wanted you from the first day you walked in. But I didn't think you were interested in fact you said you weren't so I didn't push. If this is a way of saying you want that to be it " He shrugged. " then I'll accept that. I won't be happy about it, but I'll accept it. Is that what you want?" "No!" Payne flushed. "That is, it would be great to do it again. If you don't mind." He laughed. "Don't be such a bloody idiot." He turned Payne's face towards him, looking into his eyes a lighter brown than Warrick's, with guilt in them, but also wanting more. Toreth gave him a moment to pull away, then kissed him. Payne's lips were still slightly sticky. "Of course I don't mind." Payne smiled slightly, accepting the reassurance as Toreth had known he would, because he wanted it to be true. "Sorry. You're right, that was idiotic." Toreth kissed him again, then released him. "It doesn't matter in the least. Come on, let's have another shower and get back to work." ~~~ They'd finally decided on Thursday as the best day to tell the senior paras. It was the latest day Toreth would accept, and the earliest Bevan would even consider. Bevan wanted to leave it until Monday, but that was within Toreth's estimate of the window for the inspection. In the end Bevan had agreed to Thursday, with very bad grace. Toreth was beginning to see Carnac's point about Bevan. Captain Clueless might have been more cooperative. As Toreth waited at the front of the seminar room for the latecomers to straggle in, he couldn't remember a time when he'd felt more nervous. Speaking in public didn't bother him, and never had. It was the consequences of screwing this up that set off the butterflies in his stomach. There was always the possibility that, if he wasn't persuasive enough, they would simply say no. Everything he'd done would be for nothing, and he'd have to start running. It was probably already too late for that. He looked round, assessing the mood. Cautious was an optimistic way of putting it suspicious might be more accurate. At least everyone they'd approached had agreed to come. He nodded to Doyle, seated near the front, and the Political Crimes junior nodded back, relaxed and apparently comfortable despite the splints still on a couple of his broken fingers. Doyle was one of the ones they had argued over. Toreth had forced his inclusion, even though neither Bevan nor Chev had listed him. Doyle might only be a junior, but he was respected popular, even, for a Political Crimes para and if the division survived Toreth wouldn't be surprised to see him get an early promotion to senior. To pull this off, they needed people with a stake in I&I's continued existence.

Finally, they were all present, except Bevan. He was watching the section of building around them from his office, ready to break up the meeting if anyone came along. Sara sat to one side, with an open comm link to him. B-C provided back-up watch in the corridor outside. Toreth stood, waited until they quieted, and began. "When I went round the cells here a fortnight ago, a lot of people made it pretty clear what they thought about me. And I'd have said the same in your position. I told a few of you then what I'm going to tell you now I work for I&I, not for the Service, and certainly not for Carnac." No comments about spooks now, although he'd rather hoped for some. Piss-taking was what they did with peers. Silent attention was for senior management and other untrustworthy bastards. "We do a good job here a necessary job. And people like the results. They like being able to live their lives without the Administration being crippled by riots and strikes and sabotage. But I&I isn't popular, and it never has been. Some people hate us. Most people would just rather not have to think about what goes on here. That's their fucking problem. Or it was. But the outsiders have control over us now. Carnac wants I&I destroyed, and he can do it." That certainly had their attention, if not their trust. He gave it a second or so, then carried on. "There's going to be a review of the Division in a few days' time. If I know Carnac, he'll pick the most spineless, weak-stomached resisters he can find and walk them through every high-level interrogation going on and he'll make sure there's plenty for them to see. Then he's going to see that they recommend shutting I&I down for good and that they give him a free hand as to the method." He took a deep breath. The risk was that they wouldn't want to accept it, as Chevril hadn't. "Carnac wants us all of us executed. Everyone here in this room. All the paras, investigators and interrogators. No exceptions, no survivors. And he can do it. He'll have the troopers ready to move in as soon as the Admin Council gives the word. We've been set up and if we don't do something about it, we're dead. It's that simple." He shut up and surveyed the room, letting the conversations buzz up for a while. Consternation. Anger. Fear, hidden to various degrees. At least they looked as if overall they believed him or felt they couldn't risk not believing. At length, when the noise started to die down, Chevril caught his eye and he nodded slightly. "Okay," Chevril said, loud enough to quiet the remaining voices. "What the hell do we do about it?" Right, this was the tricky part. "Carnac's plan is based on the idea that I&I wouldn't change. And since we were ordered not to change, he'd be right. So, the plan is easy change. Stop the high-level interrogations." Pause, but no interruptions yet. "If Carnac sees it coming, he'll find a way to stop it, so we have to do it carefully. We've already worked out new interrogation protocols, and we'll be able to get everything in place so long as we get a few hours' notice. Carnac's not been in for the last couple of days and my bet is he'll make himself scarce now until the review." And if I'm wrong about that, we're fucked. "He'll want to be horrified right along with the rest of them when he sees what's going on. And he will be." Pause, smile for effect. "Because the day before the review starts, we roll out the new P&P, and by the time the time Carnac's resister friends turn up there won't be anything happening here that would upset a corporate's virgin daughter. Comments?"

"Will that be enough?" Voice from the back Mike Belkin, who had plenty of clout. If he didn't go for it, the plan was sunk. "I think so. I hope so. I can't guarantee it will work, and if anyone has another idea, I'd love to hear it. But if they still want blood afterwards . . . well, I can't see a way to stop them having it. There'd be no point in fighting it all we could do is limit the damage to the minimum that will satisfy them." There was a silence, then a man nearer the front gestured for his attention: Doral, an interrogator who'd taken the para conversion course a couple of years ago. Potential trouble, but they'd needed some people the senior interrogators would be willing to take orders from. "Yes?" Toreth asked, dreading what he was going to say. "You're saying we'd hand the interrogators over and let Carnac kill them." The bald statement didn't produce as large a murmur of outrage as he'd feared. The prospect of general executions was obviously having a salutary effect on priorities. "No, I'm not saying that." Not exactly. "We can warn the people with the riskiest files, a few at a time, and they can take off and lay low. If it's controlled, it shouldn't be obvious, not until it's too late to matter anyway. Movement notification's been suspended, so they'll have a good chance. If everything works out, they can come back." "That relies on people keeping it quiet," Doyle said. "Yes. That means that we can't warn everyone. And, to get down to the fundamentals, if it does come to executions it'll be the interrogators first. And then, if there aren't enough of them around to make up the numbers . . . then it'll be us." Glances were exchanged round the room, then shrugs, and then nods. "We'll sacrifice as few of them as we can get away with," he said, and that seemed to clinch it. Sometimes, they were wonderful people to work with. "What about us?" Doral asked. "Do we run too?" "No. We stay, and we forget for now that we ever trained in interrogation. Everything level one. And then, when Carnac's plan gets shot down and he goes away, we wait until someone from the new Administration turns up with a prisoner they desperately need to talk, and we'll get back to business as usual. We're not giving in, we're just . . . adapting." The discussion continued for a while after that, with more questions and problems raised, some of which they hadn't considered before. But he knew it was settled already. Everything would go ahead as planned, provided that Carnac didn't pull out any surprises between now and the inspection. ~~~ That evening, he decided to give himself an early night off and offered to take Payne out for a drink, and then to a hotel afterwards. Rather to Toreth's surprise, he agreed. He thought about asking what his wife would think about that, but decided against it because, after the day he'd had, a nice, easy, certain fuck was exactly what the medic ordered. Although the bar was on the way from Int-Sec to his flat, Toreth hadn't been there before. He sat at the bar while Payne bought them drinks. It was busier than most places he'd seen recently, with a lot of Service people in. Not a bad hunting ground, by the look of it, although probably somewhere you stood a better chance with the women than with the men. He'd have to try it sometime when he wasn't lumbered with Payne.

"Is this your usual place?" he asked, taking his drink and looking back at the crowd. "No. I've been here a few times. I oft " His voice simply stopped dead in mid-word. By the time Toreth turned back, Payne had gone so pale as to be moderately interesting, from a medical point of view. "What?" Toreth asked. Payne gave a strangled squeak, cleared his throat and tried again. "My wife!" "Really?" Toreth looked round the bar again. "Where?" "We've got to go." "For fuck's sake, you're only having a drink. Do you fuck men from work often enough that she'd be suspicious?" Payne shushed him frantically. "Come on." He caught himself just before he said something he'd probably regret. "Sure, if you'd rather." God, being agreeable was wearing thin. He downed his drink and followed Payne out of the bar. "Do you want to go somewhere else?" he asked, when he caught up with him. "No." Payne looked nervously over his shoulder. "I should go home." "Why bother? She isn't going to be there, is she?" "I know, but . . . " "Did you know she was going out?" "No. I mean, yes, because it's Thursday and she goes out every other Thursday with the other teachers from her school. But I didn't think." "Do you think she'll be long?" "She usually gets home about eleven, so I expect she'll be back at curfew." Toreth checked his watch. "Good. Then you can go home, take me with you, and I'll fuck you there we'll be saving the Division's expense account." Payne stared at him with wide, hungry eyes. "I couldn't." Oh, yes, he could. "Why not?" "Because . . . I couldn't." He shook his head, trying to convince himself. "Not in our home." Toreth put his arm round Payne's waist, and he didn't resist. "Yes. In your home. In the bed you fuck her in, if you like." He slid his hand down, round over Payne's buttocks, pressing between them. "At my age you need a bed for proper fucking." Payne's eyes had closed, but he made a last, valiant (and entertaining) effort. "Val, I love her. I couldn't do that to her. Even if she doesn't know. I couldn't do some some casual thing there." So transparent that Toreth had to smile. "Does this feel casual to you?" Payne shook his head slightly, his eyes still shut tight. "Nor to me." And he kissed him, gently at first, then hard enough to satisfy Warrick. It was far too easy to be fun. Payne's resistance lasted barely long enough for Toreth to get his other hand up to bury in his hair. He'd never taken candy from a baby, because he disliked both sweets and kids, but it had to be something like this.

Chapter Eleven
The Mondays weren't getting any better, Sara reflected. With B-C's help, she had finished the P&P revisions over the weekend and thankfully handed it over to Systems. B-C's reward had been an all-day visit to Justice to discuss prisoner processing, a chore delegated by Toreth with great delight. Her own was to start on the ton of work that had been put off over the last week. She was afraid it had reached the critical point at which, by the time she had gone through it, as much or more would have accumulated again. And that was only the genuinely urgent things. Not long after nine, Toreth stuck his head around the office door, scanned the room, and asked her, "Have you seen Payne?" "No. Not so far this morning." "Damn. If you see the lazy sod around, send him in here, would you?" He disappeared again, slamming the door. Sara spent a couple of minutes staring at her screen but she had been distracted from work. Payne. He'd been different over the last few days. As pleasant and friendly as ever, but preoccupied. Also prone to turning up to Toreth's office with notably flimsy excuses, which took some doing when there were so many good excuses around. Toreth had started taking him to the gym on most days, and to lunch, leaving herself and B-C in the office. Considering that Toreth had barely been remembering to eat lunch lately, that was enough by itself to make her suspicious. She hadn't caught them doing anything, but she was ninety-five percent sure that Toreth was screwing Payne and, since it had gone on for nearly a week and he hadn't said a word to her, there had to be more to it than his usual happy-marrieds compulsion. She didn't know what, exactly, but she was certain that it wouldn't be good news for the lieutenant. Maybe Toreth was simply substituting for his absent regular fuck, but she doubted it. She went to collect some bait for a fishing expedition. Armed with two coffees, she entered Toreth's office, put his mug down and waited. After a few seconds he picked it up and drank, without looking up. "Thanks." She'd been hoping for an invitation to sit down. "Toreth, what's going on with Lieutenant Payne?" "Going on? Nothing, I hope." "You're not screwing him?" "Yes I am." He looked up. "So?" "Well, doesn't that count as something going on?" "Not usually." "Does Warrick know?" He looked at her measuringly. "No, Warrick doesn't know. But then there's no way for Warrick to find out, is there? Not unless someone shoots her big mouth off." "I'm not going to tell him. I haven't even seen him since I went to Fee's." "Good." He looked back down at the screen, dismissing her.

"Why are you doing it?" she asked. She'd half expected him to lie, for no good reason other than most people would. She ought to know him better than that. "He got suspicious. Not bright, but he made it there in the end." He scrolled down the page. "Luckily he asked me for an explanation before he went to Carnac." "And you turned up the charm and screwed him into being quiet for you?" "Got it in one." He frowned. "And it's working nicely so far, thank you very much, so I don't want you saying anything to him. About anything." "You could've explained things, and asked him not to tell Carnac." "That was the last ditch back-up plan. If I'd 'explained things', and he'd gone running off to Carnac with that to tell him, we'd have been up shit creek with no paddle and no fucking canoe. You and me'd both be in cells now, probably over at Internal Investigation if Carnac hadn't had us shot out of hand. Anyway, I told him the general principles. I dressed the motivation up a bit, that's all." "Well " Annoyingly, he was right. She didn't even know why she cared; she'd seen it happen plenty of times before. But Payne had been kind to her, when there was no percentage in it for him. She owed him for that at least. "It's . . . not nice." "Nice?" Finally, she had his complete attention. "Sara, let's try to concentrate on the important things, shall we? Carnac's planning to execute the entire staff and you're worried about me being nice to some little shit from the Service?" "But it isn't nice. Service or not, he's a sweet bloke. He showed me a picture of his wife. They've got a conception license approval pending." "What the hell does that have to do with anything? He was keen enough to get a cock in his mouth, married or not. Anyway, he'll be gone after the inspection. It's no big deal it's just a fuck." God, Warrick must get sick of hearing that. "Does Payne know it's 'just a fuck'?" "I don't know." He shrugged, scanning down his screen again. "Never bothered to ask him. If he doesn't think so, that's not my problem, is it?" He clearly knew perfectly well that Payne thought it was nothing of the kind, and he'd probably gone out of his way to make sure of it. "It's . . . immoral." Toreth stared at her, blankly uncomprehending. "Immoral? Jesus, you've been expanding your vocabulary." "I've got morals. You're trying to keep I&I going, Carnac's trying to destroy it, and poor bloody Payne's just a casualty in the crossfire between you, isn't he?" "I didn't pick him. Take it up with Carnac, if you think it'll do any good." His voice hardened. "After everything's settled. Until then you keep your mouth shut. Understand? Why the fuck are you getting so wound up about him, anyway? He isn't even I&I. And it's not like I particularly wanted to fuck him in the first place." She stared, genuinely outraged and knowing that she shouldn't be, not after all this time. "That's supposed to make it better?" "It means I'll be glad when that fucking inspection finally turns up. He's boring the arse off me. Prissy, self-righteous little twat. If you want to feel sorry for anyone, try his fucking wife. She's the one who has to suffer it the rest of the time." There was no point in trying to argue it out any longer. If she explained for a week, he wouldn't

see her point. He wasn't capable of seeing it, although knowing that didn't put her in a better mood. So she left, without further comment. As she sat down at her desk, the subject of the argument passed her, heading for Toreth's office and looking harassed. If she hadn't learned better than to do things in the grip of a bad temper, she would have stopped him and told him exactly what Toreth thought of him. ~~~ When the door opened again, he expected Sara, having thought of some parting words too good to waste. In fact it was Payne. He stopped inside the doorway and looked around the office. "Have you seen my comm?" "No. Where were you? I've got things for you to do." Payne shook his head. "'Fraid not. Carnac called me down to his office as soon as I got in he's sent me back to headquarters for a couple of days." He frowned. "Didn't he tell you?" Carnac shouldn't even be here, which probably meant that the inspection was starting. How the hell had he managed to keep it so quiet? And if it wasn't the inspection . . . He forced his attention back to Payne. "No, he didn't say anything. When was it?" Payne was hunting through the controlled chaos in the room. "I should be gone now, but I've put my comm down somewhere and if I don't take it with me I'll be " "Payne, when did you see Carnac?" "Oh, just a few minutes ago." "Did he say anything about me? Was there anything going on down there?" "No." Payne stopped his search and looked round. "What's wrong?" "I don't know. Was there anything going on?" "There were a few more Service people down there than usual. Ordinary troopers doing guard duty they passed me on my way out. Carnac said " Payne hesitated. "Yes?" "As I was leaving, I heard him say 'fifteen minutes'. That's all." "Did you come straight here after that?" "Yes." Fifteen minutes, say five minutes ago, which meant that he had time not much, but enough. He could've kissed Payne, and on reflection, decided that he might as well. Payne fended him off, briefly, then gave in. "Don't do that," he said eventually. "Not here." "There's no one watching." Toreth kissed him again, just because Payne didn't want him to, then let him go. "I owe you a huge fucking favour, and I'm going to ask for another one." Now the lieutenant looked wary. "What?" "Don't go to headquarters, not yet. Go hang around in one of the offices and wait for me to come and get you." Wariness turned into horror. "That's disobeying a direct order! I could get " "I know, I know. I promise it won't be for long you can tell HQ that you got delayed on the way over. No one will ever know." He put his hand on Payne's arm, still standing close enough to kiss

him again if he had to. "Jay, I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important. Please." Squeeze of Payne's arm for emphasis while he hesitated. Finally, he nodded reluctantly. "An hour. That's the most I can do." "No longer, I promise. Use Narr's office, he's in interrogation." As he was about to open the door, a sudden, clear premonition stopped him. Guards. Lots of guards in Carnac's office. "No, hang on wait in the toilets. The ones down the hall and left." He watched Payne go, gave him long enough to get away from the door, then went out too. Sara was staring across the office at Payne's retreating back. "What's wrong with him?" she asked. "I suppose it's too much to hope that he's seen sense at last and told you where else to stick it?" "I don't have time to talk about Payne." She looked round, instantly attentive. "What's the matter?" "I need you to get onto everyone on the list. Tell them to put the plan into action now whatever's ready. Start with the systems changes, then notify the others. Anyone you can't get on comms, go round afterwards and tell them in person. But everyone has to know." She nodded. "I'll get started." "No, not here. Carnac's on his way any minute the inspection might be starting. And if it's not that, then I think someone's spilled the plan." Her eyes widened. "Yeah. In fact, if anyone looks guilty when you're calling round, make a note of the name." Then I'm going to nail their testicles to the wall. Or whatever else I can get hold of, if they don't have any. She began gathering things up. "Where should I go?" she asked. "Ah . . . down a level and find somewhere quiet in Systems. The surveillance is still out down there and you can tell them in person to start the changes. Tell everyone not to accept any orders changing anything unless it comes through me or you. And don't come back here afterwards. I'll call or come looking for you if I need you. If you don't see me, I'll leave a message with your sister this evening and let you know how it went." "Jesus." She stared at him for a moment, but she didn't say anything else. She didn't ask if he was sure he wanted her to go, or if he would be all right on his own, or any other time-wasting rubbish. If Carnac didn't sack both of them, he'd get her the biggest bonus in the history of I&I when this was all over. "Go on," he said. "I'm going. Good luck." She left her desk as tidy as it always was when she wasn't there, so he messed it up to make it look as if she was in residence. Then he went back into the office to wait for Carnac. It took him another ten minutes to show, ten precious minutes while Sara got into place and started making calls. Carnac brought two of the Service guards into the office, and Toreth could see a handful more outside. A show of muscle to intimidate, he hoped. There weren't any legitimate grounds to arrest him as if that would help. "Toreth, what's going on?" Carnac sounded as if this was any other visit. Start with the formal denials, to buy time. "With what?" "You know perfectly well what I mean."

"Sorry, I'm afraid I have no idea. Could you give me a clue or do you want me to guess?" "You're making major changes to I&I policy without my authorisation." "Am I?" Carnac stationed the guards by the door and came over. He planted his hands on the desk and leaned across it. "You're wasting your time and mine. I know that you're planning to alter interrogation procedures. I know what the new procedures are. And I know why you're doing it." "It's taken you long enough to find out." Carnac shook his head. "I've know for days that you would try something like this. Ever since I woke up and wondered why I'd suddenly become irresistible. More irresistible, rather." Dazzling smile, which didn't touch his eyes. "It seemed easier to let you run and allow you to occupy yourself with your little plans until the right time to put a stop to it. That time is now." For a moment he felt sick. This was why Carnac pulled in the kind of fees he did. Why the hell had he ever thought he'd be able to outplay him? But the fact that Carnac had known all along didn't matter, as long as the plan worked. "You gave me operational control. I'm doing exactly what you told me to do getting I&I up and running again." "Changes on that scale require my authorisation." "I'm terribly sorry, you didn't make that clear." Carnac glared at him. "I'm making it clear now. Those plans go no further, no one else hears about them and they will not be implemented. Is that clear enough for you?" He spread his hands. "I'm sorry, it's too late. The order to make the changes had already gone out." That stopped him dead. After a moment, Carnac said, "You're lying." Somehow he kept the smile off his face. "The orders have gone out. The system's been changed." "In that case, you will change it back. Quickly and quietly." "I'm afraid not." He leaned back in his chair. "If you want me to do that, then I want an order, in writing, with your name all over it." There was no way out of that. Carnac would have to let it slide, or he would have to put his own name on keeping the old I&I. Checkmate. To his horror, Carnac smiled. "Do you know, Val, I thought you might say that." He stood up and pulled a hand screen from his jacket pocket and dropped it in front of Toreth. "Read this." A quick scan through showed it to be the security file of an Int-Sec undercover agent. Interesting to consider how Carnac might have laid his hands on it, but not . . . and then he saw the agent's cover name. Kailynna Avens. Known as Kate. Warrick's mother. As much as seeing the name shocked him, it immediately made sense. He'd known for years that Warrick's supposedly late father had been Int-Sec, and this new fact filled in a dozen tiny gaps and inconsistencies in the story that he hadn't even noticed until now. However, Warrick didn't know, about any of it, and the most cursory consideration of what Carnac could do with the knowledge chilled him.

After a few seconds he closed his mouth, then handed the screen back with his best attempt at nonchalance. "I don't see what difference that makes." At least he somehow kept his voice level. "Oh, good." Carnac's pleasure was undoubtedly genuine, and the fear tightened. "Then let me spell it out for you. You will rescind this order of yours or Kate will be arrested, tried and executed as an agent of the old Administration responsible for multiple deaths." Blackmail only worked if the victims showed they were afraid. "That would be a shame for Kate, but I don't see how it changes anything." Carnac stared at him, briefly and impressively speechless. Finally he spoke in a venomous whisper. "Someone once said to me that no one deserves to die. But then, I suspect, they had never been to this place." "If you say so." He shrugged. "I'm not the one threatening to kill Warrick's mother, and the entire staff of 'this place'." Carnac flushed crimson. "It will be a pleasure to put you all down. You and the rest of the treacherous animals here." He'd never seen Carnac come so close to losing control, which offered an opportunity to catch him off guard. "So that's how you found out." Carnac's lip curled. "You didn't expect loyalty from the creatures who work here, did you? You disgust me, all of you." Point to Warrick. He'd have to tell him, if he saw him again. For now, he smiled at Carnac, wondering if he could tip him over the edge and what the guards would do about it if he did. "Disgust you? That's not how I remember it." He ran his hand along the desk, not bothering to keep his voice down. "I remember you bending over here, telling me you wanted it harder." For one blissful moment, he thought Carnac might hit him. Then the socioanalyst caught hold of himself. "You two," he said, without looking away, "wait outside. Immediately outside. Leave the door open." His voice was all icy control and anticipation. When the guards had obeyed, Carnac picked up the screen. "Before Kailynna is questioned, she will spend a day or two with a psychoprogramming team who have unwisely accepted my assurances that they will escape execution if they perform a small memory adjustment for me." He paused, obviously savouring the moment. "They will give her the memory of recommending to Int-Sec that an agent be appointed to keep a close watch on her youngest son and his small but valuable corporation." Toreth didn't need to hear the next sentence his mind was already racing past it to the implications. "She will also gain the clear and convincing memory that the agent is you. Since so many of the Int-Sec files were lost in the recent misfortunes, the lack of corroborating evidence will be unfortunate, but hardly fatal to the prosecution." Every word was sharp and crisp, as Carnac explained the inevitable progress of events. "You will be arrested, imprisoned and possibly executed. This time, there will be no pleas from Keir to save you. In fact, I doubt he would cross the street to spit on you, once he has been fully appraised of your appalling betrayal." It took him a few seconds to manage any response at all. "What the hell happened to 'I have a lot to thank him for'? Some fucking repayment."

"Keir will be devastated, naturally. A regrettable side effect, should you remain intransigent. But in the long run, his psychological profile indicates that he will recover with limited damage." The vicious, vindictive smile again. "Perhaps I will be able to bring a little, ah, comfort to him I've always admired him, you know." Now he knew why Carnac had brought the guards, because for the rest of his life he couldn't understand how he managed to stop himself lunging across the desk and breaking the bastard's neck. Somehow he did stop himself. Somehow he managed to force himself to shut out the idea of Warrick and Carnac and try to react intelligently, try to keep the plan intact. But the truth was that he couldn't see a way out. Buy time, that was all he could do. "It will . . . " He swallowed. "It will take time to undo everything. If you want me to make it look as if it never happened. Two days." If Carnac had acted, then the inspection must be close. "You have until this afternoon. Or let us be generous you have until nine tomorrow morning. You will sleep here, since you doubtless have much to do." He gestured to the guards outside. "These gentlemen will act as your escorts until then." Fuck. "Fine." "Cooperate fully, and I give you my word that you will be permitted to resign from I&I and no further action will be taken against you. You may ask what guarantee I can give of that." He smiled thinly. "All I can say is what choice do you have?" Toreth didn't dignify that with an answer. "Where is Sara?" Carnac asked. Toreth had expected the question, so even when it was asked so abruptly he didn't hesitate. "No idea." "Really, you are the most " Carnac sighed. "No matter. She will be found and returned here. If you require assistance from her then she can perform her functions from your office. Now I suggest you get to work. Goodbye." There must be something he could do. To start with "Oh, one more thing." Carnac paused in the doorway. "Kailynna was arrested this morning, so don't think that you could get to her before I did." Fucking spook mind-reader. Carnac shut the door, leaving a deafening silence in the room. He tried to think about what Carnac had said. To think it through carefully, looking for a flaw in the plan, unlikely as it seemed that there would be one. Carnac wasn't a magician. He did what he did by understanding people and predicating reactions, and so far Toreth had obviously been too fucking predictable by half. Just think about the damn problem. Go through it carefully there had to be something he could do. Even in small pieces, his mind shied away from it. All he could think was that Warrick would believe it. Warrick would believe it. The coincidental way they'd first met, the investigation at SimTech . . . God, he'd been the one who'd initiated things, pursued things. It was all too fucking convincing. He'd be in prison, unable to tell him the truth, and Warrick would watch him die, hating him. And then afterwards . . . Easy to say Warrick would never touch Carnac, but that supposed Carnac was stupid enough to

let his name be connected to the arrests. He imagined Carnac assuring Warrick he was doing his best, then taking him the news. Kate betrayed you. Toreth no, Val, he'd call him Val. Val betrayed you. Here's a fucking shoulder to cry on. Forcing the image away, he circled the problem for a while, looking for a solution, and found nothing. He could run, or try to run, and at least he'd leave a hell of a mess for Carnac to clear up. But it was scant comfort. The socioanalyst would win had already won, during all this time when Toreth had thought he was being so fucking clever. Maybe Sara could come up with something; he wished now that he hadn't sent her away. Calling her back was a risk in itself, because the only slight advantage he had was that the changes had already happened. That was about the only thing Carnac hadn't had perfectly mapped out, the only thing that had surprised him, and that had been down to blind luck. He couldn't risk leading the guards down to Systems in case there'd been a delay and Sara hadn't put the changes in place. On the other hand, it was safer to have her back up here than to have Carnac's people hunting for her and stumbling over God knows what. He'd just have to use the comms and be careful. It took four transfers between offices before he found her. "Sara? When you've got a moment, I'd like to see you in my office." To his relief, she merely said, "I'll be another couple of minutes, if that's okay?" She sounded as calm as if she was doing nothing more clandestine than chasing up errant files for him. "That'll be fine." A couple of minutes to finish, and the time to walk back up again. In an absolute sense it meant little, but every second wasted felt desperate. However much he tried, he couldn't stop playing and replaying scenarios in his mind. They all led to the same place, with variations in the detail but never in the essentials. Carnac and Warrick. Warrick and Carnac. Would Carnac play the game? Probably. He liked games, and he'd seemed interested in the gear the time he'd seen it. He'd know what Warrick wanted, what he needed that was his job. He imagined Warrick kneeling for Carnac, obeying his velvet voice, shivering at his touch, begging for him . . . and somehow none of that was as bad as the idea of weekends, Sunday fucks, Carnac and Warrick in bed and happy together and The door opened, and Sara entered, looking over her shoulder at the guards, who thankfully stayed outside. "What's the story?" he asked when the door closed. "Everything went off without a hitch." She sat down, looking so pleased with herself that it seemed a shame to tell her the bad news. "If you look at the screen, the new systems are in place and running. The seniors are telling their teams. Chevril says the interrogators are taking it pretty well, considering. The only thing is " She looked at him more closely. "Oh, shit. What's wrong?" He outlined Carnac's blackmail plan to her. By the time he'd finished, her eyes were the size of teacups. "I don't believe it," she said finally. "Yeah. I had trouble with it myself." "I don't . . . and Carnac meant it? He'd really do it?"

"Looking forward to it. There's probably a damp patch on the floor by the desk where he was drooling at the thought of me in prison. Practically came on the spot when he started talking about telling Warrick all about what I'd supposedly done." The thought froze him again. Warrick would believe it. Warrick would "Jesus." She rubbed her arms, as if trying to get rid of something unpleasant stuck to her skin. "Jesus Christ. I can't believe it. Warrick's mother?" "It's true. Carnac had the fucking file. And I never told you, but his father was some kind of IntSec agent. Citizen surveillance, probably, but I don't know for sure. I am sure it's true about Kate it makes sense." She shook herself, then said, "You've got to tell Warrick." "Tell him? What, you mean . . . ?" The one thing that simply hadn't occurred to him. Everything he'd considered had been about making sure Warrick didn't find out. "I can't." "It's blackmail, and that's the only way to beat it." He'd never heard her sound so determined, which was saying something. "Tell him everything about Kate and about what Carnac's going to do. I know it'll upset him okay, more than upset him but he might be able to do something, out there. He won't believe it's true about you now, but if Carnac gets to him first with Kate's file and a m-f'd confession . . . " She shrugged. "I can't tell him." And he meant 'can't'. He couldn't imagine saying the first word. The breath knotted in his throat at the idea of even seeing Warrick now. "If you can't think of anything else, I'll have to do what Carnac wants cancel everything." "Don't be stupid," she said flatly. He stared at her. "There's nothing else I can do." "Then you might as well go over to his office and shoot yourself. Save him the trouble." She pulled her chair closer. "Toreth, he's going to do it anyway. If he wants you dead, if he wants Warrick what's to stop him? Think about it." He did think about it, unwillingly and with increasing horror. She was right. There was nothing to stop Carnac simply going ahead with his plan. There was nothing, in fact, to stop him adapting the plan to use any other Int-Sec agent, but it only mattered because it was Kate. She would make it convincing: her relationship to Warrick, her existence as a deep cover agent. The indisputable evidence in her file would damn him. The more he thought about it, the more sure he was, because if Carnac wanted Warrick there would never be a better opportunity to get him. Which all left him with only one course of action, impossible as it was. "I can't do it. I mean . . . he won't fucking believe it anyway." "Yes he will. He'll believe it from you. He trusts you." That was almost funny, even at this moment. "Trusts me?" She rolled her eyes. "For God's sake, of course he does. For the important things, anyway. He trusted you with Marian Tanit, didn't he? That was back when all you were doing was fucking. And what about the chains and all the other stuff? What about the cabinet? Dillian might think he's mad, but he isn't. He has to trust you, to let you do that to him." He shook his head, although he couldn't deny there was some truth in it he'd said the same thing himself. "It's not the same. Not at all. It's . . . what the hell would I say to him? I can't even think of how to start."

"Well, you've got until you talk to him to come up with something. You don't have any other choice." Toreth closed his eyes, forcing himself to look at the problem with as much detachment as he could muster. She was right, of course. Even if Warrick reacted in the worst way possible, he'd still be in no more trouble than he was right now. Just do it, don't think about it His hand was on the comm before he thought of the guards. Outside the door, for now, probably to encourage him to do exactly what he was about to do. The comms would be monitored he was willing to bet there was a human, not a computer, ready to call Carnac the moment they heard anything amiss. There was another way Payne. Payne would take a message, with suitable encouragement. Unless Carnac had left him Payne deliberately, in which case he was as dangerous as the comm. Thinking about it like this would leave him paralysed in his office for the next day and a half. He made a snap decision trust Payne. Carnac had tried (or had seemed to try) to get him out of the way. Not the best grounds for trusting him, but he had to do something. Time was ticking away already. Sara was looking at him questioningly. "I'll do it," he said. "But I can't risk the comm. I'll send Payne." Relief turned to concern. "Do you trust him? I'll do it." "Carnac will have you trailed as well as me. Bevan should be able to help, but I have to do it straight away." Before I have time to think about it, "What about B-C?" "Over at Justice, which Carnac must know about. I doubt they'll let him back in the building until Carnac gets what he wants." And then Barret-Connor would be arrested along with the rest of them. "Anyway B-C's still one of the team which means he's no safer than you. Payne isn't even supposed to be here. He's perfect." She shook her head. "I hope you remember this when you're giving him his cards." What was this thing she had for the little tosser? He decided it wasn't worth going into now. "What about who ratted us out? Did you get any ideas?" "Doral," she said, with absolute confidence. "Fuck. I knew we shouldn't have trusted the shit. Why do you think it was him?" "Nearly everybody said he'd spoken to them, sounded them out about what they thought of the plan. Coming up to people on their own, asking whether they really thought we could put one over on Carnac. Whether there might be another way to talk Carnac into dropping it all. Everyone told me that same thing. 'I didn't think anything about it at the time but now you mention it gosh yes it was a bit funny'. You know the drill." "Yeah, I know." They'd been sitting on any suspicions about Doral until they'd finally been forced to decide which way to jump. Thank God they seemed to have chosen him so far. "Nearly everyone?" "He didn't speak to Chevril. Not at all." She paused. "At least not according to what Chevril says." Which meant either he'd thought Chevril was too closely involved to risk even hinting to, or it was the other reason. It was obvious enough which of the two Sara thought, and he tended to agree.

"The stupid bastard. Just what we need, on top of everything else." "We can work round it, though, can't we? Now we know who?" "Yeah. Yeah, we can. In fact, it might not even be a bad thing, if " He shook his head. Getting too far ahead of himself. "I'll get it sorted. I've got to get the meeting with Warrick set up and see if I can shift those bloody guards so that I can talk to people." "Shall I stay here?" "Yes. Use the comm, just be careful assume Carnac's hearing everything. Get hold of Chevril, Christofi, Doyle and a couple of the others. Anyone Doral's pissed off in the past will do, which doesn't narrow the field much, given what a bent bookie he is. Set somewhere up you know what I need." Carnac wouldn't interfere. He'd assume it was Toreth taking his anger out in revenge. "And for fuck's sake, don't tell anyone else about Kate. I don't want any more people thinking that maybe they'd be better off with Carnac than with me." She set to work, while he took out a pencil and paper and nearly lost his resolve. Listening to Sara with half an ear, he stared at the blank sheet, pretending that he was thinking about what to write. A minute passed, then two, and then that excuse lost the last shred of plausibility, leaving him with the fact that he was afraid. He was afraid of what Warrick would say, of what he would do. That, in the end, he would believe Carnac and He cut the thought dead. Sara was right. It was the only way. He didn't have a choice. Keep repeating that and maybe it would help. He wrote the note, folded it, and slipped it in his pocket. As he walked outside, two of the four guards fell into step beside him. He ignored them until they reached the toilets. Then he stopped and turned. "I'm going in there. You can come in with me if you have to, but I don't perform well with an audience." There was a brief silence, then one of them held out his hand. "Comm, sir." "Fuck, it talks." He handed the comm over with a show of reluctance. "Whoever would've thought it?" As the door shut behind him, he had an awful moment when the room looked empty. His main fear had been that Payne would realise what a stupid thing he was doing based on nothing more than a few quick fucks, and would run. "Payne?" The door of one of the cubicles swung open, and Payne emerged. "Jay, guess what?" He smiled wryly. "Another huge favour?" "Yes. I need you to take this for me. Go over to the University campus, as fast as you can, and find the AERC building. That's the Artificial Environments Research Centre. Give this to Doctor Keir Warrick in person. Don't give it to anyone else. Get a reply straight away." And pray that Warrick was there. Payne frowned. "That's a long way, there and back. Can't I just call it over?" "No. There's too much risk in doing it over the comms." "There's no reason for anyone to be listening to me, surely?" Staggeringly naive but handy right now. "None at all, except that they'll be listening to everything and if this gets overheard I'm fucked. Please, Jay."

Long silence, then Payne nodded quickly and grinned. "Okay. Give me the note." "Give me two minutes to get away, then go out." He handed over the paper, knowing that if Carnac was playing him over this one it was the end. "When you've got the answer, come back up. Don't go to the office leave a note in here, and then clear off." "Right." Payne caught hold of him as he turned to leave and kissed him. Danger and desperation spiced it up into something rather good. Pity there wasn't time for anything else because a fuck would do wonders for his nerves right about now. "Thanks," Toreth said, when it broke off. Payne shook his head. "I'm only doing it because it's you, Val." "I know." He touched Payne's cheek briefly, more than satisfied with the warmth of the smile he got in response. "I know."

Chapter Twelve
While Payne set off on his errand, Toreth set about arranging the rest of the plan. His timing was perfect he caught Carnac just as he was leaving the building. "I can't do what you want me to do with these missing links trailing my every step. Everyone will panic at the sight of them." Carnac considered. "Very well. Here is the alternative: I will remove the escort, for the time being. In their place you will wear a surveillance bracelet. In addition, you will report to my office by comm every thirty minutes, and in person to my admin every two hours." The tagging he'd expected; the reports were an unwelcome surprise. "Carnac " "Don't waste my time. If that is not acceptable it is because you are planning to leave the building. The exits are all monitored in any case, so I will be aware of any attempts to escape." Escape. So that was what it had come down to. "That'll be fine." Carnac checked his watch. "Time is pressing, and I have places to be. I suggest you continue your good work." The Service guards took him down to the cell level to have the bracelet fitted. It was less humiliating than he'd expected the thin band was light enough that he soon stopped noticing it, and it was a relief to leave the escorts behind. Of course, everyone he spoke to mentioned it at once. "He's fucking tagged you," Bevan said, as soon as Toreth walked into his office. "Yeah. You should've seen the size of the ones I traded in for it." "Someone grassed us up?" He didn't sound that surprised by it, and Toreth wondered briefly if he'd somehow known in advance. However, the more likely explanation was that Bevan wouldn't allow himself to appear surprised if God Almighty and the angelic host manifested in his office. "It was Doral," Toreth said. "How did you know?" "Some Service wanker called me into his office for a load of time-wasting crap. When I got back here, Carnac had been through the building like a dose of salts, and everyone was scurrying around like someone kicked the ant nest. Cohen said Sara called to say everything was emergency go, so I guessed we were rumbled." Toreth shook his wrist. "I need the tag scrubbed from the system, or frigged somehow so I can get outside." "Sorry, no can do," Bevan said with finality. "What?" Toreth ran his little finger round under the bracelet, which had suddenly become a lot more of a problem than he'd expected. "Can't or won't?" "I mean I can't it's too late in the day to be playing silly buggers. I can deactivate the bracelet, I can authorise it to leave the building, but if I do any of that then Carnac sees it, if he's watching. If you're lucky, maybe he's having a nap." "Fucking, fucking hell." Bevan shrugged. "The whole system's a black box. It came in from outside and it's pretty fucking bombproof, so I never bothered with it who gives a shit about prisoners? I don't have any access to it except the standard interface."

"I have to get outside only half an hour. If I don't, everything is shot to hell." "I can open a door to get you out any door you like but I can't stop the system tracking you, or screaming blue fucking murder when you leave the building. Except . . . " He stopped, frowning thoughtfully. "What?" "One thing. I can get you out, if you're not going to be away long." "Like I said, half an hour's all I have. I've got to report by comm to Carnac's admin. Maybe a few minutes either way, but not more than that." "Okay." Bevan fished a pair of pliers out of the desk drawer. "Give me your wrist." Bevan turned the bracelet round, then put the pliers round it. He adjusted the positioning and squeezed gently. After a few seconds, he repeated the manoeuvre, then again. Then he put the pliers away and sat back. "What did that do?" "Activated the tamper sensors, with any luck." Toreth choked. "It'll trip the fucking alarms!" "Yes it will. And any time now there'll be a couple of guards steaming in here to see why." So there had to be more to it than that. "Okay, go on." "The system trips all the fucking time. It's practically antique. Fifteen years old, anyway I keep telling them to replace it. Should've got Carnac to do it while the wanker was signing anything. Half the bracelets are fucked one way or another: they go off when they warm up, they go off when the sensors throw a wobbler, they go off when the prisoner takes a piss, they go off when it's full moon on a fucking Thursday. Keeps the workshop busy, anyway. Ah " The door opened, admitting four guards. Bevan scowled. "Don't I train you people to fucking knock?" "I'm sorry sir, but we have a report of a bracelet fault." The guard's eyes went wide as he realised the identity of the wearer. "Yeah?" Bevan turned to the screen and queried the system. "Yeah, you're right. Christ Allfucking-mighty. Didn't they check the piece of shit before they fitted it?" He rolled his eyes and sighed. "Never mind." He stood up. "Come on, Toreth. If you've got to wear the fucking thing, I'll make sure it at least works." Toreth walked down to the cell levels, biting his tongue the whole way. Bevan obviously had a plan, and was just as obviously getting a tremendous kick out of not explaining it. In the cell levels, Bevan abused the technician who'd fitted the bracelet so comprehensively that Toreth half expected the man to burst into tears. The rest of the staff edged away Bevan had a reputation for a somewhat area-of-effect approach to discipline. Only the Service guards (of whom there were a number) seemed unimpressed by the performance. Eventually, Bevan dismissed the quivering tech and removed Toreth's bracelet, putting it in his pocket. Then he selected a new one from the racks and fitted it. He ran through a few screens, then turned to the senior Service guard. "See that? It's working fine. Well, go on. Look." The woman checked the screen and nodded.

Toreth wasn't confident he could remember which surveillance cameras were active, so he had to keep the questions locked behind his teeth all the way back to Bevan's office. Once they had sat down again, he examined the bracelet. "Looks just the same as the old one." "No, that's a new one." Bevan pushed his own sleeve back and displayed a bracelet. "This is the old one." Toreth blinked. "So we're both tagged? That helps how?" "Because we have two tags, both registered as fitted to you, and only one listed as active. Yours at the moment." He shook his wrist. "The system thinks you're still wearing this one too but it's faulty, so it isn't being tracked. When you want to fuck off, I'll swap the bracelet IDs. As long as the bracelets are within half a metre when I do it, the system won't even squeak." "Surely the operator'll notice?" "Not a fucking chance. They see the prisoner ID you, in this case. The bracelet's hidden. Who wants to look at bracelet IDs with a million fucking digits? A removal or fitting generates a notice, but a swap is completely transparent." He shrugged. "Someone might find it if they start poking around, but they'd have to know the system inside out. When it's all over, I'll put them back in the stores together. As long as no one starts comparing surveillance pictures and tagging logs, we're clear." Toreth frowned, thinking it through. Not a bad plan a hole in the system, in fact, but it required the cooperation of a senior security officer to make it useful. Not something most prisoners would be able to buy, and in any case, if it was used for a genuine escape . . . "That means that when I'm out of the building, the system thinks you're me." Bevan slow hand-clapped. "The man's a fucking genius. So you'd better sodding well come back, hadn't you?" Before he left to keep his next appointment, they discussed a few more things and Bevan offered him a shot of his bloody awful homebrew. He declined. He would need a very clear head indeed if there were to be any chance of pulling this off. ~~~ Sara had done him proud everyone in place in a seminar room, in a quiet part of the building where they wouldn't be interrupted. Toreth was pleased by the readiness with which the others accepted his information, and his suggestion as to what they should do about it. He could get used to the idea of being in charge. Only Chevril held back from the general condemnation, and Toreth added another tick to the list of marks against him. He was almost sure now, and he'd be able to make sure easily enough. Doral had been told to arrive ten minutes later than the others. When he arrived, utterly unsuspecting, the five of them closed in a ring around him before he realised what was going on. "You sold us out to Carnac," Toreth said coldly. "I " Doral's jaw dropped. "How did you find out?" Too damn stupid to lie. "Wrong reply. You should be trying to think of one good reason for me not to kill you right here." "I'm sorry." Doral looked frantically round the room, clearly looking for sympathy and finding nothing but implacable, professional intent. "Christ, I'm sorry. I thought it was for the best. I thought "

He listened to Doral's pathetic protestations for half a minute, which was long enough to take Toreth from annoyed to furious. Then he hit him. After the first few blows he stepped back and let the others carry on. It was too personal, and he was too angry at the betrayal of his plan to keep going he could feel his temper starting to spiral out of control. Doral dead would be a nuisance. Beaten to a pulp, he would make a useful object lesson in case anyone else thought there was still time to sell out. If they hadn't already done so. Interrogators. Stupid, ungrateful bastards. He should've let Carnac nail the lot of them. Finally he said, "Enough." For a couple of minutes the only noise in the room was sobbing and moaning from the curled figure on the floor, then Toreth prodded Doral with his foot. "Stand up." "I can't " Two words, then breathless coughing. "Bollocks can't you." He looked at Narr and Christofi. "Get him up." When Doral had been hauled to his feet, Toreth stood in front of him, watching him gasping and struggling to stand up straight. "I'd say I hoped you've learned your lesson, but you're too fucking stupid for that." He stepped up close, lowered his voice. "Now, you can fuck off to Carnac's office and explain to his admin that you're going home sick and he won't be hearing from you again. If I see you in the building before I say you can come back, you'll be looking back on the last few minutes here as a fond memory. Understand?" Doral nodded. "Not fucking good enough. Do you understand?" "Yes." He coughed again, and wiped his face on his sleeve, smearing blood and snot. "Carnac's office. Home. I . . . understand." Toreth stepped back, and the other two paras shoved Doral towards the door. He stumbled, caught himself against the wall, and then started up the corridor with more speed than Toreth would've credited. "Chev, make sure he gets as far as the lifts. Someone will pick him up at the other end if he passes out on the way." He waited until he heard Chevril's footsteps returning, then said to the others, "Wait for me outside I won't be a minute." Chevril passed the others on the way in, turned to follow them back out, then stopped when he saw Toreth still inside. "Chev, can I have a word? Shut the door." "Okay. What?" "Come over here." Chevril stopped a few feet away and waited. "What?" he asked again. "When did you tell him?" "When did I tell who what?" Chevril glanced towards the door. "Yes, they're still outside. I haven't told them yet." "Told them what?" He pulled himself up to his full, unimpressive height. "If you're suggesting I said anything to Carnac, then "

"It's not a suggestion I know you did. Give it up, before you really piss me off. And you don't want to do that because I'm having a fucking bad day as it is." Chevril held onto the innocent indignation for a few more seconds. Then the facade crumbled and he sat down heavily on a desk. "Okay." He looked down at his feet, then up again, trying for defiance. "Yes, I told him." "Why?" "I didn't want to die. Is that such a bloody surprise? It's all right for you you're well out of it either way. Your corporate sweetheart isn't going to let Carnac line you up against a wall and have the Service take pot shots. Your stupid bloody plan was never going to do the trick for the rest of us." "Then why the hell didn't you say so?" Toreth found his anger unexpectedly subsiding to exasperation. It was so bloody like Chev. "You thought of it in the first place!" "Yes, well, that's how I knew it wouldn't work. Doral came and saw me it must've been after he'd talked to Carnac. He didn't say anything about that, of course. I told him to fuck off, but then I thought about what he said, and then I went to see Carnac. He " "Let me guess. Carnac offered you protection and a job afterwards if you'd fuck the rest of us over for him. Because Doral is too stupid to find his arse with both hands and a map, whereas you're smart enough that there was a chance you could keep it going. But still just about too stupid to see that Carnac's going to kill you along with everyone else, because he isn't going to want to leave any live fucking witnesses. And if you think that doesn't include me, you're even thicker than Doral." Chevril shrugged, embarrassment laid over fear. "Okay, maybe I was stupid to believe him, but it sounded a hell of a lot better than everyone going down." "What did you tell him?" "As little as I could, not that it makes any difference but I didn't realise then that he'd got it all from Doral anyway. I didn't give him names. And I didn't tell him about you, er . . . about how you found out in the first place." No, Chevril wouldn't have. "What did he promise? You get out and everyone else dies?" "No!" Now Chevril looked genuinely indignant. "He promised that he'd let the seniors go. That includes you, in case you hadn't noticed. It was the best offer around." Not a bad deal, from a lousy bargaining position, which was only more evidence that Carnac had no intention of sticking to it. "You're a moron." "Yeah. I suppose that's about it." Chevril squared his shoulders, probably thinking about the sound of boots going in. "Do I get the same as Doral, then? A nice thorough going over and sent back to Carnac?" "Tempting. But then I'd have to explain to Elena that I ruined your good looks, and she'd probably serve me my balls on a plate." "Is there another option?" Cautious optimism. "Yes. Doral's a 'before' picture for plastic surgery. You aren't . . . yet. So Carnac thinks Doral's blown and you're still useful. Now you stop fucking around, come back onto our side, and then you pass back to Carnac, wherever he's got to, exactly what I tell you to pass back. And you make it sound very, very good." Chevril frowned, distrustful. "What's to stop me spilling all this to Carnac as well?" "I'd say your sense of honour and camaraderie, but actually Bev is going to wire you up and put a

feed through to me and him when you're out of sight. If we hear anything we don't like, or the connection cuts out, or if it sounds like Carnac doesn't buy it, I'll kill you. No fucking about, no second chance you've used that up already." Chevril stared at him, then nodded. "Okay. I believe you." "Good. Because I'd hate to have to prove that I meant it." He laughed, shakily. "I'm not so sure I believe that." From the sound of it, Toreth had done too good a job with his demonstration with Doral. He went over to sit beside Chevril and put his arm round his shoulders. Chevril flinched slightly, then held himself steady, his hands gripping the edge of the desk. "Chev, I promise you, I don't want to do it. Know why?" Chevril looked up at him for a moment, then shook his head. "Don't you ever bloody give up? Absolutely no fucking way. No. Never. Not in a million bloody years. Pigs will give formation flying displays first. Clear?" He sounded annoyed enough, but Toreth felt him relax a little. Good. That was exactly how Toreth wanted him sufficiently focused on the consequences to do what he was told, but not so scared he'd fuck it up or make Carnac suspect him. He squeezed Chevril's shoulder, then let him go. "Better behave yourself, then." ~~~ Back in the toilets on his floor, he searched the cubicles. Nothing, and nothing, until he finally found the scrap of paper. He looked at the message, almost not daring to open it. Finally, he unfolded it. Yes, he was coming. Yes to the time. Yes to the place. Yes, thank you God. Now, it all depended on timing and luck. He estimated it would take five or six minutes, if he ran it. Then however long it took with Warrick, then another five or six minutes back. If he was more than five minutes late with the next call-in, someone would come looking for him on the strength of his tag signal and find Bevan. More complications, more dangers. He'd set the meeting time as late as he dared, to make as sure as possible that it would happen. He filled in the remaining time by going round the seniors, taking Chevril with him. He warned everyone that Carnac had heard about the plan from Doral, and told them to make sure everyone kept quiet if any Service people started nosing around. He didn't have much hope that would help; there was too much information slopping around, and it would inevitably spill. Some people would say the wrong things at some point, but with luck that could be put down to confusion. Luck. The idea that success depended on luck made him shudder. It was only luck that had kept him in the game so far. Without Payne's forgotten comm, he and Sara would probably be down in the cells right now, waiting for the inspection. Would any of the others have taken the risk of putting the plan into action without him? Bevan, maybe, except that Bevan wasn't a para or an interrogator he might well have decided a pension was the better part of valour and sat it out. Everything still depended on him, and that wasn't his favourite feeling. He contacted Carnac's admin a few minutes early, giving himself as much leeway for the next contact as he could. Then he called into Bevan's office, and Bevan changed the bracelets and told him which door to use. "I'll be as quick as I can," Toreth said.

Bevan shook his head gloomily. "Just fucking come back. That's all I care about." ~~~ He forced himself to walk away from the building until he was confident he was out of easy visible range. Then he ran, wishing he'd managed to put more time in at the gym. When he arrived at the cafe, out of breath, Warrick was already waiting at a corner table. He'd ordered a coffee and a cake for himself, but nothing for Toreth. Not a good sign. "What is it?" Warrick asked as Toreth sat opposite him. He breathed deeply, trying to stop panting. "Warrick, I'm in trouble." Truth, to start with anyway. "Real, nasty, dead-very-soon, serious fucking trouble." "Your plans for I&I?" "Yes." Warrick stood up. "I already told you that " "Don't fucking " He stopped, realising that he was raising his voice. Warrick didn't work for him, and shouting wouldn't help. "Don't interrupt, please. Once through, that's all I ask." "Very well." He sat down again, checked his watch. "I have to get back for a meeting. You have thirty minutes." If only. He needed to do it in half that to be absolutely safe, but that wasn't going to happen. "That's fine. First, there's something . . . okay." He looked around the room people eating and drinking, but no one listening, which he'd known already. There was no use delaying it. He took another deep breath, trying to produce the right words without actually thinking them. "There's something I have to tell you. Don't say anything until I'm done. It's about Kate. She works for Int-Sec she's a deep cover agent. And . . . " And he was distracted by studying Warrick's face, trying to work out what he was thinking. Warrick met his eyes and said, "I know." He could have spent a week thinking up reactions, and that one would never even have made it onto the bottom of the list of 'least likely'. "You know?" "Well, that's not strictly true. I strongly suspected." "How long for?" "Years. Let me think . . . she left her office unlocked once. I was about seventeen and excessively curious, so I had a hunt around in her computer." "She had classified files on it?" "Not exactly. But there were other files, enough to make me suspect things weren't as they seemed." "What?" Warrick's expression closed. "It doesn't matter, does it? The more pressing question is why you are telling me. Now." "Carnac knows not from me. I had no idea myself until he told me. He got it from the Int-Sec systems somehow he had her security file. I don't think he knows you have a clue about it, because he seemed to get a real kick out of the idea of your finding out. But the real point is that he's threatening to blow her cover to his new friends if I don't stay in line." Warrick raised an eyebrow. "I'm surprised he would consider that to be a useful inducement."

He didn't know whether to be annoyed that Warrick knew him so well, or relieved that he didn't seem upset. "That's the other part the part where he m-f's her into implicating me as an Int-Sec agent running an extremely close surveillance on you and SimTech." There was a brief silence, then Warrick said, "So you thought you'd tell me first?" Toreth shrugged, trying to keep his voice equally casual. "I've run a few blackmail cases. It only works if people are too frightened of the consequences of owning up to whatever it was to just come clean. Half of the time it would've been better if they'd done it straight away." "And the other half?" "Is a total fucking disaster, which is why it works." Which set would this fall into? "What exactly does Carnac want?" No mention as to whether he believed him or not. "We're reforming I&I." He waited for Warrick to look properly sceptical, then carried on. "No more high-level interrogations, no more 'torture' at all, in fact more than enough to satisfy the new Administration and make them leave us alone. Carnac found out about it. He wants me to cancel it, undo everything by nine o'clock tomorrow morning, and let them shut I&I down. His way." He didn't bother to add the rest of the consequences, because Warrick knew them well enough. It would be interesting to see if Warrick thought his and Kate's lives were an acceptable price to pay to get rid of I&I only two more on top of the hundreds he'd been happy to see die. Interesting, that was, unless the answer was yes. "Will you cancel the plan?" He had the lie prepared, ready for use if the conversation had made it this far. "Yes," he said, without hesitation, and with such conviction that he half believed it himself. "If that's the only way." If Warrick called his bluff, he was fucked. Warrick looked at him for a long moment, assessing, and then nodded. "Thank you. However, as I'm sure you're aware, that wouldn't be enough, would it?" "Probably not. There's nothing to stop Carnac doing it anyway. Odds are he will, since I know about his plan and he won't want me running around knowing all that and hating his fucking guts. And he wants " And he wants you. Warrick looked at him enquiringly, and Toreth shook his head. They didn't have time to get into all that right now; Warrick would only think he was being paranoid. Besides, judging by Warrick's expression, he'd guessed the end of the sentence anyway. However, all Warrick said was, "So, you're asking me to remove his leverage by getting Kate out of danger and out of his reach?" "If it was that easy I'd have done it myself. He's already had her arrested." "Ah." Warrick cocked his head, thinking the problem over with what appeared to be utter calm. "If that's true, then I don't see what I can do except appeal to Carnac's better nature." God, he hoped that was sarcasm. "Then I'm dead, and so is she." "Thank you." The calm cracked a little. "I'm perfectly well aware of that." He thought for a minute or so longer, while Toreth watched him. There had to be something Warrick could do. Because if there wasn't he was dead. He hadn't thought of it so explicitly before, but Carnac would never let him run he was outside the building now, but the alarm would be raised before long if he didn't return. He wouldn't get far. Carnac would have thought about the possibility

and the arrest warrant would be ready to go; the fact that he'd tried to run would only make him look more guilty. Maybe he'd already thought about Toreth turning to Warrick. Maybe it was what Carnac wanted, although he couldn't imagine why. Paranoia again, although perhaps not, after everything that had happened. Finally, Warrick shook his head. "I'll do what I can. I have an idea of something I can try. And if the worst comes to the worst, I can go to Int-Sec and make a fuss in the hope that someone there will hear about it who doesn't like the idea of an agent on trial." "They won't like you standing there telling them you know who one of their agents is." Warrick smiled dryly. "And that is why it's the last resort. I promise I'll do my best to avoid it. Just to make one more thing clear: I haven't changed my stance on the other question. I won't help you with anything else." "Just get Kate out and I can manage fine without you." "I'm sure you can." He stood up, brushing cake crumbs from his jacket. "If that's all, then I should go." Toreth realised he didn't want him to go yet, however urgent the errand. He hadn't seen Warrick for what felt like weeks, and they hadn't said a word that wasn't connected to I&I. Not that he could think of anything now. "Warrick, what did you find on Kate's computer?" Warrick glanced up sharply, then schooled his expression into neutrality. "It doesn't matter." "Yes, it does." Because he so obviously didn't want to say, and because it would keep him here for a little while longer he only had a few minutes anyway. "Tell me." Warrick sat down again, slowly, his face still unreadable. "Letters. Letters she'd written to my father. One a week, every week. I've been back in since, a couple of times, and she's still writing them, or she was the New Year before last. There's never anything explicit in them, nothing that says it outright, but if you read enough of them it's obvious what she is. What both of them are." So he knew about that too. "Were there any from him?" "No. But then I doubt she would have kept them there in any case that would be somewhat suspicious, given that he's supposed to have been dead for over thirty years. There was no obvious evidence of an address to which she sent her letters, if she sent them anywhere. I didn't pry too deeply. However, he may well never have seen them." "So why do it? It's a stupid risk you proved that." Warrick smiled slightly. "People in love do stupid things; as a condition, it's famous for it. Obviously I've never asked why I've never so much as hinted that I knew but personally, I think she wanted to give him something of years they didn't get together. Or rather, the edited version. There's a lot about Dilly and me but nothing about Tar. Not a word. I imagine that all went in the official reports." "Official reports? Why?" "You've met him." His voice was cool and distant. "Think about it." Toreth blinked. "Jesus." "Yes. Quite. That's something else I have known for a long time. I have to go now if you want my assistance to do any good." He stood again, but didn't leave. "Will you be coming back to the flat tonight?" "I can't. Not because I don't want to, but Carnac's keeping me at I&I."

His eyes narrowed. "Keeping?" Toreth turned his sleeve back briefly to show the bracelet. "Until it's all over, which shouldn't be that long. The inspection's got to be sometime tomorrow, or the next couple of days at the latest. Don't worry he's not going to do anything until after that. He's not even there, for one thing, and he's the type who likes to watch." Warrick nodded. "I see. Be careful." "Yes." Had Warrick ever said that to him before? "Of course I will." He watched Warrick walk away across the cafe, and started sentences in his mind. Don't go yet. I want five minutes, that's all. One minute. I want you. This could be the last time I see you. This really could be the last time. I want you to Toreth looked at his watch and started running.

Chapter Thirteen
Warrick stood, looking at the door, and wondering what to tell Tarin. In a way, he hoped that if Kate had been taken, something would have been said. That it wouldn't be down to him. Now he was here, he simply couldn't bring himself to do it. What was the point? It would be sheer cruelty to tell Tar now, when it could do no possible good. For almost your whole life, Kate was running you, stealing your secrets, using you to betray your friends. I have no idea how many of them died because of her. I knew, for years, but I never told you because I was afraid that if everything blew up it would take Jen and Dilly and me with it. He didn't know Tarin well, but he knew he wouldn't be able to handle that, because who would? And, more pragmatically, he needed his help now, and there had to be as small a chance as possible of Tarin doing anything to alert Carnac to the fact that knowledge of his plan had escaped I&I. If that happened, Carnac might well have Kate executed straight away. Or worse, processed by the psychoprogrammers, and then Toreth would also die. So that left silence, both expedient and kinder. He might be able to find a way to tell Tar later, when everything was over one way or another. Kate probably wouldn't be coming back here, whether he managed somehow to get her out, or whether she was executed. His finger hovering over the button, he realised that he had, finally, stopped even thinking about her as his mother. It was Kate now, and it always would be. He activated the comm, wondering whether he'd been worrying needlessly. Carnac might have been lying Kate might still be here. He didn't really believe that, and any lingering optimism vanished when Tarin opened the door and Warrick saw his face. "I thought you weren't coming," Tarin said. "Why didn't you reply?" "Reply to what?" "I left you a message." Without thinking, he said, "I didn't get it." "Didn't then what are you doing here?" He picked up the case he'd brought with him. "Are you going to let me in, or do you want to discuss this on the doorstep?" Tarin stepped reluctantly out of the way. The house felt different sounded different. Vacant. No longer anything like a home. Dismissing the feeling, he set off towards Kate's study, Tarin following him. "What the hell are you doing here if you didn't get my message? Messages." "I'll explain later. What happened?" "They turned up this morning, and they just took her. No explanation, no warrant. They seemed to think the guns were good enough due process. God, I thought . . . I'd hoped everything like that was over now." "Who's 'they'?" "I have no idea. They had Service uniforms on, but I doubt that means anything." "You're probably right."

They reached the study door. Unlocked. He started to push it open, then hesitated. "Did they go in here?" "No. Well, not really. She was in there when they came. But they didn't do anything in there, at least that I noticed. They just took her. Keir, what the hell's going on? How did you know?" "Toreth." "Toreth? They were I&I then." Tarin paled. "Oh, Jesus. She's there? That place? I hoped they'd closed it down." "Toreth heard about the arrest, that's all. I don't know how he knew, I don't know who took her, or why, and I don't know where she is." Three lies out of four. Fortunately, Tarin had never been able to read him the way that Dilly could. Warrick opened the door and went in. He'd hoped that the computer might still be on, but she'd obviously had time to shut it down before they arrived. For a moment he considered trying to power it up and get hold of the information like that, but it was too risky. Opening the case, he set the system he'd brought on the desk, then started dismantling Kate's system. To his relief, it was as ordinary inside as it appeared to be outside of course, there was no point having anything in the house which might compromise her cover. He'd expected Tarin to ask what he was doing, but he simply leaned on the wall and watched for a while. Once Warrick started freeing the memory stores, Tarin shook his head and said, "Tea?" "What? Oh, thanks." By the time Tarin returned, with tea and some of Jen's cake, he had the system running. He watched as it scanned through the memory, hunting information. If there was too much encrypted on there, he'd have to take it back to SimTech, with all the dangers that would expose them to. Better to do it here if possible. "Where's Valeria?" Warrick asked, filling time. "With her mother. She's going to stay with Philly until everything's sorted out. It seemed like the best idea the bastards frightened Val badly enough when they took Mother. I thought . . . well, I thought that if they came back for me, it would be much better for her not to have to see it." He sounded so calm, so matter of fact, that Warrick looked up from the system. Tarin shrugged. "I've always known that the things I do, the people I associate with, are dangerous." "Why are you still here then?" "I thought I'd better wait for you. You seemed like the most likely person I knew who might be able to do something for her." He wished he had the same kind of confidence in himself that Tarin and Toreth seemed to have. "Where's Jen?" "She went to stay with a friend, eventually. Took me a while to persuade her but she agreed in the end. I told her to go with Philly and Val, but you know how small Philly's flat is and am I interrupting anything important?" "No, it's fine." This must be the longest they'd spent together for years, without arguing. "I'm waiting for the system to finish the first pass." "What are you looking for?" "I need a clue as to where they took her, which means finding out why they took her."

"I though it was obvious." He went cold. "What?" "Me. Or something to do with me. Something I've done, traceable back to this house. Except they took her instead of me." Warrick didn't know what to say couldn't think of anything to say that didn't lead towards dangerous explanations. "It's my fault she's gone," Tarin continued. "I should've asked why they wanted her, I should've said that it was me." "Tarin, they wouldn't have listened to you. Or they would have taken both of you." "Maybe. But I didn't try. I didn't do anything except stand there and watch. God. I feel like such a coward." The only thing he could possibly say to explain that it wasn't true would make things a thousand times worse. So he said, "We'll get her back, Tar. I promise." Tarin nodded and lowered himself carefully to sit against the wall, mug in his hands. "She doesn't have a lot of furniture in here, does she? I never noticed before. Never been in here much, I suppose." "Well, it's an office. She's always wanted to keep work and family separate." He could have kicked himself, except that Tarin had no idea why there was anything noteworthy about the comment. "She was arrested once before," Tarin said. "Although you were far too young at the time to remember. I waited here, with Aunt Jen, until they brought her back. Only one day. But I thought she was never coming back, like Leo. And you and Dilly asking for her, all the time. Well, you asking. Dilly just crying. Jen cried too I found her in the kitchen. Scared the hell out of me, and then she lied and told me she'd been cutting onions or some such rubbish. God, it was awful." He sipped his tea. "I think that's why I couldn't say anything when they took Mother away. I couldn't bear the idea of leaving Val behind, of putting her through that." It was disconcerting, not to mention discomfiting, to hear Tarin saying anything like that. "I didn't know you remembered so much about it. You never said anything before." "Well, it was the big family secret, wasn't it? Mother and Jen used to go on and on about it. 'Don't tell the children, you must never tell the children'. Like I wasn't one of them." He looked up. "You found out, though, didn't you?" "I did. But then I listened at a lot of doors. I don't think Dilly knows, not about what happened to Leo, anyway." Tarin shifted against the wall. "That's what I can't understand, Keir. You know how he died, and you're still . . . with that man." "It's got nothing to do with Toreth. He was hardly born when it happened. I&I didn't even exist." It wasn't much of an argument. He thought Tarin might pursue it, but in the end he shook his head. "It's your conscience, I suppose, if you can live with it." "Things are changing, Tar. I&I's still there, but there's going to be reforms." Some kind of comfort, the best he could offer. "Toreth's involved in it. No more interrogations, no more deaths in custody. The kind of thing you've always wanted to happen." "No. I wanted it destroyed. It's not over until that place, and the rest of Int-Sec, is torn down and everyone who worked there is " He stopped.

"Dead. Say it, if you mean it." "No. Yes, I was going to say it, but I don't mean it. You might not believe it, but when I saw the pictures of what happened there . . . I never wanted it to be like that. More death, more suffering what's the point? But let's drop it. I don't want to argue." A surprise and a relief. "Really?" Tarin smiled tiredly. "First time for everything." Warrick wondered, for the first time, how much of his hostility towards Tarin stemmed from fear. The fear of putting himself and the people he loved in danger by getting too close to someone whose life span was dictated by his usefulness to Int-Sec. Safer to stay back, as far from danger as was practicable, and to cultivate a dislike based on anything he could find. "I'm sorry I punched you that New Year," Warrick said. "What?" Not surprisingly, Tarin looked bemused by the non sequitur. "I punched you one New Year. You must remember. I was telling everyone about founding SimTech and you said I was still whoring for the Administration, and that the sim would end up as just another tool for oppression." "So that's what it was. Sounds like the kind of bloody stupid thing I say when I'm drunk." Tarin rubbed his jaw. "All I remember is lying on my back and noticing that you really do see stars." "Well, I'm sorry." "Forget it. It was a damn good punch." "I cracked a knuckle. Hurt like hell." "I wondered why you never did it again." He laughed. "That wasn't the reason. I think Jen would've strangled me if I'd done it twice." On an impulse, he said, "You should come and see me." "What?" "Come and stay at the flat for a weekend. When it's all over and everything's back to normal, and Dilly's back from Mars. You can bring Val; we'll take her to the zoo, that kind of thing. I'm sure we can manage not to talk politics for one weekend. I'll keep Toreth out of the way you won't have to see him." Tarin thought it over for a while, then nodded. "Okay. Yes. Thanks. Val would be delighted." He leaned his head back against the wall. "She loves her uncle Keir." "She's a wonderful girl," he said, glad to have finally found a topic where he could tell the unreserved truth. Tarin smiled, looking genuinely pleased. "Yes. She is. I expect every parent thinks the same, but she's special." "Very special. And I'm very fond of her. She's in my will, you know. Actually, you probably don't know I should've told you. In fact, I should've asked you before I did it. Sorry." "It's your money, you can do whatever you damn well please with it." Tarin shrugged. "If I haven't brought her up well enough to use it properly, that's my fault. But it's kind of you to think of her." "Not at all. And not, I hope, that it's going to matter for a good long time yet. But I like to know that it's all settled, just in case it does. She gets a third of more or less everything. And a third goes to

Dilly." Tarin's eyes narrowed. "And a third to him?" "A third to Toreth, yes. He has no idea and I'd be grateful if you didn't say anything." "I can't imagine I'm ever going to speak to the man." Tarin stood up and collected the mugs and plates. "I should call Philly and see how Val is." "Don't mention that I'm here." Tarin looked at him, frowning, then nodded. "Of course. If you didn't get my messages . . . " "It's probably nothing. The comm net is still hiccupping. But it's best, just in case. Toreth took a risk to tell me about it, a serious personal risk. I wouldn't want it to backfire on him." "All right." Tarin paused in the doorway. "Val loved him, you know. When you brought him here that New Year, she thought he was wonderful. Mother likes him too more than she's ever liked poor Philly, anyway." He shook his head. "I love Val, more than anything, and I'd kill anyone who hurt her, but sometimes I think we made a terrible mistake, applying to have her. When a job like his can exist . . . it's no sort of a world to bring kids into, is it?" Before Warrick could think of an answer, he had gone. It took another twenty minutes until Warrick found something. Not much a contact number that didn't crosscheck to anything in the directories, which meant either it had been disconnected, or the name wasn't real. Since all the other numbers Kate had stored were current, he decided that the latter was at least a possibility. It wasn't much, but it was all he had so far, and all he was likely to find without more power to apply to the problem. He would have to take the memory back to SimTech after all. Before he left, he sent a message to the number, from the house comm, saying nothing more than that Kate was in danger and required immediate assistance. Then he warned Tarin to leave, and left himself, back to the city and SimTech. ~~~ Toreth had managed to get hold of a gun from the armoury, and he had it in his hands, not in the holster. Bevan stood by the door, also armed. It felt like overkill, but however much of an idiot Chevril could be, he was a trained para, and Toreth had made absolutely clear to him the consequences of fucking this up. Toreth sat watching Chevril, out of line of sight of the comm. He fingered the gun nervously. Things could go wrong in so many ways: if Chevril fucked it up, if Carnac didn't buy it, if Carnac had another insider they didn't know about, if this was all just part of Carnac's plan "How long, Chev?" He tried not to sound impatient. "He said about nine, still. That's all he told me, still." "Fuck." What if Carnac suspected already? "Those Service knuckle-draggers could be back any time. Bevan, find Belkin and " "Wait! It's him." Toreth shut up and watched a second screen, set up by Bevan. Carnac's face appeared on it, and Toreth had a momentary, stupid thrill that he could see Carnac but the socioanalyst couldn't see him. Things were desperate if that tiny advantage could feel important. "Do you have progress to report?" Carnac asked.

"Yes. Everything's going fine. Or at least, it's all going how you wanted it." Chevril sounded sour, like someone regretting what they'd done. Well, if that was what he thought would work. "Good. The systems are restored?" "Not yet. He had them put in some security blocks, and it's taking the techs a while to undo it all. I can't guarantee it'll be finished tonight." "When?" Chevril shrugged. "You know what techs are." "I neither know nor care. When?" Chevril hesitated, and Carnac added, "Will it be ready by lunchtime tomorrow?" Toreth breathed a silent sigh of relief. That was a risk they'd agreed to take, because they desperately needed at least a hint as to when the inspection would start. Chevril nodded. "Oh, yeah. First thing tomorrow morning at the absolute latest, they said. Although you know what " "Yes, yes. Very well. Everything else has been returned to the status quo? Toreth has given all the other orders?" Don't look at me, Toreth willed him. Chevril's eyes didn't even flicker from the screen. "Yes." "Excellent. Thank you for your good work. I shall " "Carnac, I want out," Chevril said, interrupting him. What the fuck? Toreth glanced across at Bevan, who merely shrugged. Carnac appeared surprised or possibly like someone trying to seem so. "I beg your pardon?" "I want out. Please. Let me go. Let me get clear before they suspect something. They will, as soon as it's obvious Doral wasn't the only one. And Toreth isn't going to be that bloody forgiving with me." Unquestionably realistic fear crept into his voice. "I'm dead if he finds out." Carnac's expression hardened. "Believe me, you are dead if you attempt to run. There is no need to worry about Toreth. Stay where you are, and I promise that everything will work out as predicted. I will require your help for a while longer." "No. I . . . " Chevril hesitated, doing an excellent impression of a man who has run out of options. "Okay. Yes, okay. But don't forget, we have a deal." "Of course we do. I will call again in the morning before I arrive eight am precisely. Don't miss it." Carnac smiled. "And take care." The link cut out and Chevril slumped forward onto the desk, his head in his arms. "Jesus bloody Christ. Next time do you think you could just shoot me?" Tempting. "What the fuck was all that about?" Toreth asked, as levelly as he could. Chevril looked up. "I was trying to act naturally, as per bloody instructions. And naturally, I want to get the hell out of here. But he made it pretty bloody clear what he thought about that." "I always said you were a prat." Bevan spoke for the first time. He'd been, or so he claimed, unsurprised at Chevril's defection. "There was never any fucking chance the bastard would let you go." "Yes, I know that now." Chevril shook his head. "I've said I'm sorry, what more do you bloody want?" "It doesn't matter. All for the best, as it turned out." Toreth stood up, putting the gun away.

Thinking about what Carnac had said. "He's going to lock us up. Me at least, probably Sara too." Bevan nodded. "That's my guess. Me too, do you think?" "I don't know could go either way. You weren't at the meeting and I deliberately didn't mention you, so Doral might not've known you were involved. Carnac could guess, though." "What?" Chevril looked between them. "How do you work all that out?" Toreth unbelted the holster. "You told him I'd given all the orders that means time's up, whatever he said this morning about giving me until tomorrow. He'd be stupid to leave me loose now, in case I try to change it back. And whatever he is, he certainly isn't that." "So where does that leave me?" Chevril asked. "In charge of the other paras, until I get out tomorrow." He handed the gun to Chevril. It made a nice gesture, although he'd have had to dump it anyway before the guards arrived. "Don't fuck it up this time, will you?" Chevril shook his head. "I won't. I promise." "I trust you." Bevan, turning away, gave him a frankly disbelieving look. He was right, of course. Toreth didn't trust Chevril, but then neither did he have much of a choice in the matter. ~~~ As he'd expected, they were waiting for them in his office: five troopers and three I&I guards. Flattering headcount, anyway. Sara was still in the office, perched on the edge of his desk and looking pale. When she saw him, she closed her eyes briefly he couldn't tell if she was relieved to see him, or if she'd hoped he would've heard about it and run. He surveyed the group obviously handpicked by Carnac, and not a trace of reluctance on any of their faces for the job in hand. "Can I help you?" he asked. One of the troopers stepped forwards. "Yes, sir. If you and Ms Lovelady would accompany us, please. Socioanalyst Carnac's orders." "What orders?" "Protective custody, sir." Behind the troopers he saw one of the guards smirk, pulling out handcuffs. Toreth nodded. "Get on with it, then." He thought the escort was overkill, until they tried to cuff Sara. As the guard reached for her wrist, she slid off the desk and bolted for the door. He caught her reflexively stopping a fleeing prisoner and by the time he let her go the guards had hold of her. "Toreth!" Her eyes were wide and desperate. "Stop them. Please Toreth!" It took three of them to restrain her and get the cuffs on with unnecessary, unprofessional force, and with her screaming his name the whole time. He made himself stand and watch, because there were still the five troopers, waiting for him to try something. He concentrated on the guards, remembering faces. Sara squealed as one of them twisted her wrist viciously, finally locking the cuff closed around it. The bastard was dead, as soon as he found out his name and address. Dead. Dead in an alley. He'd fucking scream by the time Toreth was finished with him.

Then it was done, and they moved on to him. Cuffing his hands in front of him, as they'd done to Sara, which was a small mercy. He submitted without resistance, and followed the troopers out of the room. All the way down to the cells, he struggled to stay calm and react logically. He'd done everything he could with regards to the inspection. Chevril wasn't the ideal man to keep things going, but with luck there was Bevan to watch him and the head of security would know exactly what had happened as soon as they passed an active camera. Carnac was doing this to wind him up. It was impossible that he didn't know what effect it would have on Sara that was why he'd sent so many people. There was no point making a fuss over it. She'd be fine. She'd have to be fine because they didn't have any choice. She They stopped outside a cell and Toreth turned to the trooper who'd spoken in the office. "Put us together, please." "We have orders to accommodate you separately." "I don't fucking " He took a deep breath, wishing suddenly that Payne was there. He looked more closely at the man's uniform. "Does it matter if we're together, uh, Sergeant? Look at her. She's terrified already." Sara had gone past crying or fighting. She stared blankly down at the handcuffs on her wrists, her lips moving silently from time to time. "Look at her," Toreth repeated. "Lock her in there all night on her own, she'll be a wreck by morning. Eleven hours in the dark. Doesn't seem very protective to me." Eventually, the sergeant nodded. "Put them in together." The cell lights switched on as they entered. They had five minutes until they went off again automatically, and then it would be dark until the morning. He'd hoped they'd remove the cuffs but, naturally, they hadn't. More of Carnac's orders, no doubt. Single occupancy cell he looked round, getting a fix on the water, the toilet. Then he sat down on the narrow bed and turned his attention to Sara, standing where the guards had left her. He had to have her coherent and useful tomorrow. Whatever personal kick Carnac might be getting out of tormenting Sara was purely incidental to depriving Toreth of badly needed support. He beckoned her over, getting the response he expected, which was none. "Sara, come here." Better if she came on her own, but he'd drag her over if he had to, because he wasn't chasing her round the bloody cell in the dark. "Sara. Here. Now." She looked up, staring right through him. She seemed to understand him, however, because after a few seconds she nodded and approached slowly. "Sit down." She did, and he took her hands in his, awkward in the cuffs. "Sara, it's less than a day. The " He caught himself just in time. Someone would be listening, and Carnac mustn't know he knew about Chevril. "I bet the inspection's tomorrow that's why he came in so heavy-handed. We stay here until then, safe and out of the way, and then he'll let us out. We won't be locked up for long." "It's not " She stopped, her breathing accelerating, then caught hold of herself and started again. "It's the handcuffs. Not being locked up. When they did it before. It was . . . " At least she was talking now, which was an improvement. "The cuffs?" He laughed, startling her

into looking at him. "Jesus, I don't know what you're complaining about. You should try it for four days, with your hands behind you." "It's not . . . oh, God, I'm sorry I'm being such an idiot." "It doesn't matter at all." He lay down, pressing his back against the wall, and held his arms out. "Come here. The bed's comfy enough, and I don't know about you, but I could use a lie in for once. I'm sick of getting up before the fucking sun." Reluctantly, she joined him, and he lifted his elbow, allowing her to wriggle up and rest her head on his arm. Then he put his arms round her, holding her as best he could. "You know," he said, keeping his voice conversational, "if Warrick knew about this, he'd be melting all over the place right now. He's got this thing about me in chains." "Really?" "Would I lie to you?" And she laughed, almost he could feel it because she was pressed again him full length. Felt nice, in fact. "Didn't I tell you before?" "I don't remember." "Turns him on like mad although, to be fair, that's not difficult." He sighed, only partly for effect. "If I had a comm, I could call him and tell him. Give you something to listen to." This time she did laugh. "If we had one, I'm sure we could think of something to do with it other than comm sex." "Probably. But I like comm sex. Better than the real thing, in this case." "Do you do it, really? Let him chain you up?" "We tried it a couple of times. That's the weird thing about it it's only the idea he likes. Except once, at the Shop. I'm sure I told you about that." She nodded. "The rest of the time, the real thing bores me to death and he doesn't get much off it either. But you only have to put something round his wrists and he's away. Just goes to show " "It's not the handcuffs, it's how you think about them," she finished. Well, he hadn't planned anything that metaphorical, but it had worked out nicely. "Did that help?" "Not really." But she sounded steadier. "Sara, forget about the cuffs. They don't mean anything at all, except that Carnac is a grade A bastard who gets off on pathetic little power games." He lowered his voice to a whisper, out of the range of the cell microphone. "He should enjoy it while can, because he's going to get what's coming to him tomorrow." She sniffed and swallowed. "Do you really think so?" she asked, also whispering. "Bevan's keeping an eye on things. Chev'll come through, pillock though he is he did a great job on the comm. Everyone's been told what to do, so even if Carnac has Service people asking questions, he'll hear the right answers." "What if it's not enough? What if he still wins?" Stupid bloody question, to which they both knew the answer. "It's not going to happen. Just concentrate on how fucking sick Carnac's going to look at the end of the inspection." "What about you know?"

"It'll be okay." Warrick will sort it. To his surprise, he didn't have to fake confidence in that. Before she could say anything more, the lights went out and he felt her tense against him. He tightened his hold and kissed her hair, trying to soothe her. It wasn't something at which he'd had a lot of practise. "Shh. Just . . . shh." Yes. That was how it went. He kissed her again, finding her thick, soft hair and familiar scent to be an unexpected comfort. "Everything's going to be fine." ~~~ Warrick was still in his office at past ten, working on the encryption. Since Toreth was at I&I there was little point in going anywhere else he could sleep when Carnac's time limit expired. He had an odd sense of deja vu, which persisted until he tracked down the source. Someone he loved in danger two people now and a forced reliance on someone else to save them. Gil Kemp then, and this time whoever at Int-Sec might follow up his message, if anyone did. The uncertainty and the danger were both that much greater this time. The message might never be received, or be ignored. Or it might bring all of them down. While the system worked, he passed the time in reading Kate's letters. She wrote them as if Leo had gone away for a month or two chatty, happy, passing all the news along. 'Dilly' and 'Keir' filled every page. It was strange, seeing his life set out so completely. Only Tarin was missing. However, Warrick eventually found himself forgetting the absence, no longer noticing the missing face in the word pictures. Kate had erased her elder son so neatly and absolutely that it was hard to remember whether he had been there with them in any one of the scenes described. The letters held only Kate, Jen, Dilly and himself, making up, along with the absent Leo, Kate's perfect family. It was worse than he'd remembered it, more disturbing. Or perhaps it was his new sympathy for Tar that had altered his view. At eleven o'clock, he was in the process of brewing more coffee when the comm chimed. "Doctor Warrick? There is a man in reception who says he has an appointment. He won't give his name, but he says he got your message." There was only one message that it could be. His first instinctive impulse was to run. Where, he had no idea. "Escort him up," Warrick said, surprised by how calm he sounded. While he waited he tidied the room, cleared chairs, hardly noticing what he was doing. One man, so it was unlikely he was going to be arrested. Killing him here, in his office, in a building with excellent security and surveillance, would be a ridiculous risk. Logic could say what it would, but he couldn't pretend he was anything other than frightened. All the years of living with the secret, the knowledge of what Kate was, and finally it had come to this, the thing he had always dreaded. Int-Sec had found out, and the fact that he had virtually told them himself didn't make it any better. Polite tap on the door, and he went over to open it. Two security guards and a man he'd never seen before, in a Service officer's uniform. He thought of Tarin, of Kate's arrest, and wondered if he'd been involved. Tarin hadn't mentioned a senior officer, which this man clearly was. He was in his late fifties, at least, with short grey hair that Warrick guessed had once been blond, and he wore the uniform with authority and the confidence of someone accustomed to obedience. He studied the uniform again, then stepped back from the door. "Come in, Colonel."

"Thank you." Looking at the guards, Warrick hesitated for a moment before he asked them to wait outside, and then he closed the door behind his visitor. "What can I do for you, Colonel . . .?" The man smiled pleasantly. "Just Colonel will do fine." "Would you like to sit down? Coffee?" Inane ritual, which helped him keep a grip on the fragile calm. The colonel sat, seeming perfectly at ease. "No coffee, thanks. I try to avoid it late at night or I never sleep." He waited until Warrick had sat opposite him, then said, "You sent a message to me, regarding a mutual acquaintance." "Yes." After a moment's consideration, he added, "One of your operatives." "Ah. Thank you for being so honest it makes things much easier." "Did you find " and he almost said the name, before he thought better of it. "Did you find her?" "Indeed I did. She is in custody, although the circumstances appear to be slightly irregular." "Can you " The colonel held up his hand. "Before we go any further, I have one question." "Yes?" "There is a note on her custody file, making a special reference to a para-investigator named Valantin Toreth. He is not to be allowed to see her or speak to her. Is she in danger from him?" "God, no." Not now, anyway. "He's the one who let me know she was in trouble." "Ah. And he is . . .?" "A friend of mine." He scanned down the mental list of words that didn't fit, and picked one. "He's my lover, if that makes any difference." "No difference at all." It occurred to Warrick that the colonel must have known that already, given the reasonable assumption that he'd seen their security files. He'd been assessing the reliability of the information, or rather of the informant. "I also have a question, if I may?" The colonel nodded. "How did you know the message was from me?" "Process of elimination." The colonel linked his fingers and stretched his hands out in front of him, knuckles cracking. "The number was secure and secret, and should have been available only to operatives. However, I knew it wasn't from one, because the message wasn't coded or authorised. That left a small field of people, and probability suggested you. It cost nothing to make sure in person, and a visit is far more secure than a comm link, particularly in these delicate times." The cool, precise voice strongly reminded Warrick of someone he couldn't place. Had he met the man before? "So, what now?" "More detail as to the nature of the danger would be useful." "A socioanalyst called Carnac " he paused, and the colonel nodded, clearly familiar with the name, " arranged the arrest. He plans to have her exposed, tried and executed. And also to implicate Toreth as another Int-Sec agent. He has a psychoprogramming team ready to make it sound

convincing." The colonel's eyes narrowed. "His name wasn't linked to the arrest." "I didn't think that it would be." "And he knows for certain that she's an operative?" "My information is that he had a copy of her security file." That was Carnac's problem now. "That would be unfortunate." The colonel didn't specify for whom, but the studiously neutral tone chilled him. Warrick waited for a while, then said, "Can you help her?" "The operation has been fatally compromised. The operative is no longer a valuable resource and she possesses information that may pose a threat to Int-Sec." This had always been the danger inherent in this course of action that Int-Sec would choose the easy solution, the one that he was sure had occurred to Toreth. The colonel looked almost apologetic. "If I may be honest with you, the current climate is a dangerous one for everyone at Int-Sec, and particularly for Special Operations. A number of things which occurred under the old regime would make us profoundly unpopular with the new, should they become known. We are endeavouring to maintain as low a profile as possible, and public trials cannot be permitted." "You're going to kill her." Although if he meant that, why was he here at all? "That would doubtless be the official course of action, should the matter attract wider attention, yes." Then he smiled, or at least half smiled. "However, when confusion reigns, some things may slip through the cracks unnoticed." "And?" "An acceptable conclusion, from my point of view, would be if the agent in question was taken from custody and left the jurisdiction of the Administration. Would you find it so?" "Yes. That would be more than acceptable." He'd work out later how to explain it to Tarin and Dilly. "How long do I have to arrange her release before the danger becomes acute?" Warrick checked his watch, vaguely surprised to find it was barely a quarter past eleven. "Sometime tomorrow that is, Tuesday. I'm not sure at precisely what time, but after nine am the risk increases. You may have a couple of days beyond that, at the outside." The colonel lifted his head and stared thoughtfully at the far wall, pursing his lips. Eventually, he nodded. "That should be long enough. If all goes well, she'll be free by lunchtime at the latest." It felt too good to be true, but there was nothing he could do, except be grateful and hope. He wondered briefly if there was any point asking where Kate was being held, but there was no chance that would be disclosed. "If that's all the information you have," the colonel said, "I think that we're done here. I have work to do. I'm afraid I won't be able to let you know how things go, but the results should speak for themselves." "I understand." The colonel stood and looked towards the desk. "Did you remove any materials from her residence?"

Warrick hesitated, thinking of the letters. If Int-Sec didn't know about them, they could be dangerous for Kate. On the other hand, if anyone went to the house it would be obvious that he'd tampered with the computer. "Yes. Data stores. Nothing else." After pocketing the stores, the colonel offered his hand. "I suggest that if any materials were copied, then the copies are deleted, soon. It's been a pleasure meeting you," he added, with every evidence of sincerity. "Int-Sec would thank you for doing your duty as a loyal citizen, if it knew anything about this. Goodbye, and thank you." Warrick opened the door for him and watched the security guards escort him to the lift. Two 'thank you's. One from Int-Sec, and one personal? He wondered if the colonel had known Kate, or strange thought perhaps even run her. Read her reports on Tarin and his friends. Without noticing, he rubbed his palms together, then wiped them on his trousers. He considered calling Toreth, but decided that a call in the morning would look more natural. If Carnac became suspicious now, when things were so precariously balanced, it would be disastrous.

Chapter Fourteen
It wasn't possible, Carnac realised for the ten thousandth time, to leave anything to others. They any 'they' could make a hash of the simplest instructions. When the cell door opened, and he saw Toreth and Sara sleeping peacefully, if compactly, together, he made a mental note to have the idiots responsible court-martialled, or at least dismissed without references, and turned to the nearest trooper. "Wake them. Bring him to my office. She stays here." Hopefully that wouldn't tax the trooper's tiny mind too badly. ~~~ The morning had been spoiled already, but Carnac's good mood was restored by the sight of Toreth in handcuffs, standing between two troopers and staring sullenly at the floor. Only a small step from that to imagining his execution. A pity the man would never beg for his life still, there were substitutes that would be almost as satisfying. "Good morning." He pushed the chess set aside and leaned back in his chair. "I trust you had a restful night?" "Fuck you," Toreth said without raising his eyes. Carnac shook his head, tutting gently. "Temper, temper. We shall have guests soon, and I require your presence at the inspection, free and, you will no doubt be pleased to hear, uncuffed. You will be polite, speak when spoken to, and so on and so forth. If you have any other ideas, remember that I have possession of the delightful Sara." Toreth looked up quickly. "You bastard." All the reaction he could wish for. He had no intention of hurting Sara (at least not yet he'd made sure of her inclusion in the first round of executions), but the suggestion provided an excellent restraint for Toreth, should he be considering escape at this point. "The dear woman must learn that there are consequences to her actions. I promise that she is comfortable and unharmed, and will remain so as long as you are a model of cooperation with our visitors." "I already did everything you fucking wanted. Let her go." His jaw clenched. "Please." Perfect. "I suggest you freshen up and have something to eat. I'll have a clean uniform sent to your office. You will be brought down at the appropriate time." He held Toreth's gaze until the man nodded, then he gestured for the troopers to take him away. Carnac pulled the chessboard back and started to reset the pieces. In truth, the game bored him, although he found the metaphor amusing. It was too easy, and the constriction of the rules made the opposition too predictable. A game such as the elimination of I&I was far more to his tastes a mildly challenging opponent, and stakes that really mattered. He would win this one, and Toreth would lose the game, and shortly afterwards, his life. Troopers were already preparing to move in and make arrests. Preparing discreetly, naturally. He didn't want to be seen to anticipate the inevitable decision of his esteemed colleagues. When everything was done, when all the bodies were burned, he would have made a genuine difference for the better, for perhaps the only time in his life. Without the shadow of I&I lying over it,

Europe could begin to change; without the crutch of oppression, perhaps even the Administration would be forced to learn to stand up straight and rule for the good of the people. More realistically, many people would at least now live, and be spared terrible suffering, because of his destruction of the interrogation system. It was true that, in general, they would doubtless be dull and uninteresting people but, innocent, criminal or resister, they would be far more human than Toreth and his repellent kin. He rubbed two pawns between his hands, closed his fists around them and opened his right hand. And smiled. White. A pity, really, that he didn't believe in good omens. ~~~ Barret-Conner stood by the Int-Sec gate, ID in hand, wondering whether to swipe it. Yesterday afternoon he hadn't been able to get access to the complex. When he'd called Sara to tell her, something had been wrong in the office. Her voice hadn't given much away, but he'd known her for a long time. He'd taken the hint and left before the guards took too much interest in a failing ID check. Staying away today might be smart too, but if the inspection was in progress then the Para would need all the help he could get. Today he had no trouble with the ID not on the way into the complex, nor at the I&I main door, nor on the way through the building. He was beginning to think he might have overreacted, when he reached the General Criminal central office. The handful of admins were grouped at the far side of the room, talking in low voices. BarretConnor didn't pay them any attention. One glance told him that he'd been dead right about the trouble. There was no Sara, and a lot of Service security. He argued for a while but the guards outside Toreth's office wouldn't let him in. They seemed happy enough to let him go, which was a relief. Round the corner, out of earshot of them, he checked Toreth's comm. No reply. Sara's was dead too. He changed tactics and went in search of Chevril. As he headed down the corridor towards the coffee rooms, he saw Chevril's admin, Kel, pressing the lift call buttons. "Kel? Kel! Wait!" "B-C? Where have you been?" Barret-Connor jogged down the corridor. When he reached Kel, the lift still hadn't arrived. "What's going on, Kel?" "The proverbial, my dear, has hit a very fast fan very hard indeed. Sara and Toreth were arrested yesterday." "The Para?" "Yes. And right now I have to take a message down to Don and I'm supposed to wait in the office to send a warning when they fetch Toreth out of his office. I'm good, but I'm not superhuman." He thumped the row of buttons. "These damnable things are out of order again." Swearing from Kel, even a 'damnable', meant big trouble. "I'm looking for Chevril anyway can I take the message to him for you?" "Would you? Oh, bless you. I've been up and down those dratted stairs a dozen times already

today." The admin did look a little sweaty. "Don's somewhere down on level D, near the interrogation supply stores when I heard from him last. Tell him that Systems say everything is green, and they're waiting for word from him to crash the system for a few hours if Carnac tries to fall back on the old interrogation recordings." "Got it." "Thank you. Hurry, now." Kel turned and walked briskly away. It had to be more than the inspection, Barret-Connor decided as he started down the stairs. That had all been planned for and ready to go. Even a surprise start to it didn't account for this, and if Toreth had been arrested yesterday it couldn't be that much of a surprise. He stopped in mid-stride, having to keep his balance with a hand on the rail. If the Para was out of the picture, who had taken charge? Taking the stairs two at a time seemed like a better idea. 'Level D' was a vague destination, and Barret-Connor wasn't familiar with the interrogation levels. There was more security all throughout the building, but especially on the lower levels. Mostly Service and the kind of I&I people whom the Para persisted in calling 'resisters' when they weren't around to hear him. Eventually he found Chevril with the head of security and Senior Para Belkin. Before BarretConnor had taken more than a couple of strides down the corridor, all three snapped to face him, conversation cutting off. Their expressions confirmed his guess Chevril looked close to panic and Belkin glowered. Even Bevan seemed edgy. When it registered who he was, Chevril seemed relived to see him. Belkin merely looked more furious probably embarrassment. "Have you seen Toreth?" Chevril asked. "No. There are Service guards outside his office, though." Bevan raised his eyes and sighed theatrically, and Barret-Connor braced himself for the invective. However, all the HoS said was, "I know that." Then he turned back to Chevril and Belkin. "We have to stick to the plan, if we're going to do anything at all." "He knows," Chevril said. "There's no reason the bastard should," Bevan said. "I bumped into him not long after he came in. He's suspicious. It isn't going to work." They must be talking about Carnac. "The inspection's started?" Barret-Connor asked. Bevan looked at his watch. "Shit. Soon. Probably very fucking soon." "And it better had be." Belkin spoke for the first time. "Things won't hold together much longer as it is. Listen, Bev's right we can't change the plan now. It's too late. People are confused enough about what the hell they're supposed to tell people with all the changes yesterday." Chevril shook his head. "That's the bloody problem. Someone's going to say the wrong bloody thing. They won't know whether they're talking to Carnac or the inspectors or Carnac's Service friends or us. It's hopeless." Barret-Connor's heart sank. Were they thinking about bolting? If they were, there was nothing he could do about it. Seniors wouldn't listen to an investigator, and the HoS never listened to anyone. Was there any way of getting a warning to the Para? "The inspectors will have to notice," Chevril continued. "And then they'll ask and some bloody idiot will spill everything."

Bevan looked at him sharply and opened his mouth, then closed it again. Barret-Connor wondered what he'd been about to say. Instead, the head of security turned to him. "Can you get me a half a dozen investigators? Preferably a dozen. Throw in a few admins if you have to, if they can do what they're fucking told without bollocksing it up." He ran through a mental list. "Yes." "Good lad. My office, ten minutes. Get going." ~~~ Carnac met the inspectors in the main entrance. Toreth was there before him, shaved and in a fresh uniform and looking, actually, rather better than he had for some time. The night's rest in the cell had done him good and he had regained control of himself. He had his hands clasped in front of him, though a reflex position left over from the cuffs. Chevril was also there, standing as far from Toreth as the reception allowed, hollow-eyed and slightly disheveled. Carnac made a point of going over to speak to him, purely for the pleasure of watching Toreth's composure crack once more as he realised the truth. "Is everything in order?" Carnac asked. Chevril nodded, his eyes on Toreth. "Fine. Can I " "You will stay." Now Chevril looked at him, a long, searching inspection. Then he nodded again. "We still have a deal," he said without conviction. Carnac smiled and returned to his station to wait in silence. Chevril stared at the wall, Toreth glared at his fellow para with murder in his eyes, and Carnac breathed deeply, wondering whether the executions could possibly be more enjoyable than this. The heavy main doors were, for once, open, letting cold, fresh air into the building, although the light outside was subdued, the sky overcast with threatening clouds. A most metaphorical morning, Carnac thought, as the inspection team's cars drew up outside. He watched them assemble by the reception desk his own careful choices with a sprinkling of less amenable but necessary men and women with the political clout to make this work. Less amenable on the surface, perhaps. However, they had ordered the arrests that had provided him with the prisoners downstairs, and done so against his own strongly expressed advice a nice touch, he thought. Personal responsibility for the horrors on display would overcome any lingering pragmatic feelings they might have about the means being used here to further their selfish ends. He stepped forwards, beckoning Toreth over beside him. He turned to the group, but before he could speak, Toreth whispered, "Let Sara out. Now. She comes round with us or I don't cooperate." Damn the man didn't he know when he'd lost? There wasn't time to argue, so Carnac gave the order to a guard, and then addressed the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen, if I might begin. I would like to introduce you to Valantin Toreth, the Acting Assistant Director of the Investigation and Interrogation Division of the Department of Internal Security . . ." ~~~ Warrick cancelled the call for the third time that morning. Toreth's personal comm was dead, Sara wasn't answering, and I&I reception were stoically declaring them both to be 'unavailable'. He was waiting in his flat for news once more, this time with only the professionally distant

SimTech guard for company. He crossed to the living room window and looked out. A light snow was falling, although it wouldn't settle on the wet pavement. The forecast predicted ice tonight, though. He'd limited himself to one call an hour, trying to not to attract Carnac's attention. Odd how a man he had once considered, if not a friend, then at least friendly, had become unquestionably the enemy. That despite the harmony of their views about the desirability of the closure of I&I. He could pretend it was the danger to Kate, or even that he was unwilling to watch so many killed in cold blood when there was an alternative available. Even Tarin had agreed with that, in a way. However, it was a lie. He'd been willing for Toreth's colleagues to die, and for I&I staff across Europe to share the same fate. He'd been willing to stand back and let Toreth risk his own life if that was what he insisted on doing. However, as soon as Toreth was threatened so personally, he had acted without hesitation and without consideration of the risk. No. He had considered, and for Toreth he had found it worthwhile. He smiled ruefully at his reflection, wondering what Dilly would say about it, in the unlikely event that he could ever tell her what had happened. Three calls were enough. Now he would have to wait for Toreth to call him. He turned away from the window. He might as well go in to SimTech the odds of getting any useful work done were slim, but there would be some distractions. ~~~ Twenty minutes into the tour, Carnac knew that he had lost. The interrogation rooms they saw were empty of anything more offensive than chairs and tables and the staff they spoke to beautifully briefed. In the end, he gave up on his attempts to break the facade. Obviously any potentially problematical employees had been encouraged to take the day off. At the end of the visit, Toreth stood up in front of the inspection team and gave an impressive presentation about the changes he had implemented. To start with, he made a short but movingly scripted tribute to those I&I staff who had died or been injured in the recent unrest, although without implying that he blamed anyone present for the events, or even connected them in any way. The audience were duly mildly discomforted, and therefore made more receptive. He explained the new interrogation protocols and restrictions, which would naturally have to be approved by the Administration in collaboration with his esteemed colleagues at Justice before they could become general practise throughout Europe. He spoke briefly about changes to the detention systems, making an oblique reference to how many of the division now had personal experience of the cells. He included a thoughtful section on the use of mood- and perception-altering drugs in interrogations, standards of evidence, and the interrogation of minors, all designed to leave the inspectors with a few mild ethical dilemmas to consider. And, repeatedly, he made sure that all due credit was given to the real architect of the plans, the man sitting in the front row, his highly respected boss, Socioanalyst Carnac. He spoke fluently and with confidence, and after every section he paused and caught Carnac's eye. At the end he told the audience that Carnac had been a pleasure to work with, and that it had been particularly impressive that an outsider could have such a thorough understanding of the workings and ethos of the Division. Then he took questions, and answered them smoothly, charmingly, and without hesitation. It was a beautiful performance. The only thing Carnac couldn't understand was why Toreth had gone through with it when he knew the price. Obviously he believed that he wouldn't have to pay it Toreth suddenly developing a self-sacrificing streak was about as probable as his giving up sex.

When the questions were over, the room broke up into small groups, a buzz of voices that made Carnac suddenly claustrophobic. People wanted to talk to him everyone it seemed and he felt himself start to sweat. As soon as he could manage it, he excused himself and went up to his office. Toreth was waiting for him there, sitting at his desk with his feet up. Carnac studied at him for a moment, trying to read his expression. A prefect balance of nerves and anticipation. "You know what I'm going to do," Carnac said. Toreth smiled at him, tense as a wound spring. "Make the call. Go on. Make the fucking call. I want to watch you do it." It took only a couple of minutes to discover that Kailynna Avens had been taken out of custody at nine twenty-seven that morning. Knowing it was hopeless, Carnac asked the questions anyway. The warrant had carried Carnac's name, and his authorisation that's why he hadn't been informed. No, no one knew where she was. No one recognised the men she had left with three men in Service troopers' uniforms. They had their names too, of course. Carnac cut the comm and thought about closing airports and ordering searches. It would be a waste of time. There were too many ways out of New London, particularly for a highly trained operative. Someone might get lucky, but it wasn't worth the risk of publicly tying his name too closely to the fiasco. It was bad enough that his name had been used on the warrant. Chevril had lied to him, last night and this morning. Comprehensively, and with a skill Carnac wouldn't have credited. The senior must have had a powerful incentive, which Carnac presumed was currently sitting in the chair before him, smirking at his discovery. Payne must have known about it too for one thing, if Service people were involved there were good odds that Payne was a party to it at some level. Well, Chevril he could take to pieces at his leisure, but he should start with a careful investigation of Payne's recent movements and contacts. He was still deep in thought when Toreth pushed his chair back from the desk and stood up. The tension had gone, and Carnac realised that he hadn't known for certain that Kate had escaped. "I'm going back downstairs," Toreth said. "Butter up the inspectors a bit more. Lots to do for tomorrow. I'll see you then, shall I? When the preliminary verdict comes in. I think you're going to come out of this looking very good indeed." "It's not a foregone conclusion yet." "No?" Toreth headed for the door, only a feint because he stopped behind him, too close. Carnac stayed where he was, waiting for Toreth to go through whatever little charade he felt was necessary to underline his victory. "What are you going to do about it? Tell them that this was all my idea? That you wanted everything how it was when the bad old Administration ran things? That you wanted to execute the lot of us because you didn't have the guts to handle watching an interrogation?" Toreth put his hands on Carnac's waist and pulled him gently back against him. "Are you going to tell them all that?" Of course he wasn't it would have been useless and pointless, because no one would want to listen. The idiot inspectors had lapped up every word of Toreth's speech, because it was what they had wanted to hear. They simply refused to understand the danger of letting creatures like Toreth live. "Do you know, I almost like you like this," Toreth murmured. "Speechless. Suits you. I don't think I've seen you looking better, except maybe when you were flat on your back in bed, telling me

all your secrets and begging for more cock." Toreth's mouth moved against his ear now, triggering a memory he didn't know he had. "Do you know what else? You were flying fifteen miles high while you were doing it, but drugs like that don't work on nothing. You wanted it. You wanted me. That came from you, not any ampoule. Now tell me again how much you hate me and what a lousy fuck I am." Carnac closed his eyes. Toreth could have been making every word up, because he remembered no details at all about the evening, but Carnac knew he wasn't. Besides, the awful, gaping void of memory was worse than anything Toreth could have done to him physically. Toreth laughed, then let him go and walked out. Carnac leaned on the desk, trying to pretend that Toreth's voice hadn't any effect on him at all. At that precise moment, he hated himself far more than Toreth, or even the obscenity that he represented. However, he knew that feeling wouldn't last much longer than the erection he was willing away. The single fact he was most clear about was that Toreth would regret this. All of it, everything he had ever done in his over-long, evil life, but most especially this. Toreth would pay. ~~~ Kate turned over in the darkness, the narrow bed of the cell hard beneath her. When she had been moved to this place, earlier in the day, she had thought, briefly, that they might be setting her free. However, there had been a short journey in a car with blacked-out windows, and then another cell. That was the point at which she had finally given up hope. How many more Int-Sec agents had been arrested? How many were in places like this? She might have been afraid of what was ahead, if she hadn't been so angry. After years of sacrifice, years of giving her life to the Administration, the thing they had all fought to prevent had happened. It made her furious to think about it. Animals, she would've called them, except that animals rarely behaved like that. Mindless, destructive barbarians. She'd seen the reports of the damage to Int-Sec, and especially to I&I. The sharpness of her concern for Toreth had surprised her, as had her relief when Keir called to say his lover was safe. She'd been proud of Keir, even as she'd felt cold at the risk he'd taken by going to I&I. He'd laughed, happy and indulgent, when she'd started to fuss. "I was perfectly safe, I promise, Mother. The city's full of troopers now everything's going to be fine." If only he knew. Keir couldn't help her here, wherever here was. They would be coming for her soon. There was no sound, no intrusion from the world outside, nothing but darkness, but she knew the resisters would come soon. She had turned in their families; she had killed their friends and lovers if not with her own hand, then with her reports. There would be no mercy or reprieve. Although she would never have said anything of the kind to her handlers, she could understand why they wanted to do it. If anyone hurt Keir, or Dilly, or Valeria, she would move heaven and Earth to punish those responsible. However, the difference was that her children weren't traitors. Resisters played with fire and then whined when they were burned. Tarin's idiotic friends did it with monotonous regularity, and they never learned. They never understood that if they stopped behaving like idealistic fools, they would be accepted and protected by the Administration they professed to loathe. And why? Because they balked at movement registration or comms surveillance, or resented

corporate privilege or population control. Pathetic, childish petulance at necessary rules. The selfish desires of the individual overriding the good of the Administration as a whole. She'd been arrested by Service troopers Service and she'd known then that she had lived her life in vain. If people who had sworn an oath to the Administration could sit up and beg for new masters, there was no hope for loyalty from the masses. She almost wished now that she'd spat in their faces when they'd come to collect her. That would have been vulgar, especially in front of poor Valeria. There was no need to stoop to their level. Although it was probably too much to hope for a chance to scorn them publicly at a trial, she would finish her years of service with pride and courage. Whatever they did, whatever they wanted from her before she died, she would give them nothing. There was nothing that The door opened, without any warning, spilling blinding light into the cell. Before she could accustom herself to it, a voice ordered her out. She emerged, blinking, only to be hurried away down the corridor. She almost smiled, thinking how ridiculous they must look two burly troopers, young enough to be her children, and herself, short and grey-haired between them. Then the conviction of a few moments ago returned. This was the end. She straightened her shoulders and lengthened her stride, trying to keep her dignity. They would get nothing from her. Then they passed through a security door, into another room lit with harsh artificial light, and she saw him. He looked terribly tired, and, foolishly, she was surprised by how old he seemed. Nothing at all like the precious photographs, where they were both so young. Still, she recognised him immediately. She had feared, from time to time, that after so many years she wouldn't be able to. That she might pass him in the street and not know him. Now the moment had come there was not a second's doubt or hesitation. Shock, fortunately, rendered her speechless long enough to register the tiny shake of his head. She stood impassive while the man in Service colonel's uniform completed the transfer paperwork that could only be done with the prisoner present, motioned for the troopers with him to handcuff her, and led the way out of the building. Two cars waiting for them one for the troopers, one for the pair of them. She entered the car, sat down, and waited as he sat beside her and the car began to move. She watched through the tinted window as the complex, wherever it was, passed by. Eventually, they passed through a security point and out onto a public road. Leo took her hands, gentle but impersonal, unlocked the cuffs, removed them, and sat back. "It's all right now, " he said. "You can talk freely." Silence, while she tried to decide what to say. She could tell nothing from his voice. There was one thing, though, that determined whatever else she might say. "Did you get my letters?" He nodded. "All of them. But . . . they took a little time to get to me." "They said they were sending them on, but I was never sure if I could believe them. And when there was nothing back, for so long, I thought " He took her hand again. "I asked them to let me see you. I kept asking them for a long time years but they said the risk was too great. I'm so sorry, Katy." "No. No need to be, not now." And there wasn't. She felt as though she had last seen him

yesterday, or this morning. However much they had both changed, nothing had changed between them. She looked down at his hand, clasping hers, and thought how beautiful it was, and how she was far too old to think anything so silly. After a while she asked, "Have there been many agents arrested?" She didn't really care, except that she wanted to hear his voice again. "No. Int-Sec are keeping it under control, for now. If it starts, it'll be bad, but every day makes it less likely. There have been a few like you your name slipped out, I don't know how." "However did you find me?" "Partly luck. I was one of the senior officers on duty when the message saying that you were in trouble came through. But I recognised the code, so I took charge of it." Reluctantly, she found herself compelled to ask, "You're working for them? For resisters?" He shook his head firmly. "I'm working for the Administration." "But " "No. The names at the top might have changed, but not the heart of it." His voice hardened, stripping the years away. "The structure is still in place and that's what matters. That's what is worth fighting for what we've both fought for." For so long. She had done her duty to the Administration endless years of it and the things that had felt so important in the cell were less compelling now when compared to this miracle. But she hesitated, even so, and he sensed it at once, as he'd always been able to do. "Katy, do you think I'd still be with Cit if this new council wanted to destroy the Administration?" He squeezed her fingers gently. "You know me better than that." That she did. The Administration first, over everything else, over herself and Keir and Dilly, and for the first time she realised that she had never once resented him for it, however bitterly she had regretted their separation. Rather, it had been one of the things she had loved about him his passion, his loyalty and resolve. One of the things that had bound them together. "What now?" she asked. "Everything's arranged it's not entirely official, but I'm owed a lot of favours. You'll be met at the other end. There'll be a safe house, somewhere to stay, and then something permanent can be worked out. For now, the important thing is to get you away." "Are you coming with me?" "For a little while, yes." He put a finger to her lips, silencing the protest. "I'm sorry, but it can only be for a few weeks. Then I have to come back. Only until I can get away permanently, I promise." "As long as we'll be together in the end, I don't care." However, she did care, although she knew it was selfish, after he'd done so much. She couldn't stop herself adding, "I wish it was for good now." "Soon as soon as I can, I promise. I'm due for retirement, and I'd like to leave as legitimately as possible. We might need friends later." We. Everything she had wanted for so long was in that one word. There was one moment, after he held her tight against him but before he kissed her, when Kailynna the professional began to look to the future, and to calculate, and to doubt. Then Kate set her firmly to one side, and never thought about her again. ~~~

When the inspectors had gone, Sara attended a brief, tense meeting in Toreth's office. Herself and Toreth, B-C, Bevan, Chevril, Mike Belkin and the other senior paras in the know. No one had anything untoward to report, and everyone said the same things, over and over again. It went well. Everything went fine. The interrogation levels looked great. Everyone performed brilliantly. Who came up with the idea of posting investigators ahead of the inspection to warn people it was coming? Brilliant saved the day. Carnac looked pissed off that was good, wasn't it? All level one. The inspectors looked convinced. They were convinced, weren't they? I would've been. Trying to persuade each other. Eventually, Toreth's patience wore thin and he threw everyone else out. They sat, him in Tillotson's stolen chair, herself on the desk. He had his forefingers braced on the edge of the desk, turning the chair a few centimetres left and right. It squeaked softly in the silence. If he didn't stop it soon, she'd kill him. "I think it went okay," she said. She hadn't been counting, but that must've been the dozenth time. "Yeah. It went fine. We just have to wait for the announcement tomorrow. There's nothing else we can do." He wasn't listening to himself. "At least it's going to be quick." She hesitated, then asked, "Are you going to see Warrick? Tell him how it went?" He shook his head. "Tomorrow. I left him a message to say we were still around. I'll see him when it's all over and done with." She checked her watch. "I should go. Fee'll be wondering where I am." "Come to the flat." When she didn't answer, he spun the chair round once, then pushed it back and stood up. "Call her, come to the flat. We'll get a takeaway; I've already got some things in to drink. I " He hesitated. "It'll be closer for work in the morning. We should get in early." Since they'd been getting in early every day for a month, it wasn't much of a reason, but she didn't argue. She knew what he meant. She didn't want to wait alone either. ~~~ Cartons lay scattered across the table, interspersed with bottles. It had taken them longer than they'd expected to find an open takeaway. The meal had been further delayed while Sara tidied up, because the flat was way beyond even her high squalor tolerance threshold. By the time they'd thrown out the last of the broken furniture and generally cleaned everything, even Toreth was willing to admit it was an improvement. Somehow they had moved onto the topic of birthdays. It made a change from I&I, but in an absolute sense it was still depressing. "It's just that I feel so bloody old," she said. "You're twenty-eight." "And soon I'm going to be twenty-nine. And next year I'm going to be thirty." If we're still here next year. "Thirty isn't old. I should know, because I'm nearly fucking forty and that isn't old either." She sighed. She lay on her back on Toreth's battered sofa, her head in his lap, looking up at him. It felt weird, because she hadn't done it for a while, and she was slightly soberer than she usually was when she ended up down here. She was too bloody old to be acting like this, as well. Toreth didn't seem to mind, though. He'd been remarkably patient while she bitched and moaned

over the looming birthdays she couldn't do anything about. Sympathetic, even. Or possibly he just liked the general visual effect of having a woman's head in his lap and he wasn't listening at all. You could never be sure with him. Right now, he was staring thoughtfully into his drink. He'd had more than she had over the evening, which meant that they were about comparably drunk. She poked his ribs gently, careful to choose the undamaged side. "What're you thinking about?" "What?" He smiled slightly. "Oh. Nothing." Meaning Warrick, probably. Not surprising since, apart from one brief meeting, he hadn't seen him for a fortnight. She felt an uncharacteristic sting of jealousy, not so much directed at Warrick in person as at the way he tended to creep into every situation when Toreth wasn't paying attention to anything specific. Toreth had been hers first her friend first. Now, however desperately he tried to pretend otherwise on occasion, he was Warrick's. Signed, authorised and submitted, with an unlimited damage waiver. "What's it like?" she asked. "What's what like?" "Having Warrick." Because it was Toreth, she quickly clarified her question. "Having him around as a regular thing." "Great. It helps if you like chains and you don't mind the noise." "No, seriously. What's it like?" "Like?" He shrugged, retreating from the question. "Why should it be 'like' anything? Do you want another drink?" She knew better than to press him, but she found she really wanted to know. Curiosity and, yes, a touch of envy again. "I mean . . . always having him there. Knowing he's always going to be there." "I don't. No reason why he should be." "Oh, come off it. It's been years now. He's not going to just turn round one day, say 'That's it, I don't want you any more', and walk off." "He could." He wasn't looking at her any more. "People do. Why the hell would I assume that he won't?" "Well, because it's Warrick. He wouldn't. I mean, he really " "Don't say it." "I wasn't " "Don't say anything." His voice rose. "Don't just shut the fuck up." She stared up at him, appalled by the fear in his voice. "Toreth?" She waited for him to interrupt again, but he didn't. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get into a lot of stupid stuff you don't want to hear. Sorry." "It's . . . it's no big deal." He ran his hand through his hair. "I don't know why I got so never mind. What was the question?" "Forget it." "No, it's okay. What did you want to know?" "Well, what it's like, having a regular thing?" "It's good." He took a deep breath. "It's good knowing what he likes. It makes it . . . easy. To .

. . I don't know. To stay in bed on Sunday morning, or whatever, and fuck or not, and not have to think about everything. Anything. It's safe no, not safe. That's stupid. Just . . . good." She could feel him shaking with the effort it took to say that much, and she felt a tiny tug of guilt. It wasn't fair to exploit the fact that he'd do it for her, for no better reason than curiosity. "It sounds lovely." He nodded, looking even more uncomfortable at her choice of words or at what he'd said, she wasn't sure. "I don't know why the fuck you're asking me about it. You're the one with the collection of rings." "They never worked out, though, did they? It was never easy." She snorted, not quite a laugh, and he looked down, suspicious. "What?" "I was just thinking there's you, and I mean this nicely, who'll screw anything you can catch. And you've got Warrick. Then there's me, who's ever so choosy and tries to pick the stayers, and I've got no one. Trying too hard, I expect." "What about McLean?" "Total bust." She sighed again. "Wouldn't work. Or at least . . . wrong time, wrong place. Or something." "Good. He's a tosser." Sympathy, Toreth-style. "You should try my way. Fuck at random until you " He blinked. "Until you get lucky." She shook her head. "I don't think it would work. It always ends up messy if I try it." "You said that before, you know." "When?" "Oh, God, years ago. Here. The first time you were here, in fact." He patted the sofa. "When you got so high you tried to fuck me. You said you didn't do casual screwing. Which was funny at the time, because you were lying on top of me trying to unfasten my trousers." Yes. This was the same sofa where they'd fucked, and she'd pretended in the morning that she didn't remember a thing. She'd been . . . nineteen. Had he really not bought any new furniture in ten years? "Oh, well. Maybe I was wrong." He smiled. "Maybe." Pause for thought, a moment of silence while they both wondered if that was it, then he put his drink down on the arm of the sofa and traced his fingertip slowly round her mouth. She managed to resist for the whole length of her bottom lip, and then she opened her mouth and captured the finger. A second finger worked its way between her lips as his eyes closed. "Mmm. I like that." I know you do. I remember. She licked figures of eight across his fingertips while she told herself what an incredibly bad idea this was. All the same reasons there had been before, and Warrick. Now there was Warrick. He need never know. She wouldn't tell him, and Toreth wouldn't either, not about this. Besides, if everything screwed up tomorrow, they might not even have a chance to regret it. His free hand stroked over her forehead, traced her eyebrows. It would be so easy to say nothing and let it happen. She took his fingers out of her mouth, kissed his palm, and he opened his eyes.

"Sara?" he asked, and she shook her head. She had her morals. Not many, and they weren't necessarily very good ones, but Thou Shalt Not Screw Friends' Partners was an absolute. "I can't," she said. "Not this time." She thought he might be angry, because his eyes narrowed, but then he laughed. "Fucking hell. I was never sure, you know. Either way." "Honestly?" She laughed too, relief that after all this time it was suddenly okay for them to come clean about it. "I thought you were just being polite." "God, no. I didn't want you to resign, and I knew you would if I said anything and you really didn't remember. Well?" "Well what?" "Was it good?" "Was it ?" So typically bloody Toreth. "God, I can't remember." Then she took pity on him. "Yes, it was. I mean, I haven't spent ten years thinking about it every time I screwed anyone, but it was, oh, I don't know . . . in the top ten." He grinned. "Top five?" Sometimes, like now, she could still fool herself into thinking that she loved him. She sat up, because a little distance was, if not necessary, then at least a good idea. "Shut up and pass me the banana fritters."

Chapter Fifteen
In all of Toreth's life, he couldn't remember a day passing so slowly. It wasn't that there was nothing to do in fact he was as busy as ever. It was simply that he kept looking at the clock, and every time it was five minutes later than the last time he'd checked. Then he'd be angry with himself, and get back to work, forcing himself to concentrate until he knew at least an hour must have passed. Then he would look, and it would be five minutes later again. Sara brought coffees until he had to ask her to stop. He knew she was only doing it from nerves, but he didn't want to miss the report because he was in the medical unit with caffeine-induced cardiac arrhythmia. They didn't speak much there was nothing left to say. B-C was sensibly keeping out of his way, but he caught sight of Mistry wandering aimlessly around in the General Criminal main office. When Payne arrived in the late afternoon, unannounced, he wondered if he'd come to say the inspectors were ready. That idea was dispelled by the way he slammed the office door behind him. Toreth inspected him with curiosity he'd never seen him out of uniform, except at the gym, and the effect was mildly disconcerting. His civilian clothes were stained with sweat, and he looked like hell. Now that everything was so nearly over, Toreth had hoped Payne would go quietly. He didn't fancy a protracted, boring scene, although he strongly suspected that was what he was about to get. "Who did you tell about us?" Payne demanded as he came over to the desk. "No one." Toreth leaned back in his chair. "Sara guessed, but I'll tell you now she didn't tell anyone else." "You must have told someone." "If I had, I wouldn't bother to lie to you about it." Payne didn't seem to hear him. "Or someone saw us. I suppose someone could've seen us. Fuck." He'd never heard him seriously swearing before, either. "Yes, easily. Listen, do you think we could get to the point? Because I have a lot of work to do the inspectors are reporting this afternoon, in case you didn't know." "I've been suspended, which is why I'm wandering around like this." Payne brushed his hands over his shirt. "Suspended, pending a court-martial." His voice cracked. "For fucking me? I thought the Service dropped that kind of thing decades back." "No. For disobeying orders. Carnac's orders. For not telling him what I knew about your plans. For not reporting to headquarters. They've been questioning me all day he's going to nail me with everything he can think of." "So what does that have to do with whether anyone saw us or not?" "Because when they dragged me out of bed this morning and put me in handcuffs and took me in, the bastards who did it made absolutely sure that Mary knew what I'd been doing. With you, that is they didn't bother telling her about the rest of it. That I'd been . . . oh, Christ." Payne sat down in a chair abruptly, and covered his face with his hands. "Oh, Christ," he repeated. "That I'd been unfaithful, and that it was with a man. Except they didn't put it quite like that, as you can probably imagine." For sheer, bloody, beautifully arranged vindictiveness, you couldn't beat Carnac. Worrying,

though, that he was still sniffing around the wreckage. Didn't the man know when he was beaten? "How did she take it?" Toreth asked, mildly curious. Payne looked up. "Take it? I haven't spoken to her. But when they finally let me go, I went home and found she'd changed the door codes and all my belongings were lying in a pile in the hall, so I'm guessing that she's just a little bit upset." Toreth shrugged. "She might come round. They do, sometimes. Good luck with it all, anyway." Payne stared at him. "Didn't you hear me? I'm going to be court-martialled, because I because I helped you!" "That's a shame. Nothing I can do about it, though." "Val " "That's not my fucking name. Call me Toreth, if you have to call me anything other than Para." Payne licked his lips. "What about us?" "Us?" He always got a kick out of this part, no matter how tedious the rest of it was. "There isn't any 'us'. It was just a fuck, Payne, that's all." Payne's expression changed slowly from desperation to horrified, unwilling comprehension. Eventually he managed, "Just a . . . ?" "What else did you think it was? You're the one who said you were happily married." He smiled. "Past tense being the operative one now." Payne took a few more seconds to pull himself together, but managed it with surprising aplomb. "I see. Yes. Well, thanks a lot, Para." "My pleasure." That earned another stare, then Payne said, "Carnac was right." "He is, sometimes. But most of the time he's a lying, manipulative, ruthless bastard, and I'd keep that very clearly in mind if I were you." "Whereas you " He clenched his jaw, stopping the words. "I should tell him the rest, you know. I haven't told them who you asked me to take that message to." It was always a mistake to let them sit down and start going on. "Payne, I fucked you because I like brunets, and because it's a pleasure to walk down a corridor behind you, but mostly because at the time I badly needed you to keep your mouth shut. At the time." He rested his elbows on the desk and leaned forwards. "And do you know why it worked? Because when Carnac picked you out and gave you to me he knew you were gagging for it and that you'd back me up to the hilt with your bosses so that you could keep getting it. He knew." Payne looked away. When he finally forced himself to look back, Toreth continued. "You behaved exactly how he predicted. Then you went a bit further than he wanted and now he's spanking you for it, because he's like that. He's a cunt. Don't think that you're going to get any favours from him, and don't think he doesn't already know everything you know, and a lot more. Tell him whatever you like frankly, I don't give a fuck either way." "And that's it?" "That's it. If you want some advice, I suggest you keep your mouth shut and take it from him like a good little lieutenant. He's like Sara's fucking cat if you put up a fight you'll only keep him interested." And like Sara's cat, he'll probably finish you off anyway, because he's a bastard. "Now,

piss off. Like I said, I'm busy." Payne stood up, pale but under tight control. Looked good on him. "I hope . . . I hope Carnac finds some time left over from screwing me into the ground to think up something to do to you, because I bet he can come up with something you deserve. And if he doesn't, I just hope you fucking die." A good exit line, which he made the most of, closing the door quietly this time. Toreth tried to get back to work, but ten minutes later found himself standing by the window, looking out. They were finally replacing some of the broken windows, and from time to time shards of glass showered silently down into the courtyard. What were the odds of Carnac simply writing this one off? Given that they were negligible, what was he going to do? Before he had had too long to think about that unpleasant prospect, the door opened again and Sara said, "It's time." ~~~ Carnac arrived early for the inspectors' verdict, although there was little point in doing so. There was certainly no chance of inducing a last-minute change of heart in the inspection team. He'd tried that yesterday evening, when he'd spoken to as many of them as he could contact. His attempts to suggest that perhaps a professional body made up in large part of sociopaths was unlikely to experience such a sudden conversion to humanitarian ideals had been received with polite incomprehension. He'd chosen them so carefully, for their previously criminally liberal attitudes, and he now reaped what he had sown. The tiers of seats filled quickly. At the front he could see Sara, with Chevril beside her. Others sat nearby whom he recognised from Doral's comprehensive betrayal. They all looked nervous. God only knew why, because it should be obvious even to a moron what the result would be. News of the inspection had spread through the building yesterday, and everyone who could be was here. Soon the large lecture theatre was packed to capacity, and he overheard Toreth in consultation with Bevan, deciding which additional rooms would be best for live feeds. Of course. They'd make certain no one would miss out on this. Once it began, Toreth stood beside him on the platform, listening to the verdict with solemn attentiveness. Only once did the facade crack when the head of the inspectors began to praise Carnac's personal contribution, using the exact same phrases Toreth had used the day before. That drew one cough, which couldn't possibly have been a laugh. When the inspector paused for the audience to show their appreciation, Toreth applauded along with them enthusiastically, leaning in towards him. "Do you think they've got a medal ready for you, you cunt?" he asked through a broad, friendly smile. For the last ten minutes, Carnac survived only by blocking out every word and staring fixedly at the back rows of the audience, high up and far away, where he couldn't distinguish faces and so didn't have to see the growing delight. Finally, the torture was over or rather, it moved to a different level. How quickly he'd picked up the jargon, he thought sourly, as the assembled I&I staff began to

clap once more. Applause, and more applause, with the inspection team looking so gratified that he wanted to kill them all. It took him some time to get away from the crowd, although it wasn't all congratulations and praise. Major Bell was one of the first to reach him. She looked as disgusted as he felt. "Now I see why you froze me out in time for the inspection," she said. "I'm sorry?" "These reforms, impressive as they undoubtedly are, weren't quite what the Service had in mind for I&I. Pulling the teeth of Interrogation? In the current climate? Still, I suppose you've made plenty of friends." She gestured to the civilian inspectors, currently in conversation with Toreth and Bevan. "Yes, I suppose I have." To his surprise, she didn't seem to notice the despair in his voice. "I hope for your sake it proves to be a lasting friendship." "Somehow, I doubt it," he said without thinking, wanting nothing more than to get out of the room while still in control of his emotions. Now Bell looked at him closely, frowning. "This wasn't your idea?" With an effort, he pulled himself together, bringing up his professional mask. "I plan for the long term, Major. What happens here this week, or this month, is of less importance than the future of the Administration in the years to come. Whether the Council retains its precise current composition or not, I think you will find that it is a civilian future, not a military one." He smiled thinly, gaining only a little satisfaction from the confusion on Bell's face, quickly followed by a flicker of alarm. That should give her something interesting to report to her superiors. She made her excuses hurriedly and disappeared into the crowd, glancing back over her shoulder once before he lost sight of her. As he turned to go, one of the inspection team caught his arm and drew him forwards into another conversation he desperately didn't want. It took fifteen minutes before he finally managed to escape, and afterwards he couldn't recall anything they had talked about. Eventually, he left the stage, stumbling on the steps, horrified to find his vision blurred and his throat tight. Stopping in the corridor, he leaned against the wall, fighting for control, no longer caring what any witnesses might think. The inspectors and the last of I&I staff who had not been privy to the plan in advance filtered out of the room and down the corridor. A reception of some kind had been laid on in one of the canteens. Carnac couldn't bear to go with them. If one more person patted his back, he was certain that he would vomit. He lingered outside the scene of his victorious humiliation, listening to the medley of excited conversations within. The conspirators, hyped with relief at their reprieve, were reliving the event in gruesome detail. "Did you see his face?" "And then when that head wanker from Int-Sec said " "What do you think about my stupid bloody plan now, then?" " the look on his face? Like he was sucking a fucking lemon." "'A truly remarkable achievement'. I thought you were going to die up there." "Bunch of bleeding hearts. I can't believe they swallowed it."

"But Toreth, you were standing behind him half the time. You couldn't see his face " "'Continue your highly valued contribution to the unity of Europe'. And Mike said, 'Is he talking about us?' and I nearly " "How I didn't laugh, I'll never know, I swear to God." "Did you see the look on his face?" Sara's voice topped the others by sheer delighted volume. "Oh, God, I thought he was going to choke." "I saw him," Toreth said. Carnac heard an exuberant kiss, and Sara yelped. "I saw him. Best day of my fucking life. I hope Bev got the whole fucking thing recorded." "Free copies for everyone," Bevan said. He was laughing they all were. Well, Carnac supposed that they had earned their celebration. It had been excellently planned and executed, he had to admit that. "Are we going out later, then?" Chevril asked. There was a pause, before he added in significant tones, "I'll get the first round in." From the chorus of disbelief and abuse that greeted the statement, this would be something of a novelty. However, there seemed to be general agreement with the idea, and the starting venue of 'the usual place' was proposed and accepted. The usual place. I&I vermin drinking their way around the city tonight, and every night for the foreseeable future. In that future, on the levels below him, prisoners human beings would scream and plead futilely for their lives, and die in unimaginable pain. He'd tried his best to destroy I&I, and he hadn't been good enough. Perhaps he had hated too much. Hatred had cleared his vision enough to see past the years of conditioning to the service of the Administration. It had given him the courage to risk his life to change things. However, in the end, hatred had distorted his perceptions and led him to underestimate them. His errors. His failure. Beaten by these psychopathic scum. They began to leave the room, passing him without a glance, or with expressions of open contempt. Comments and laughter drifted back to him down the corridor as he tried to decide whether the failure or the lack of respect hurt the most. "What's wrong with you?" Sara asked from inside the room. For a moment he thought she was talking to him, then Toreth answered her. "I can't make it tonight. I've got to see Warrick." "Oh, come on. It won't be the same without you. Can't you wait until tomorrow?" "No. I don't need him any more pissed off with me than he is already." "God, listen to who's well bloody whipped." "Fuck off, Chev. As if you'd take a shit without Elena's written fucking permission." "I've told you before " "All right, all right." Sara, placating. "Look, why don't you come out to the bar at least? Then we'll slope off at tennish, when everyone moves on to the club. We can take a bottle of something. I'll say hello, break the ice, and then I'll go back to the party and you can kiss and make up." "I was planning on fucking and making up, but yeah, sounds okay." Chevril made a revolted noise. "God, you two." Toreth laughed, good humour restored. "You still owe me a date, Chev. Your cock, my arse.

Don't think I'm going to forget about it." "I was bloody delirious when I said that, and that doesn't bloody count." The voices began to move towards the door, so Carnac retreated down the corridor, watching them leave from the concealment of a doorway. Socioanalysis is both an Art and a Science, one that is practised by genuine geniuses, measured on any scale. And a large part of the Art is finding the opportunities, and then applying the Science of knowing what to do with them. ~~~ As Sara well knew, Chevril had offered to buy the first round in the hope that only a few of the conspirators would have arrived at the bar by then. No such luck. Sara suspected that Toreth had suggested the necessary tactics to a few people on the way over. The group delayed, changed their minds, confused orders, and started again as new people arrived. Other I&I staff already in the bar for celebrations of their own were invited to join in. Eventually, when Chevril was literally sweating at the size of the upcoming bill, Kel called a halt to the persecution and brought out his hand screen. "You lot need an admin. What's the saying about parties in alcoholic establishments? Names and drinks in order, please, my dears. Rank, brains or beauty Assistant Director Toreth still goes first." Toreth flipped through the cocktail menu, and ordered the most expensive thing on it. When Mike Belkin topped that with a bottle of champagne, Chevril actually whimpered. A dozen more people arrived before the ordering finished, and Toreth insisted they were added to the round. When the bar staff had lined the last of the drinks up on the bar, Chevril handed over his credit card with an expression suggesting he'd rather have parted with a kidney. "Elena is going to bloody kill me," he muttered, moving out of the way as the crowd descended. "When she sees " Toreth leaned down, and Sara didn't hear what he said, but Chevril stopped dead in midcomplaint and looked up at him. She couldn't hear his reply, either, but the mirror behind the bar clearly reflected their faces Toreth absolutely humourless, with eyes like mid-winter, and Chevril suddenly subdued. Chevril said something again, and Toreth shook his head. She didn't catch the first part of the sentence, but as Toreth straightened, she heard him say, " tell anyone. I mean, I picked you doesn't make me look very good, does it?" "Thanks," Chevril said, but Toreth had already turned away. When Chevril saw Sara watching, he managed a sickly smile. "What's all that about?" someone asked from behind, and Sara turned to find Daedra, still wearing her one black plait. "Dunno." If Toreth wanted the betrayal kept secret, then she wouldn't spread it. "Have you got a drink? Chevril's buying." Chevril cleared his throat, and then stepped backwards up onto the rail running around the bar a few inches above the floor, balancing with a hand on the bar. "Listen up, people. Before you're all too bloody wasted on my money to pay any bloody attention." The crowd offered a few comments that Chevril ignored mostly suggesting that he stood on something taller then quieted.

"Right." He coughed again. "Those pillocks this afternoon were right about one thing this is all down to Toreth. No pissing about we owe him a lot, some of us more than others. Everyone here, everyone else at I&I. If it wasn't for him, we'd all be back down in those bloody cells right now, and I don't know about you, but once was enough for me. So Toreth, Senior Para." He raised his glass. Sara slipped her arm around Toreth's waist as the combination of applause, abuse and whistles rolled over them. Toreth grinned, actually blushing, and he hugged her shoulders until the noise died down. "Ah, fuck." Speechless, for about the first time she could remember. "Thanks." He stopped again, running his hand through his hair. "I'll, uh I'll just say that I didn't do it for any of you bastards personally. I did it to shaft fucking Carnac, and stop him taking I&I down, and I think I can say that as far as that goes, it was pretty fucking spectacular." Another pause for more applause. Sara pinched Toreth's waist, and when he looked down, she mouthed, "Bevan." He nodded, and waved for quiet. "Yeah, and also to say that I'm not the only one you ought to be buying free drinks until they retire . . . " As he started the list of names, Sara looked around the room. It struck her that this was probably a new experience for him he was used to professional respect, and sexual attention, but this was popularity and genuine gratitude. Not a bad achievement, considering who it was from. Then she looked again, seeing invisible gaps. The people who weren't there. Too bloody depressing a thought for something that should be a celebration, but she couldn't stop herself. Another list of names, this time the dead, unrolling behind her eyes until Toreth squeezed her shoulder again. "And last but not least, of course, Sara." He leaned down and kissed her on the mouth, firmly and with more tongue than she ought to let him get away with, to the accompaniment of another storm of whistles. He straightened up. "So to Sara, Bev and everyone else." Not sure whether she ought to drink to herself, Sara raised her glass anyway, adding her own silent toast. Parsons. Starr. Sedanioni. All the rest. ~~~ Later that evening, the building security admitted Carnac without difficulty. As he rode up in the lift, he ran through the encounter to come, mapping out probabilities and building contingencies. These were the things he did best and the ritual of planning calmed him. Outside Keir's flat, the guard checked his ID carefully, and then called in to the flat. Then they waited in silence as the time ticked past. Twenty-three long days since he had been here last. Nineteen since Keir had visited I&I ostensibly about the curfew passes, but his real motive had been so transparent. Carnac wished, briefly, that he were the kind of person who could truthfully say 'I don't understand why you're with him'. However, he understood both of them better than they did themselves. Therefore, he also knew how slim were the chances that this evening would bring him anything more than a sweet taste of revenge to mitigate the bitterness of defeat. The door opened. Carnac said nothing. Eventually, Keir nodded, and stepped aside without comment.

They sat down in the kitchen, and he watched Keir as he made them a coffee. Since Keir had admitted him to the flat, there were two possibilities. Firstly, that Keir knew nothing and therefore had no reason not to admit him, in which case his project would run smoothly. Secondly, that he knew everything, and therefore felt that Carnac posed no threat. In the latter case, things would be more difficult, but not impossible. Painful as it was, he made small talk, asking about SimTech and Keir's sister. He needed to play for time, and it was safer this way. At the same time, he knew precisely how improbable it was that he would ever have the chance to speak to Keir again, and he found that idea more discomforting than he had expected. He wanted to explain. He had to take the chance, however slim it was, that Keir would understand. Despite his blind infatuation with Toreth, Keir knew the truth about I&I. Yet, for once in his life, Carnac couldn't find the words to do it. "I hear that you've had some success with the reform of I&I?" Keir said eventually. He tilted his head slightly, waiting for the answer with a half smile that answered any doubts about what he knew. "Oh, no." Carnac dredged up a cool, professional voice. "Let's not work through all the questions and counter-questions. I would like to think that we know each other better than that." Keir shook his head. "I don't think I know you at all." "All I would like is a chance to explain what I did, and why I did it." He didn't hold out much hope that the explanation would be worth anything in terms of altering Keir's attitude towards him, but it would keep him here, where he needed to be. "I don't think I require an explanation, or that any explanation would suffice. But if you must." Not much of an opening, but he'd take it. "Reform of that place is hopeless. As long as the skills and the will to use them are there, whatever good intentions abound at the moment it is only a matter of time before the interrogation rooms are busy again. It may be years before it is restored to full strength but it will begin to happen in months. It is a habit that this society has fallen into." Was Keir listening? He was certainly watching with every appearance of interest. "To break the habit the system had to be destroyed, root and branch. All knowledge, all expertise. Everyone who identified themselves with the organisation. I set the situation up to see who would come back, to pick out the ones who believed in the system. I gave Toreth a chance to leave along with the others. You know I did." Keir shook his head. "You pretended to. And you did so in a way that meant he had to go back. Why?" "To destroy I&I. And I know that you share that ideal. The Administration doesn't need an abomination like that, and if it does, then the Administration should go too." "Yes. All true. But I meant, why involve Toreth at all?" The truth, spoken by himself, would kill the conversation now. "Because I knew that he would be the best tool for the job." "Was that the only reason?" Keir paused, then continued. "I have a tendency to dismiss Toreth's . . . concerns as unfounded. But in this case, I think I was wrong. Or am I flattering myself unduly?" Carnac shook his head. Now it came down to it, he was surprised by how difficult it was, by how few of the carefully prepared words he could remember. "That you are with him is " Wrong. Terribly wrong. But that wasn't what he wanted to say. He needed to phrase it in terms of himself, not of Toreth.

"You are one of the few people I have met in my life who consistently treats me as a person. Not a tool, or some performing freak bred up by the Administration and to be loathed or feared or envied, depending on how much of a threat I pose. You cannot imagine how precious a thing that is. Is it such a surprise that I might hope for more than friendship from you?" Keir said nothing, his face a mask of polite attention. "If I might risk the arrogance of expressing a professional opinion on such a personal matter, we are far from incompatible. I know what you get from Toreth; I understand your needs. I'm not as incapable of making compromises as I sometimes appear." The clumsiness of the words appalled him. "I'm perfectly content with what I have," Keir said. No emotion he might have been speaking about his flat. "What have I ever said to you that gave any other impression?" "You have been admirably clear about that in the past. But I hoped that things might change." "That would take divine intervention, not socioanalysis." Now he smiled coldly. "Of all the people Toreth has been jealous of and, God knows, there have been enough of them you are perhaps the least realistic. I wouldn't fuck you again if my life depended on it." Carnac felt the sting of the anger behind the words. "Keir, all I wanted " "You wanted Toreth out of the way permanently." Keir finished his coffee and placed the cup back onto the saucer, positioning the handle carefully. "And you were willing to sacrifice Kate to do it." That stopped Carnac dead. He hadn't expected Kate's name and for once he was unsure how to react. Keir's expression gave no clue. At length he said, "That was a threat and nothing more. I never intended to carry it out." Keir simply looked at him, ice cold and unforgiving, until he was forced to look away. It was hopeless. There was nothing he could say, no way to explain. He could drag the encounter out for a few minutes, no more, and then he would have to go. "Well, I hope that you suitably expressed your gratitude to Toreth for her swift rescue." He couldn't hide the bitterness in his voice. "It had little to do with Toreth. I did it. He told me what had happened, and I managed to make contact with someone who could free her." Carnac waited while the past reordered itself, based on the new information, until he knew what, and when, and how, as clearly as if Keir had already explained it in detail. Payne had held something back from him after all. There were only one or two questions left, things to clarify. "You already knew about her." "Yes." Then he added, almost apologetically, "I suppose that wasn't terribly likely." Likely or not, the mistake had been his. It irked him that he consistently underestimated Toreth in this one regard the strength of his feelings towards Keir. He had believed that Toreth would be too afraid of the consequences to tell Keir of the threat in the first place. The fact that the shock should have been too great for Keir to do anything in time was a secondary consideration. "You gave them my name?" he asked. "Yes." No apology in his voice this time. "Now, I think, we've said everything there is to say." Carnac could only nod. He had hoped for more from him: more vision, more detachment, more . . . morality. Keir had made the decision to save Kate, and so save Toreth and the rest of I&I. In that way, he had proved a disappointment in the end, like all the others. The other things Carnac had

allowed himself to hope for were now forever beyond his reach. Then, finally, he heard the door to the flat open and Sara call, "Warrick! It's us." Keir looked towards the door and back, and said, "You knew they were coming." Carnac contented himself with a smile, pulling his coffee cup towards him. Maximising the sense that he was at home here. Sara's voice came down the hall towards the kitchen. "We brought the celebration with us, so unless you're going to be enough of a miserable bastard to throw out a free drink, we " She stopped dead in the doorway, champagne bottle in one hand. "What the hell are you doing here?" she breathed. "Who?" Toreth appeared behind her, and also froze, if only briefly. Sara put her arm out across the doorway, the bottle hitting the frame, but he pushed her aside without looking at her and came into the kitchen. "Why the fuck is he here?" Keir stood up. "He came round to talk and I wanted to hear what he had to say, so I let him in." "I can fucking see that." "To talk. That's all." Keir turned back to Carnac. "And now we're done, so you can leave." Sara disappeared from the doorway and he heard her calling for McLean. The watchdogs were clearly still in residence, which was fortunate. "You can leave, Carnac," Keir repeated, and again Carnac felt the distance between them, a gulf that could never now be bridged. His own fault, to a certain extent, but how much more Toreth's fault. It angered him to think of Keir wasting his life pandering to the crippled needs of someone so far from being his equal; it made him almost as angry as did the existence of I&I. The scale of the outrage differed, but the core was the same it was a perversion of the way the world should be. The anger gave him the resolve to do what had to be done. It was dangerous, but a necessary risk, and his last gift to Keir his freedom from Toreth. Even as he repeated the justification to himself, he felt the sting of anticipation. Sara and McLean appeared in the doorway, and the cast was complete. Payment time. He stood slowly, savouring the moment. "I had no intention of anything more intimate than tea." He smiled pityingly at Toreth. "Not, of course, that I imagine that makes you feel any less insecure or afraid of the idea of my being alone with Keir." He heard Sara draw her breath in sharply, and Toreth said, "I'm sick of your fucking games. You don't know a single fucking thing about me." Then he frowned slightly deja vu, perhaps, and pathetically predictable. Carnac took a few steps towards the door, and turned. "Oh, really? Let me see. I know that you like your steak medium rare. I know that you sleep on the left-hand side of the bed. I know that you've come with my name on your lips." "Carnac " Keir said warningly. Carnac ignored him, this prepared speech at least unrolling smoothly. "I know the details of the diagnosis in your psych file. I know that your parents never gave you a second's acknowledgement or approval that didn't also remind you of your failure to satisfy their impossible demands. I know how deeply, and understandably, they resented their misfortune that you survived when your brother died. I know that because of them you trust exactly two people in your

life, and that the only way you are capable of understanding that feeling is by trying to own them." He glanced round the room. They stared at him, goldfish expressions, paralysed by the sudden attack even Keir. Terrified of the truths they all danced around. Pitiful, all of them. Turning back to Toreth, he lowered his voice. "I know that you want Keir to " "No! You fuck." Sara, suddenly shocked out of stillness, and he wondered if she had guessed what he was about to say. "Leave him alone!" She started across the room towards him, Toreth moving a split second later. Carnac didn't have a great deal of personal experience of violence, so he always found it interesting. In fact, except for the pain, he enjoyed it. He particularly liked the way that time seemed to slow, allowing one to appreciate the finer points. Keir appeared to have been expecting this turn of events, so he intercepted Toreth before he had gone more than a few steps. Because there was simply no way he could hold Toreth back, he had to hit him. If Toreth had had the least expectation of his doing it, he could have stopped him easily. As it was, the blow caught him just below the ribs and he staggered sideways against the wall, eyes wide not surprising, given his prior injury in the area. It was, thought Carnac, a beautiful sight, although he was under no illusion that it would incapacitate him for long, or that Keir would be able to hold him by force alone. McLean, caught completely unawares, only managed to get hold of Sara a couple of feet before she reached Carnac. He pulled the bottle from her hand and it exploded on the floor, spraying the room. Sara froze, eyes wide, and McLean wrestled her back across the kitchen towards the door, having, in Carnac's judgement, the easier of the two jobs. Winded as he was, Toreth was struggling to get away from Keir and it was a struggle he would win before long. "Let go of me." Toreth was hoarse, barely audible over Sara, who was screaming abuse with impartial fury at McLean and Carnac. "I'm going to break his fucking neck, like I should've done a long time ago." "No, you're not; he's not worth it." As Toreth glared at him over Warrick's shoulder, flushed with murderous fury, Carnac caught his gaze, and smiled. He continued speaking, directly to Toreth, ignoring the commotion around them. "I know that you want Keir to love you " "McLean, get her out of here." " more than you have wanted anything in your adult life " "Then if he's still here, call the others in." " and that the uncontrollable need makes you sick with terror." Keir spared him a brief glance over his shoulder. "And you you have one chance to get the fuck out of my home before the rest of the security team arrives and I have you thrown out." Carnac decided to cut to the end, regrettable as it was to lose any of the effect. It would be enough. He put every ounce of conviction he could summon into his voice, driving the words home like knives. "And, finally, I know that in the end the pathetically little you have to offer Keir will no longer be enough, and he will leave you. And when that day comes, there is nothing you will be able to do to make him stay. You're not that good a fuck and, really, what else do you have?" That was it, that was everything. He heard Sara, shrieking elsewhere in the flat, but in the kitchen

the only sounds were breathing and the softly fizzing pool of champagne. Perfect. Absolute perfection, at last. "I'll see you at work tomorrow, Toreth." He turned his back on them and strolled off out of the kitchen, in no hurry at all, glass crunching beneath his feet. ~~~ Warrick held Toreth until he heard the outer door close, although Toreth had given up resisting. When he released him and stepped back, Toreth stayed leaning against the wall, his hand to his side, his breathing laboured. After a long silence Toreth said, "Thanks." "Are you all right?" "Yeah. Fine." His voice was distant, his eyes fixed on the spot where Carnac had delivered his speech. "Killing him would have been stupid. Although that said, I really wanted to do it and " He took a deep breath and winced. "Fuck." "I'm sorry about that I forgot about your ribs in all the excitement." "It doesn't matter. I'm fine. Should tell the SimTech security trainers they did a good job with the corporate target self-defense." Silence fell over the room again and Warrick could hear voices faintly outside Sara and McLean. She seemed to have calmed down, at least. He should say . . . something, but for once he had no idea what. Acknowledging that he had even heard Carnac's barbs might be the worst thing he could do. The smell of champagne filled the room, overwhelming and slightly nauseating. "Look, I have to go," Toreth said, sounding almost as though he were asking permission. Warrick moved away from the path to the door, avoiding the glass. "What I said before still stands you're free to go, whenever and wherever you wish. You always have been. But I'd very much like you to stay." Toreth shook his head, but he didn't move away from the wall. "Carnac was here to talk, that's all." Even as Warrick said it, he knew that it didn't matter this time. "I know. I know he was. You wouldn't fuck him. I know that." Toreth's voice held a hint of anger that came as a relief. "I realise I never should have let him in." He began an oblique approach to the topic. "It was stupid of me not to guess that he would have some unpleasant parting shot planned. I'm sorry that " "No. No need to be sorry. Wasn't your idea, was it? You didn't want anything to do with it. Bloody good plan as well." "Toreth " Toreth pushed himself away from the wall and walked past him out of the room, still not looking at him. "Goodbye." Warrick stood, debating whether to go after him. On balance, forcing him into a confrontation would do no good. Still, when the flat door opened and closed, it took all his self-discipline not to go after Toreth. It was only as he started to sweep up the expensive mess on the floor that the thought occurred that in all the years they'd been together, he could never recall Toreth saying 'goodbye'. ~~~

They heard the door to the flat close behind Carnac, and after a few seconds Sara said, "You can put me down now." McLean looked down at her. "Are you sure?" She wasn't at all, and he didn't look sure either. He certainly didn't feel sure, arms tight round her, and after the scene in the kitchen it was a welcome feeling. However, he didn't do anything more than hold her waiting for a cue from her. "Well . . . you don't have to put me down." She looked up at him, thinking absently that he must be almost exactly the same height as Toreth. "But I'm not going to go chasing after Carnac with a carving knife." He kissed her once, then let her go. "I'm still on duty until two." "Oh. Okay." Well, that sounded promising. "Would you like a drink? I'd like one a large one." "I'm still still on duty." "Well, Warrick's probably making coffee. He usually does when something like this happens." Not that something like this happened often. She strained to catch something from the kitchen, but she couldn't hear a sound. "What are you going to do now?" McLean asked. "Do?" The question sounded more significant than she could imagine a reason for. "Wait to see what happens here. I was supposed to be going to a party, but I'm not really in the mood now. So I'll probably go home, go to bed and get some beauty sleep. I've got to go to work tomorrow. Or if you " His expression stopped her. "What?" "I thought you worked for Toreth?" "Well, I'm his admin, but I work for I&I. Why?" "I thought that . . . well, he won't be going back there, will he?" So she wouldn't either, and the problem of her job was neatly solved. "Of course he will. Carnac will be gone in few days. There's no point in him sticking around any longer. He's lost and he knows it. That was just a goodbye present." And a beauty at that. Still nothing from the kitchen, but as long as Toreth was here, things couldn't be that bad. McLean nodded. "And you'll be going back with him." "Yes. He couldn't manage without me he's hopeless on his own, to tell you the truth." She looked at him consideringly. "So I suppose the conversation is over, right?" "Sara, it's not that " "Don't." She suddenly felt tired. He kissed nicely, but not nicely enough for her to try to get out gently this time, not when there was so much else to worry about. "Let's just stick with 'it never would've worked'. One comfort fuck isn't worth a whole post-mortem." She watched, mildly curious, as his professional blankness covered up the hurt in his eyes. "If that's how you feel, then obviously I respect that." Ouch. She almost said something else, but then she heard footsteps, quick and decisive, and Toreth saying, "Goodbye." By the time she stepped into the hall, the door was closing behind him. ~~~ On the way down to the car park, Carnac found himself walking more quickly, suddenly in a hurry to get away. Once in the waiting car, he had barely taken his seat before nausea swept over him.

He wrestled the door open again in time to be wrenchingly sick. When he was done, he wiped his mouth and dropped the soiled handkerchief into the gutter. Then he slammed the door shut, desperate to be gone, only to discover that he was shaking so badly he couldn't operate the control panel, and the system wouldn't recognise his voice print. He occupied the ten minutes it took to finally bring himself under control in mentally drafting his letter of resignation from I&I and from the new Administration in general. Now seemed like a strategic moment to distance himself from Int-Sec he doubted they would take kindly to a threat to expose one of their agents. Besides, he had had his fill of politics. The short-sighted fools wanted to keep the interrogators very well, then they could rot in the hell of their own making without him. He only hoped that he was still alive when the morons who had congratulated him on his great success at I&I found themselves strapped into a chair down in the interrogation levels, screaming for death. He accepted now that nothing less than that would make them finally see the truth. At which point, of course, it would be far too late to do the smallest particle of good to anyone. At least they had cancelled his training debt, and he had the paperwork to prove it, signed by everyone who seemed even slightly relevant. He was free of them, finally, of their idiotic demands and breathtaking stupidity. Altruism was a fool's game.

Chapter Sixteen
Being thrown out of a bar wasn't a complete novelty for Toreth, but it happened rarely enough that he felt indignant now. He should've stuck at seven drinks he decided as he struggled to open the badly-repaired door to his flat. Seven since Warrick's flat, that was. Whatever he'd drunk before seemed a long time ago. Seven was always his lucky number, drinks-wise, when the alcoholic haze was thick enough to make any problems look better, but the depressant effect hadn't kicked in yet. He should know better than to keep going. He wasn't even that drunk when they threw him out. However, he was obviously planning to be, and the bar staff clearly thought that it would be more responsible to throw him out early rather than watch him kill himself on their shift. He was sober enough to put up a fight anyway, even if it hadn't lasted long. He hit the icy pavement on his right-hand side, of course, and the stab of pain from his abused ribs kept him down there for long enough for the cold to really soak through his clothes. After he'd picked himself up, wiped the blood from his lip and finished swearing at the impassive bouncers, he thought about trying somewhere else. He was still barely sober enough for a tiny voice of selfpreservation to point out that by the time he was drunk enough to forget what Carnac had said, he would be dead. It had taken him five minutes of shivering on the kerb side to decide whether that was a bad thing or not, then he'd caught a taxi home. In the bathroom he pulled out the top drawer by the sink and dumped the contents on the counter top. Looters had stripped his stash out, but he'd filled up in a moderate way since he'd come back. He picked a combination of painkillers and things that might clear his head enough to think, washed them down with water and went to lie on the bed and watch the room spinning. Carnac's words played over in his mind. It was, he knew, exactly what Carnac wanted, but he couldn't stop it. 'The pathetically little you can offer him will no longer be enough. And then he will leave you'. It was true. That and everything else Carnac had said, but in a way the rest didn't matter, because they were the past and present, and this was the future. He knew it was true; he'd known almost from the beginning, the knowledge kept locked deep inside. Now it was out in the light and he found that he couldn't look away. 'There is nothing you will be able to do to make him stay'. He'd lied to himself, told himself that the fucking would be enough. He'd even believed it, even if only when they were fucking. When he felt Warrick shuddering with desire when he said 'fuck me', and 'please', and 'I want you' when the game was so good that he wept in the chains when he'd wind Warrick up in public, whispering and touching, until he was desperate enough to let Toreth take him in the car on the way home. Even when Warrick had returned the favour and made him screw up Sara's tenth anniversary presentation . . . That was what it all meant. He might stay. He will stay. I can make him stay because he needs me. He needs this. He needs it as much as I need him. It was a lie.

'You're not that good a fuck, and really, what else do you have'? Nothing. The answer was nothing. That was why the idea of Carnac targeting Warrick terrified him so much, because Carnac, bastard though he was, had so much more that Warrick might want. So much more than him. Forgetting the cut, he bit his lip and winced, tasting blood. 'You can fuck me as often as you want. That won't make me love you'. Warrick's voice, except that Warrick had never said anything of the kind to him. He couldn't remember where he'd heard the words, but their truth hurt. He'd proved it himself, over and over, with countless men and women, just like he had with Payne. However much you wanted someone to want you, there was nothing you could do to make it happen. Whatever you did for them, whatever you gave them, whatever you let them take, it could never be enough. Never enough to be sure. Never enough to satisfy them. Never enough to stop them walking away. Never enough to make them love you. "How can they expect me to love you, Val?" His mother had asked him that to his face once, exasperated, annoyed with him as usual for fucking up something or other, for still breathing. "You're not a lovable child you never were." 'You want Keir to love you, more than you have wanted anything in your adult life'. For the first time, lying on the bed, sliding slowly from drunkenness to artificial sobriety, he saw it all clearly, everything whole and connected, before the sick fear overwhelmed everything and it was gone, leaving nothing more than fragments. Carnac had shown him the future. One day, Warrick would be gone. Every day was another day closer to that day, until eventually, unbearable even to think about, there would be the moment he left. "I'm sorry." Warrick's voice in his head again, measured, regretful and, worst of all, kind. "But it was just a fuck, Val. It isn't enough any more." That wouldn't be what he'd say, of course, but it would be what he'd mean. How would he do it, really? How would you break up with a possessive fucking manic who'd been trained how to kill people? He caught himself smiling. Carefully. By comm and from a respectable fucking distance. In a peculiar way, the idea made him feel hopeful. Warrick might stay with him for a good long time simply because he was too afraid to leave. For all he knew, it might even be the reason he hadn't walked away already. The morbid humour evaporated, leaving him cold all over. Then he saw it. Problem and solution in one. Walk away. Walk away now. All the pain, all the drawn-out agony of anticipation, that could all be eliminated if he walked away. He considered the novelty of the idea. He'd never walked away from anything like this before. Not anything that . . . mattered. Technically, he'd done it to dozens of people. Men and women, unimportant fucks he'd enjoyed explaining the situation to if they tried to pursue him. 'I'm bored. Once was more than enough. You're a lousy fuck anyway. Whatever made you think I wanted you again? It was just a fuck'. But not Warrick. He'd never thought about it; he'd never even imagined that it was possible. Not

that he would say any of those things to Warrick, but that he could leave him and that there was no higher power that could force him back into Warrick's bed unless he wanted and agreed to go back. It would be making permanent the feeling he'd had in the flat, the sheer relief of walking away from the inevitable, unbearable conversation. Goodbye. It was possible, that was the thing. Warrick couldn't stay with him, but he could leave Warrick. He could do it. The current feeling of resolution might be ninety-five percent chemical, but there was no reason he couldn't stick to it sober. Somewhere inside, beyond the drink and the mask of the drugs, he could hear a voice screaming 'no'. He ignored it. Sara had split up with plenty of boyfriends, and, while he couldn't fool himself that it would be that easy after five years, he'd seen how it worked. She was fucking miserable for a day or two, and then she got over it. It wasn't going to be the end of the world. He pulled the suitcase he'd taken from Warrick's flat out from under the bed and started throwing in the new clothes Warrick had bought for him, and the towels he'd also borrowed when he'd left, and the toilet bag and hairbrush that . . . and he decided to leave the lot. He could buy some more. Before he left the flat, he realised that he had to tell Warrick now. If he didn't do it straight away, he might not find the resolve to do it later. He sat on the edge of the bed, twirling the comm earpiece between his fingers, until he acknowledged that he couldn't do it like that. He couldn't speak to him. Couldn't even leave a spoken message, which meant sending a note. Taking out his hand screen, he tried to compose something. In the end he was left with a sparse few lines: It's over. Don't bother to try to get in touch. I don't want to see you or speak to you again, for any reason. Goodbye. After further consideration, he changed over to finished and deleted goodbye. Then he sat, staring at the words, until the letters were imprinted on his retina and he saw them even when he looked away, closed his eyes and sent the message. It was done. Decided. Irrevocable. He wouldn't see Warrick again. He would never see him again. ~~~ In the morning, Toreth called in sick. To Sara it sounded far more like drunk, even though it was half past ten in the morning. Maybe he'd stayed up all night, rather than having gone to bed and started again when he woke up. "Where are you?" she asked, and he hesitated. He'd never done that before. "Not at the flat." "Toreth, I need to know. In case something urgent comes up." "I'm at a hotel. The, uh . . . " and there was a pause. Christ, he didn't even know. "The Bowman," he said eventually. "The one in the Arden complex." Not too far from work, anyway. "Do you want me to come round tonight?" "No. And don't tell Warrick where I am." "Of course not."

"I mean it, Sara." The kind of voice that gave her cold chills even when he used it to someone else. "Not one fucking word to him about me. About anything to do with me." "Toreth " "No." She decided to leave it. If Warrick came looking for him, she could stall until Toreth was willing to talk some kind of sense. "When do you think you'll be in?" "Not sure. What's Carnac doing?" "The word is that he's gone already. Handed his resignation to the Administrative Council first thing this morning. They're supposed to be trying to persuade him to stay, but there is a story that he's not even in New London any more walked straight out of the building and caught a flight to Strasbourg. I'm not sure I believe that one." "I wouldn't trust the bastard to stop interfering if he was dead." There was a short silence, then Toreth said, "Sara, how did he know about my parents?" She froze. Couldn't speak, couldn't think, couldn't breathe. "You told him, didn't you? When he was writing his bloody report." She wished he didn't sound so calm. "It had to be you, 'cause you're the only one who's met them. You're the only one I've ever told anything much about them. Not even Warrick and, like Carnac said, who the fuck else would I tell? So, really, it has to be you, doesn't it?" Oh, God, please, Christ, no. "Yes," she managed, wondering if he'd hear the whisper. "I'm taking the weekend off. I'll be in on Monday." Then the connection went dead. Sara stared at the blank screen, seriously considering following Carnac's example of resigning and catching the next available flight out of New London, without leaving a forwarding address. But that would mean leaving Toreth in the lurch, and even if he killed her when he came back to the office, she couldn't do it. The least she could do for him was to hold the fort while he took the time to sort himself out. ~~~ Toreth wasn't in on Monday. Sara arranged for his hotel bill to go onto expenses, because the Division was still paying for accommodation for staff whose homes were uninhabitable. In her opinion, Toreth's flat came close to uninhabitable at the best of times, so she didn't see why he should be out of pocket now. In Toreth's absence, life at I&I began to return to a strange kind of normality. Every day, the number of Service people in the building diminished, and more staff who had been listed as missing slowly filtered back. Nagra was amongst the first, B-C having contacted her to say that the coast was clear. The junior para didn't seem at all guilty about her long absence, and Sara didn't have the heart to blame her. For one thing, she was too grateful that she hadn't had to make out a death report for Nagra. It felt weird to appreciate someone simply for surviving. On Friday, as she sat waiting at her desk, the comm chimed. It was Tillotson, of all people. "Yes?" she asked, surprise making her forget the 'sir'. "Is Toreth there?" "No." Was that relief on his face? "Then I'd like to see you in my office."

"Okay." She looked at the time on her screen. Two minutes to ten. "I'll be a few minutes." That really ought to have been politer too, and she thought he might bring her up on it. In the end he merely nodded. Sara sat back, wondering what Tillotson was up to. Obviously, he'd decided that I&I was safe again and crept back. Probably wanted to check out the new politics and who he needed to suck up to now. However, she couldn't find out right away, because she was waiting for Warrick to call. He'd called every morning, punctually at ten o'clock, for the whole week. She'd wondered why ten, until she remembered that was when Toreth usually had coffee in his office. By now, their conversation had developed into something of a ritual. This time, when the call came through, he seemed to be in the corner of a meeting room behind him, she caught glimpses of Asher Linton and other people around a table, and he kept his voice low. "Good morning, Sara. How are you?" "Fine. You?" "Tolerable. Is Toreth back in the office yet?" "'Fraid not." "Have you seen him?" "No, but I've spoken to him, just like every other day." Maybe she could record a message and run it automatically. "He's fine." "Do you know where he is?" "Still no." The lie was easier, since Toreth was still adamant that he wouldn't see or speak to Warrick under any circumstances. He nodded, clearly expecting the answer. "Thanks. Let him know that I called, if it's not too much trouble." The picture vanished before she could answer. ~~~ Tillotson's reception desk was empty, and Sara realised she had no idea what had happened to Jenny. She didn't recall her name on any of the lists. Surely she must be all right? Another name to worry about, another face to dream about. She squashed the morbid thought, and knocked on the door. When Tillotson offered her a coffee, the surprise temporarily robbed her of speech. She managed a nod, and sat down before she fainted. Luckily, he didn't produce biscuits as well the shock might've killed her. Coffees poured, he sat behind his desk. To her disgust, he looked perfectly fit and well: suit neat, face no thinner than usual, not a ginger hair out of place. "Sara," he began with an ingratiating smile. "How are you?" "Um, fine." This was too weird. "And your family?" She nodded dumbly. "You've got a place to stay, that sort of thing?"

"My old flat was burnt out, so I've been staying with my sister. I thought it would take months to get somewhere, but housing called on Tuesday." He watched her, nodding with apparent interest. "The new place is pretty good, actually closer than Fee's, even closer than the old flat. I'm moving in at the weekend." "Well, if you need to take any time off, I'm sure that " Then the comm chimed. "Excuse me." Ignoring the low conversation, Sara sipped her coffee and wondered what the hell was going on. Then she almost spilled her cup while resisting the urge to slap her forehead. Of course. It was Toreth. When the call was over, he went straight to the point. "Where's Toreth?" "Taking some leave." Mention forms, and I'll slap you. Her face might have conveyed that message more clearly than she'd intended, because he coughed and looked away briefly. "I understand," he continued after a moment, "that he was placed in the position of acting assistant director while . . . after the recent difficulties. Technically, his operational authority lapsed with the socioanalyst's departure. However, the appointment hasn't been officially rescinded." He was getting good information from somewhere. "I don't think he'll expect you to salute him when he gets back." Clearly he wasn't expecting that, because for a moment she saw something that frightened her with its unexpectedness Tillotson with his mask down. Naked anger and ambition, with a steel behind it she wouldn't have suspected. "Don't try to play games with me," he snapped. "I wasn't! I I'm sorry, sir." He shook his head, perhaps dismissing the apology, perhaps trying to erase his hasty reply. "What I meant is that Toreth's position here is . . . somewhat ambiguous." She weighed her answer. The very last thing Toreth needed now was Tillotson with a knife out because he thought Toreth was a threat. "You're telling me. It's a nightmare." She watched him as she spoke, gauging the effect of her words. "People keep calling, wanting him to make decisions. It's only because it's taken so long for the senior people to get back. Everyone really just wants things to get back to how they were. I've been doing my best, but I can only do so much. I have to keep calling Toreth to ask him stuff, and he's really not interested." That was true, as far as it went, and certainly the part about his lack of interest. She'd called Toreth at the hotel every day, in the late afternoon when he was more likely to be awake and sober, and passed everything along. He'd thanked her, relentlessly polite, made any necessary decisions, and closed the connection as soon as she had run out of things to say to carry the conversation. However, Tillotson, who knew nothing about Warrick and Carnac, was looking more pleased with every word. "He's trying to have a holiday," she added. "It's not fair, having to keep pestering him with problems." "Management isn't as easy as people think." Now he looked positively smug. "Oh, I know that. Really not Toreth's thing at all. It's great to see you back." That, she realised as she saw Tillotson frown, was overdoing it rather, so she went for a distraction. "It's all your fault, really."

He stared, taken aback. "Mine?" "Carnac," the bastard, "only made him take the acting assistant directorship because Toreth did such a good job last time he was here, when you made him Carnac's personal liaison. And considering that when Toreth got back here after the revolt they were threatening to execute the staff, I think he did a pretty good job. Wouldn't have been much for you for everyone to come back to, without him." His nose twitched. "Really?" "You can ask HoS Bevan about it all, if you want to know more, sir. He and Toreth worked pretty closely over the whole thing." Let him know that Toreth wasn't without serious allies, even if Carnac had gone. Tillotson clearly took the point. "I see that I have a lot of catching up to do. Well, you can tell Toreth that there's no hurry. He can take as long as he likes. And " He paused significantly, and she wondered what was coming. "Tell him I'll make sure it doesn't come out of his annual leave." Somehow, Sara managed to get a decent distance down the corridor before she started laughing.

Chapter Seventeen
Why the hell had he come here, Toreth wondered? On a chilly Saturday afternoon the zoo was virtually empty. Even the animals were staying out of the damp, biting wind, curled up under their bedding. Maybe he should have stayed in his bed and waited for it to get properly dark. And then what? Go out and find another man he didn't want. The afternoon was overcast enough that the flamingos were already roosting standing onelegged in a tight flock in their shallow pool, headless in the grey light. Toreth sat down on the cold stone wall by the pool and jumped back up smartly, swearing loudly enough to cause a few heads to lift from under faded pink wings. Christ, he was sore. Not surprising, considering how many strangers he'd had or rather had had him since . . . since he'd made his decision. Even more of them over the last three days, after Warrick had somehow fought his way through the blocks Toreth had put on his calls. 'Toreth, please. I just want to know ' What? Why hadn't Toreth waited until the end of the sentence instead of interrupting? At least he'd been so wasted at the time that telling Warrick to fuck off had been almost painless. He'd thought then that it might be over, that it might start to get better. He'd been almost surprised when he'd woken up the next morning and nothing had changed. Except that he had a slightly sharper memory of Warrick's voice. Even now, the temptation to go out tonight and find someone tugged at him. He needed something to stop himself thinking and feeling, if only for a few minutes, and being fucked always did the trick. At least while it was happening. Not afterwards, though. Enough, he told himself, walking away from the pool. He couldn't face another night of waking up in his hotel room long after his fuck had gone, with the sheets in a sweaty tangle and the pillow inexplicably damp. Lying in the dark, aching and empty, and still tasting Warrick's name. Pathetic, that was what it was. He needed to regain some focus. He needed to stop this morbid obsession, get his life back together and get on with living in the present. God, how many times had he said that over the last week? Now, though, he had to find a way. He hurt too much to carry on, bruised and torn from saying, "Do it, I'm ready," when he wasn't, to men who didn't care or maybe thought he wanted that. Last night he'd been too high to feel how bad it was, although he'd known, distantly, that it hurt like hell. Was that how it felt for Warrick there and not there, unimportant? Afterwards, the man he was with had been worried enough to suggest calling a medic, until finally Toreth had told him that he worked at I&I, and he knew how much blood was too fucking much. The man had left abruptly, and Toreth couldn't remember what he'd looked like not a single detail. So much for professional observational skills. This morning, when he'd come down and with a filthy hangover on top of it, the pain had left him sick, and breathless, and angry with Carnac, with Warrick, but mostly with himself. He'd forced himself to eat a vast and unhealthy fried breakfast, because he couldn't remember eating since . . . well, he must have eaten something, at some point. It wasn't possible to live on bar snacks and amphetamines for a week. The breakfast had been a good idea: it had cured the unpleasant

light-headedness, the tea had made a change from spirits, and for almost ten minutes he'd hardly thought about Warrick at all. Afterwards, he'd had to get out of the hotel, at least for a few hours, and most of the bars he'd passed were shut. Still, why the hell had he come here? Toreth stopped dead. Walking without noticing where he was going, he'd reached the place he'd been avoiding ever since arriving at the zoo. The panther lay on the platform in the centre of the cage. Now it no longer paced continuously, grass had grown back over the path it had worn behind the glass. A lion roared nearby, something between a cough and a grunt, and the panther lifted its head. It scanned the area slowly. Looking for danger, Toreth wondered, or looking for a way out? It found neither. After a minute it yawned red tongue curling, ivory teeth revealed as the whiskers lifted, breath steaming and then sprawled out again, secure in its cage. Visitors were sparse, and Toreth had the viewing area to himself. He rested his forearms on the thick glass, his nose almost touching it, then slapped the glass with both hands. Probably set off an alarm, not that he gave a fuck. The panther didn't react. Did the animal think it was safe here? Make an allusion, create a metaphor that's what Warrick had done. He'd looked at the pacing panther and he'd seen Toreth. At the time, Toreth had been pissed off enough to try to scare Warrick properly, but he'd been flattered too. Sick or not, the panther was fabulous to look at dangerous, beautiful, rippling with controlled power and selfabsorbed strength. That wasn't enough, though. That couldn't be enough. 'You're not that good a fuck and, really, what else do you have?' Nothing except a psych file with a diagnosis that Toreth had never cared about before. Cages. You can't get out, and every bastard with a key can get in. He slapped again, harder, stinging his palms. "Hey!" The panther twitched its ears and opened its eyes halfway. Languorous, that was the word. Like Warrick after a really good fuck. Seconds passed, then the inhuman yellow eyes closed again. Apparently, Toreth didn't even rate a yawn. He turned away from the cage. No answers here, not surprisingly, but he knew why he'd come. The zoo was Warrick's place, and there was a tiny, thin chance that Warrick might be here. So unlikely that if it happened Toreth could honestly say he hadn't expected it. He hadn't broken his resolution not to see Warrick again. The slow walk back to the gate was an effort; he'd spent the whole day walking and he felt shockingly unfit. As he waited for a taxi, Toreth scrubbed his unshaven chin. Jesus, what a wreck. Keep this up much longer and he'd be sleeping on the streets and fucking for money. Much longer than that and he'd end up dead in an alley. He rubbed his chin again, without thinking. Warrick had said that he'd liked the beard. ~~~ On Monday, when there had been no word all weekend and Sara had given up hope, Toreth came back. Her first thought was that she should've told Warrick where he was, whatever the consequences to herself. Toreth looked terrible, his face puffy and his eyes black with exhaustion a week and a half's worth of morning afters, piled one on top of the last. And he walked as if he'd been fucked by all

the interested parties in the city. "'Morning, Sara," he said flatly and then carried on straight past her into his office. It took her ten minutes to get up the courage to follow him. She only went at all because of how much worse it would be if she waited until he called her in. He stood by the window, leaning on the frame, and he didn't look round. She managed to persuade her vocal cords to cooperate. "Toreth " "You're sorry." "Yes. God, yes." So pathetically inadequate, for what she'd done to him. He nodded. "Well, that makes all the difference, doesn't it?" She went over to him, wanting to say something, but no words offered themselves. Besides, it was all she could manage to stay in the room she trembled with the effort not to run. He frightened her when he was like this. He always had done, because she knew the kinds of things he was capable of. Finally, he turned and looked at her, and she had the sense of him slowly focusing in from a long distance away. When he was looking directly at her instead of through her, he shook his head. "Christ, you look petrified." He stroked her cheek gently, with the back of his fingers, watching her flinch away. "What do you think I'm going to do to you?" He sounded genuinely curious. "I don't know." He pulled her forwards, slowly, until she was right against him, then held her, resting his chin on the top of her head. "Sara, I'm not going to do anything. To start with, it would be incredibly stupid, wouldn't it, here in the office?" She nodded against him, listening to his heart hammering nineteen to the dozen. He still sounded so calm. "Besides, it doesn't matter. It's Carnac's job to know things like that. He could have got most of it from my psych file. I mean, I've never seen it. Warrick " His grip on her tightened. "Warrick probably has. But I expect it's all in there. So forget about it. I have." I still told him things that couldn't have been in the file, and look what he's done with it. However, she nodded again, because it seemed to be what he wanted. Tentatively, she tried to return the embrace, and at once he released her and stepped back. "So now that's all sorted, we can get back to work. What's been going on here while I was drowning my sorrows?" He smiled at her, the smile he used for all the other admins when he wanted to charm them into doing something for him. Bright, with a hint of wickedness, and not a drop of genuine warmth. After she'd given him the news, told him what was on his schedule and offered him a coffee (which he refused), Sara went back to her desk and stared at the screen, and tried not to cry.

Chapter Eighteen
The station was chaos, but Warrick was still glad he'd decided to meet Dilly here. Reports had the Space Centre even more heavily mobbed by anxious friends and relatives desperate to meet the first flights back since the unrest. He waited for an hour before he saw her. For some reason, he'd been imagining her with luggage everyone else seemed to be laden with the maximum permitted but she had her usual small bag over her shoulder. She looked as calm, collected and immaculate as ever, until she caught sight of him. "Dilly," he said eventually. "Some oxygen would be useful." She let him go, and he was surprised to see tears on her cheeks. He fished in his jacket pocket. "Here you go. Hankie." She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. "God, I'm sorry. How stupid." "Not at all." "It's being back, that's all. I never realised how much it felt like home. New London, I mean. Until I was out there and you and Mother and Asher and everyone else were back here and I couldn't get hold of anyone and you might all have been dead, for all I knew." He took her arm gently, and found she was shaking. "Do you want to sit down somewhere?" "No. I'll be fine in a minute. Can we just go, please?" As they waited outside the station for the car to make its way through the tangled traffic, she told him about the trouble on Mars base. It seemed to have suffered a restrained version of events on Earth, kept in check by fear of the consequences of serious damage to the sealed environment. She made the journey back on the overcrowded shuttle sound almost the worst part. When they had taken their seats, before the car had even pulled away, she said, "How's Toreth?" He looked at her, surprised. "He's . . . well, as far as I know, he's fine." "Oh, thank God." She sat back in the seat. "You could have asked before. When we spoke." "I couldn't. I thought about it. But I heard about Int-Sec before I managed to get through. About I&I. There were reports, some pictures. I thought he might be dead, and then I thought you'd have told me if he was, but if he was and you hadn't told me then it was because you didn't want to, and so I couldn't ask and anyway the connections were so bad that I didn't want to start anything and then lose you before it was all right." She paused for breath. "If that makes any sense to you. I'm not sure if it does to me, any more." He smiled. "I understand. Thanks for being concerned about him." "I was much more concerned about you." She paused, then added, "I know you know that I don't like him, but I don't want him dead, for God's sake. I'd just, well, rather not have to see him around, that's all." "Well, that isn't going to be a problem any more." "What?" "He's " And he stopped, realising that this was the first time he'd said it to anyone. "He says

it's finished. We're finished." "What?" And he saw it briefly in her eyes her first, automatic reaction. Relief. "When?" "A couple of weeks ago. Exactly fourteen days, in fact. If you give me a moment to work it out I can humiliate myself for you and do it in hours, minutes and seconds." He hadn't meant to sound so bitter, but Dilly ignored his tone. She moved over to the seat beside him. "What happened?" "There was an extremely unpleasant scene, the details of which I have no wish to go into, and he walked out. Since then I've had one message and a brief but explicit request conveyed over a comm, on the sole occasion that I managed to get through to him." "What did he say?" "Over the comm? 'Fuck off', sincerely meant. I'd like to put that down to the fact that he was drunk, which he undoubtedly was, but in all honesty I can't. After that, I decided not to bother working through his call blocks." "And the message?" "'It's finished. Don't bother to try to get in touch. I don't want to see you or speak to you again, for any reason'." At least the brevity made it easy to remember. "I've left messages for him, but I have no idea if he's reading them." "And he means it? This isn't one of his attention-seeking 'chase me' things?" He couldn't help a wry smile. "If it is, he's making it rather harder than usual to catch him." "And you're . . . what? Letting it go at that?" "I don't know. I thought . . . or rather, I hoped that he would come round on his own. That's the way it normally goes." Her eyebrow went up at 'normally'. "Normal for Toreth. This time is different; I don't think he's coming back. I've looked for him, but he's trying so hard to stay away from me that I don't know if I should keep trying. Besides which, I have no idea what to say to him, even if I did find him." Knowing it probably wasn't a good idea, he added, "What do you think I should do?" She didn't even pretend to think about it. "I'm not going to drive you out onto the streets to hunt him down. I think you're much better off without him, you know that. In fact, you should be grateful you've got a chance to walk away from it I always worried you wouldn't get that." One of her fears about Toreth that he'd never even tried to reassure, because it had always been the most valid. 'The only way you can understand that feeling is by trying to own them'. Warrick looked down at his hands, seeing ghosts of manacles. She and Carnac were both right. Toreth was inarguably jealous, possessive and, above all, incapable of dealing with those feelings without becoming angry, which only made him more dangerous. He wouldn't take goodbye well, or accept it perhaps at all. Not normally. In a way, then, this was an opportunity, one he might never get again, to walk away cleanly to be free from something that was undeniably hard work at times. Furthermore, from that point of view, rejecting it meant making a serious commitment, even if he were the only one of them who would recognise that. If, in fact, declining the chance of escape was an option. If Carnac's revelations hadn't driven Toreth into a retreat from which he could never be coaxed. "Keir?"

He looked up. "I was thinking about what you said." She studied him for a moment, then shrugged. "I'm sorry, but you asked what I thought. If he says it's finished, I say accept it." Finished. It sounded so final from someone else. The last lingering doubts disappeared. Despite everything, he wanted Toreth it really was that simple. "I'll think about it." "Hm. I know what that means. But it's your life, as usual. I just think that " She shook her head. "No, actually I don't. You've told me often enough that it's none of my business." Clear enough. Time to change the subject. "What are your plans?" "I'm not sure. I was hoping I could stay with you until I can get something sorted out. I've got a ton of things to do for work, before I even think about anything else. Although I ought to go and see Mother first. How is she?" This was the part he'd been dreading most. He'd been using Toreth, in a way, just to keep away from this topic. "She's fine. But she's . . . not at home." "Where is she?" When he didn't answer, she looked at him more closely. "What's wrong? Is she hurt?" "No." Truth or lie? Unfortunately, the truth wasn't a realistic option. "She got herself into some trouble. She was arrested, briefly, and now she's gone away. She didn't tell me where, but I've heard from her and she's fine. I can show you the messages from her." "Arrested?" She looked baffled. "What could Mother have done that would get her arrested?" "I don't know the details old trouble, I suspect, that all this business turned into new trouble. Something to do with Tarin's father." Without hesitation she said, "You're lying." "Yes, I am. Dilly, I can't tell you the truth. It's too risky. It's not that I don't trust you, but the more people who know what happened, the more dangerous it will be for everyone. You, me, Mother, Jen, Tarin. Valeria." And Toreth. "Keir " "No." He held her gaze. "Not on this one. Don't turn it into a fight, please, because I'm not going to tell you. Not now. Eventually, if I can, I promise." For a moment, he thought she wouldn't believe him, or would believe him and carry on anyway, because Jen always said they were as alike in stubbornness as in everything else. Then she nodded. "All right. If you say so, I trust you." "Thank you." She sighed and leaned on his shoulder. "It hasn't changed here, has it?" "No. No, I'm afraid not. Not that much." "When I was stuck in the 'port, watching the news, I thought there'd be some point to it all, in the end. That things might be different better. But it's not going to happen. Everything's going to go on, exactly the same as it was before." "Not exactly the same." She shook her head. "Tarin's right. God knows, I never thought I'd say that, but he is. A few things here and there aren't going to make any difference at all. The whole system needs changing. It'll

happen again, all this awful mess, until it does change. And it's going to be just as dangerous to say that kind of thing as it ever was, isn't it?" Warrick thought of Toreth's reforms to I&I, and Carnac's conviction that the interrogation rooms would be back in use before long. He put his arm round Dilly and kissed her temple. "I don't know. We'll just have to wait and see." ~~~ When Sara saw Warrick striding across the office, loyalty and fear got her out of her chair and in front of Toreth's door before she even had a chance to wonder how Warrick had talked his way past the front desk. Persistent bloody-mindedness, if his expression was any indication. She'd lied to him at ten o'clock every day, for the whole week, and said she hadn't seen Toreth yet. Hoping that, now Toreth was back at work, she would be able to change his mind. However, he barely spoke to her, and he looked no better when he arrived in the mornings she had begun to forget that he hadn't always had black rings around his eyes. Warrick stopped in front of her. "Sara, let me past." It wasn't a tone of voice she looked forward to arguing with, and for a moment she felt tempted not to try. Once Toreth saw Warrick, once he had to talk to him, then things would either go to hell in ten seconds flat, or everything would turn out wonderfully. However, she wasn't going to be responsible for the first option. He would never, ever forgive her for another betrayal. "I told you," she said. "He's not back." "Interesting, because the main reception is under the impression that he has been in residence since Monday." "He's busy," she said, falling back on the automatic admin lie. Warrick merely looked at her until she said, "He doesn't want to see you." "I am perfectly well aware of that. However, I want to see him. Don't play games let me past." She stared at him, remembering him talking to the captain the day he'd got them out of I&I. Heads had started to come up around the still sparsely populated office. Over his shoulder, she saw Kel mouth, "Security?" She shook her head at him. "Warrick, if you're going to be like that, I suggest that you go. Before someone calls downstairs and you get thrown out." "I don't " Then his voice softened. "Yes. I apologise for being so uncivil. Will you at least tell him that I'm here?" "He'll know already. Reception will have called it up." "Tell him anyway. Please." She hesitated, looking at the door. Warrick walked a couple of metres away and folded his arms. "I give you my word I won't try to go in." At her desk, she switched the link through to the speaker, leaving no scope for misunderstandings. "Toreth? Warrick's here. He wants to see you." After barely a second's hesitation, Toreth said, "Tell him to fuck off." Then he cut the connection. Warrick made a small, aborted movement towards the door, stopping at her squeak of alarm. "Don't worry, I'm not going in."

"Warrick, I'm sorry." "Can you at least let me know where he's staying? Having no idea where he is is . . . concerning." She hesitated, before deciding that the lie would have to stand. "No. I still don't know he didn't tell me. But there's no need to worry about him. He's " so bloody miserable that I can't bear to look at him. "He's fine, honestly." "If he were fine, he'd see me." A hard point to argue with. "Warrick, the bottom line is that he told me not to let you in. I can't." After a moment he nodded. "I understand." He looked past her, gathering his thoughts, then said, "Do you think he'll come round on his own?" "I don't know." A reflexive response while she thought about what was best for Toreth. But if anyone deserved to know, it was Warrick. Toreth wasn't drinking and screwing himself into oblivion because he was telling the truth when he said he didn't want to see Warrick again. "No. I don't think he will." She lowered her voice, keeping Toreth's secrets from the rest of the attentive office. "I've never seen him this bad. Not even when you " She stopped. Did he know she knew? Warrick, however, merely waited for her to continue. "When you screwed the guy at the conference and I called you to warn you he was coming back to the hotel. He's . . . I can't get through to him, and I have tried he doesn't even see me properly any more, never mind listen to me." "Carnac is very good at what he does. The best." Warrick closed his eyes briefly. "Please, Sara. Tell me where he's staying." Almost, she did. But Toreth would know it was her. "I can't," she said. He caught the slip at once. "You do know then? Tell me." "I can't. He'd kill me, and I'm not just saying that." The muscles in his jaw clenched, then he nodded slowly. "Very well. You must do what you think is best, of course." She thought that was his exit line, but he continued, his voice cold and every syllable distinct. "But I won't forget this, Sara. Do you understand? If anything happens to him, I won't forget this." Without waiting for a reply, he turned and strode off, as quickly as he had arrived, the handful of curious spectators scattering out of his path.

Chapter Nineteen
For the last fortnight Toreth had been hunting for women and wanting men. However, he hadn't allowed himself even to look. That was too close to what he really wanted, which was Warrick. Still Warrick. Three weeks yesterday since he'd last seen him, and it was still Warrick. In his hotel room, in the last minutes of clarity and sobriety for the evening, Toreth counted pluses while he brushed his hair. His arse no longer hurt so much he had to look for soft chairs wherever he went. Daedra was finally supplying again for non-medical purposes. And . . . He dropped the brush, rested his chin on his hands and stared blindly into the mirror. There must be an and. There had to be. Without something else he wasn't sure he could make it out of the room and down to the bar. He didn't really want to, anyway. He didn't want to go downstairs, he couldn't stay here. He didn't want anyone he didn't want anyone else and he couldn't sleep without it. The thoughts bounced back and forth. The mental equivalent of pacing, because he was too tired to manage the real kind. So fucking tired. A fortnight ago, when he'd decided to go back to I&I, he'd thought that it might help, but in the end it was only different, not better. The first week there had been the worst, because he'd been waiting. It had taken until last Friday before the thing he'd dreaded most happened, when Warrick showed up. There, he told his reflection. That's something to be proud about. He'd stuck to his resolution and told Warrick to go. Okay, to split hairs, he'd hidden in his office and let Sara get rid of him. The end result had been the same, though Warrick had gone. After that, knowing Warrick wouldn't be back, he hadn't minded going to work so much. At least it had been something to do during the day, and at night he'd fucked women, with skill and concentration. Making it last for as long as possible, so that when he finally came he was too far gone to say anything (or at least to remember saying anything) and he fell asleep immediately afterwards, which was good. For one thing, it meant he had to drink less. There another plus. Once or twice the women had stayed for the night, so he'd had to think of something to say to them in the morning. 'I'm late for work' had done well enough. Anyway, it was all he'd been able to manage after the moment of realisation that the warm presence beside him wasn't Warrick. However, it felt a little better. Was that a plus? That it was slightly less fucking awful? At least it was better than the men, and far, far better than the nights when he hadn't been able to find anyone he could pretend he wanted. He looked down at the dressing table, unable to meet his own eyes. Nights alone in the hotel room, wanking himself stupid over pathetic fantasies that somehow everything could still work out all right. Most of them involved killing Carnac at some point, and at least that part he enjoyed unreservedly. But afterwards he couldn't sleep, his mind too full of images of Warrick that he'd called up when he could no longer stop himself. A few times he'd resorted to sleeping pills, and he loathed those, because whatever it said on the packet they always made him feel like shit the next day. Of course, he felt like shit anyway, but the fuzzy edges they gave the world in the morning made him feel even more out of control. So he went out, every evening, and took different drugs that blurred things in a different way, and drank and hunted and fucked and tried to forget.

It wasn't working. He knew that it wasn't, but there was nothing else he could do. He was hiding. Treading water, barely, waiting for things to somehow get better. Once or twice he'd weakened and thought about asking Sara to call Warrick for him, and couldn't do it. 'You want Keir to love you, more than anything you have wanted in your adult life'. He took a deep breath. Carnac was right. He wanted it, and he couldn't have it, and so that was that. He'd pushed Warrick away, one last time, and he'd gone. Warrick had probably been as horrified by Carnac's analysis as Toreth had. He remembered Warrick's expression in the flat shocked, stunned into silence. God, how clearly he remembered it. It had been nearly a week since Warrick had appeared at I&I, and there had been no word from him since. It's too late to go back, Toreth told himself, even if I wanted to. He desperately, desperately wanted to. He picked up the new moisturizer that Sara had bought for him another peace offering like the endless bloody coffees. He probably should've said thanks. He didn't like the silence that had grown up between them, but he couldn't see a way round it. Open up a conversation, and she'd want to talk. First of all about whatever stupid bloody guilt trip she was on over the things she'd said to Carnac years ago. He didn't want to hear about it. It was over, he'd forgiven her, and most of all he didn't ever want to hear Carnac's name again. Far worse, though, she'd ask about Warrick. Still, the moisturizer had been a nice thought. He unscrewed the top and sniffed the open tube carefully. Unscented, just how he liked it. Right. Pretty up, go out, pick someone up, fuck her, don't think about waking up tomorrow. Unfortunately, the plan forced him to focus more clearly on his face. He looked absolutely fucking awful. Absolutely fucking awful and old. This was what it did to you. Getting involved, giving a fuck this was the result. After a long moment he threw the tube down, hating himself for being so weak. Weak, needy, dependent all the things he despised in other people. Caught in his own trap. Payne would laugh his bloody head off. He looked at the assortment of tablets lined up on the dressing table in front of him, took a couple, and then a couple more for luck. Sweeping the rest back into the drawer, he went out to hunt. ~~~ The comm woke Sara up, chiming insistently. "Happy birthday!" Toreth said when she opened the door and, with a rather unsteady flourish, he held out a battered bunch of flowers. Then he looked at his watch and added, "Yesterday. Fuck. I meant to come round earlier but I oh, shit." He put his hand on the doorframe, crushing the flowers further, and shook his head. "Christ, I'm wrecked," he said, sounding astonished by the discovery. "Can I sit down?" "Of course you can. Come in." Everything was suddenly and weirdly normal. It was just like all the uncounted times he'd turned up at her old flat, only with the novelty of his spontaneously remembering her birthday. True, it wasn't until next month, but she felt he deserved seven out of ten for getting almost the right day of the month.

He sat on the sofa while she made coffee and put the flowers in water. When she'd finished, the sink was speckled with bruised petals and broken ends of stems definitely not up to his usual floral standards. Still, some of them might survive. She half expected him to be asleep by the time she'd done it, but when she came through with the tray, he was teasing the cat with a piece of string. As she entered the room, she heard him say, "Aren't you a vile little fucker, then?" in tones of syrupy affection. Bastard, confused by the combination of attention and lack of shouting, kept tapping the string half-heartedly and casting profoundly suspicious glances at him. When Toreth saw her, he dropped the string hurriedly. "God, that smells good." He took the coffee and sat back. Then he looked at his watch again and frowned. "It's not your birthday, is it?" "Next month. But thanks for the flowers, anyway." He grinned up at her, and she noticed how contracted his pupils were. That explained the mood. "Sorry," he said. "I was sure it was today. Should know better then to trust my chronic fucking memory. Sorry I woke you up for no reason." "It doesn't matter." She sat down next to him. "It's Friday tomorrow I mean, today." He smiled. "So you can go home early?" "Yeah." She hadn't dared lately, while he'd been so locked away inside himself. "It's practically the weekend." He gestured round the room with the mug, somehow managing not to spill it. "I like the flat. Closer to work than the other one. Bigger." "No, it's almost exactly the same size, except that the hall and the bedroom are smaller, so there's more room in here. How did you find it?" He'd never asked her for the address. "Called Kel. Twice, I think. Wrote a note and lost it." He chuckled. "The second time, I had to get him to give the address over the comm to the taxi. He sounded pretty pissed off." "It is two in the morning." "Yeah, well, fuck him." He looked around again, then down at the sofa. "Nice, um, suite. New?" "Second hand." She leaned against him, pleased and relieved when he put his arm around her shoulders. "The insurance paid for new but I thought I might as well get this and keep the difference Bastard will only scratch it all, anyway." He nodded. "I should get some stuff. Move back in to the flat. They'll start kicking up a fuss about the expenses before long. And I hate that fucking hotel." Abruptly, the illusion of normality fractured and she could hear the misery in his voice. "Fucking hate it." She put her hand on his chest, praying he wouldn't pull away again. "Why don't you stay here until you get the flat sorted out? I'd like you to. No spare room, but this is a sofa bed. Fee stayed over and she says it's really comfy." "No. Thanks, but I " He sighed and sat up, dislodging her and slopping his coffee onto the reconditioned upholstery. "I can't sleep here. Nothing personal. I can't sleep anywhere." "Do you want some tablets? I've got some of Daedra's finest. I was having nightmares about . . . about I&I." "Yeah? I used to have nightmares. Still do. About water. I drowned once. Twice. I " He swallowed heavily. "Old stuff. Doesn't matter. No thanks, anyway for the pills, I mean. Probably not a good idea. I had something already. Several somethings. I just need to find someone to fuck and then I'll be able to get some sleep."

He said it with such grim practicality that she couldn't think of anything to say except, "You don't have to go somewhere else for that." Even as she said it, the words horrified her. She didn't know if it was because she'd broken her rule, or because in a way she hadn't she didn't want him, not in the way she'd wanted him at his flat. She was offering a pity fuck, nothing more. The only kind of comfort he might accept. Not, though, if he recognised what it was, which he clearly did. His eyes narrowed and he looked at her for a long moment before he said, "Do I really look that bad?" "I didn't mean it like that." Or at least she hadn't meant to mean it like that. He shook his head, the coldness gone in an eye blink. "'Course not. It doesn't matter. Look, thanks for the coffee. I have to go." However, he stayed on the edge of the sofa, staring into his nearly full mug. Maybe a more physical approach would work better. Gently, she pried the mug from his hands and set it on the table. Then she turned his head, kissed him, and held his chin until, finally, his eyes met hers. "Toreth " "Fine. If that's what you want. Fine." Without waiting for a response, he pushed her down onto the sofa, coming down with her, hard and uncoordinated, nearly winding her. She squirmed underneath him, and at least he did shift to the side, letting her breathe. To begin with, she wondered what he wanted, what he'd like what would make him feel better. She didn't have to wonder for long, although conversation was clearly out of the question. How the hell had he managed to find anyone over the past few weeks, if he'd had the same fixed, desperate determination he had now? Hands on her, unfastening clothes with automatic skill. Kissing her throat, his body against hers, every fibre of him screaming 'Warrick'. A comfort fuck was one thing, but she wasn't sure that her sympathy would stretch to letting him screw her without even seeing who she was. Definitely far beyond the call of duty. But what, honestly, had she thought would happen? She touched his face again, and that did pull him back to the present long enough to kiss her. When he did, she discovered that he hadn't changed his technique much in ten years. No need to, when he was so good at it. She slipped her hand up under his shirt, finding that he felt as wonderful as she remembered all smooth skin and hard muscle sliding underneath it. Sara closed her eyes and pressed him closer. It would be all right or at least it might help. Afterwards, with luck, he'd fall asleep and then in the morning she'd be able to persuade him to call Warrick, and then everything would be really all right. The last thing she'd expected was that, in the end, he wouldn't be able to go through with it. However, after ten minutes or so, he paused, shifting his hips against her, and said into her hair, "Ironic, huh?" As subtly as she could, she slid her hand down to the front of his trousers, to confirm the lack of response. Trying too hard, or more likely too tired and too high. He caught her wrist, pulling her hand away, but after that, it was only a matter of time. Finally, he stopped moving, stopped touching her, and lay still against her, breathing heavily. "Toreth?" No response. She considered options, before deciding that any offer to try to remedy the situation

could only lead to disaster. She slipped her arm around him, hoping that if she did it slowly enough, he might not notice. That he at least might stay beside her, might let her hold him it was no more, after all, than he had done for her in the cell. However, almost at once, she felt him tense up, and then pull sharply away. "I don't need your fucking " He struggled upright. "Ah, fucking hell." She froze on the sofa, waiting for his anger to pass, which it did, slowly, his hands unclenching. He rested his elbows on his knees and took a deep breath. "Sorry. Not going to happen, I'm afraid. If I'd known it was my lucky night, I'd have been more careful what I took." He wiped his mouth, then picked up his coffee and drank. Washing the taste of her away, she thought. "Maybe we should make it a fixture one disastrous fuck every ten years. What do you think?" "The last one wasn't a disaster." "But not so good that you wanted to remember it in the morning." The self-pity, so unlike him, left her unsure what to say. Carefully, she rested her hand on his back. "It doesn't matter." "No. Right as usual." He smiled, forced and distant, still not looking at her. "Not going to do my reputation any good, though. At least it was only you." Sara swallowed the hurt, knowing what he meant. She stroked his back, and he didn't move away, which was something. He was staring into his coffee again, so transparently miserable that she felt tears of her own starting. Had she really envied him? She felt suddenly grateful that she'd never loved anyone enough that it could make her this unhappy. "Stay, please," she said. "Forget about the " "Sara . . . how long is it going to take?" Not understanding the question, she couldn't reply. He carried on anyway, his voice soft and desperate. "I want it to stop. That's all. I just want it to stop being like this every fucking minute of every fucking day. Because I don't think I can " He stopped and sniffed hard, once, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Call him," she said. "No." "Then let me call him." "No." She knew she ought to shut up, but she had to try. "You should've spoken to him at the office. He's worried about you and . . . so am I. He wants " "No!" He turned on her, anger flaring up again. "I don't want to see him. I can't see him. Don't even fucking think about it. Do you hear me?" He glared at her until she nodded. Then he put the mug down on the table and stood up. "I'm sorry I woke you up. Thanks for the coffee and and I'll see you at work tomorrow." Sitting up on the sofa, she watched him leave, hoping all the way that he would stop and turn round and ask to use her comm. When the flat door closed behind him, Bastard yowled and then jumped up into her lap. She scratched his tattered ears and he purred, wafting eye-watering cat breath up at her, delighted as usual to see an intruder successfully chased off.

She wished she knew where Carnac was so that she could go round and kill him. It was too late to do any good now, but it was the only thing she could think of that would make her feel any better.

Chapter Twenty
Sara had been quiet in the office all day, and Toreth had wondered if he ought to say something. In the end, he couldn't think what, so he let it go. He shouldn't have gone round to her flat bad combination he'd taken last night. Still, despite what he hadn't been able to stop himself saying to her, it didn't matter. Nothing did, except not thinking about the things he couldn't stop himself thinking about. Have another drink. Different bars, every night. New bars, every night, except tonight. He ended up, by accident, in the bar Payne had dragged him out of once. That meant it was a risk, because he'd been here before, so there was a minute chance Warrick might find him. However, he didn't recognise the place until he'd bought a drink, and then he couldn't be bothered to leave it was safe enough for a while. He found a woman early on in the evening, who fitted his latest standard: short, blonde, blue eyes and a light, nondescript voice. Nothing at all like Dillian and so nothing at all like Warrick. He'd almost abandoned her when he found out she wanted to stay in the bar for a while, but he needed someone for tonight because after last night he was sick of pills, and she was a dead cert. In any case, it wasn't as if he seriously expected Warrick still to be looking for him. He'd have to drop that fantasy in the end. So he sat at the bar with her and talked, or at least made the right kinds of noises while she explained whatever the hell was wrong with her life that meant she'd ended up here with him. Something pretty fucking tragic, presumably. The ring mark on her finger looked reasonably fresh. She'd said her name was Anne, but considering that she wore a silver bracelet with the initials MP in curlicues, he didn't believe her. Not that he cared, either, but it was something to think about. A few minutes' distraction from "I'm sorry?" he said, suddenly noticing an expectant silence. She shook her head, although she didn't look particularly annoyed. "I said, 'You aren't listening, are you, Marc'?" He offered her the best apologetic smile he could manage. "Sorry, no. I'm, um I had a long day at work, that's all." "What do you do?" He weighed up a lie, decided that this place was safe enough not to bother. "I work at I&I." "Oh?" Not much surprise, and he wondered if she'd guessed something like that. "My cousin works worked there." He blinked at her, seeing her for what seemed like the first time. "Yeah? What's their name?" She looked startled by the question. Obviously didn't want to run the risk of him finding out her own name. "Er, well, you probably wouldn't know her. She said it was a big place." "Yeah, it's huge. But I'm good with names." Then another possibility occurred to him. "You said 'worked'. Was she killed?" "No. She wasn't in work that day. She hasn't been back since she says she isn't going back, if she can find another job." Her eyes clouded. "She lost a lot of friends." He nodded. "Me too." Or at least a lot of people I knew. Friends sounded better, though, and he

couldn't help working on her, even though he knew he already had her. "I'm sorry." She took his hand, stroking the fingers with her thumb, sympathetic but also sensual. "I won't say any more about it." He thought about milking it, but decided against it. "It's not a problem, honestly." "Oh? It's just that--" She flushed slightly. "It's just that you seemed awfully unhappy, earlier, and I wondered if that was the reason." "No. Nothing to do with that." Or not in any way that made sense without a ridiculously long explanation. "Would you like to tell me about it?" To his surprise, he found himself contemplating saying yes. There was no reason why he shouldn't. He'd listened to enough miserable, boring life stories himself in pursuit of a fuck to earn the right to do it. Presumably they'd got something out of telling some random stranger everything, beyond a glazed expression and a larger bar bill. "Sure." Trying it once in his life wouldn't hurt. "Would you like another drink first?" "I'd love one, but it's my turn to buy." With the fresh drink in front of him, he found had no idea how to start, so he borrowed one of Sara's phrases. "Bad break-up, that's all." That's all. "She left you?" "No. I left them. Him." He wondered if that had put her off, because she frowned slightly. Some women were funny about it. However, after a moment she said, "So why did you leave?" "Someone told me some things about him. Which were all true. And . . . once I'd heard them, I had to go." She nodded. "I understand. Some things you can't forget. Or forgive." She hesitated, then asked, "Was he being unfaithful?" "No. God, no. It was . . . it's a bit complicated. But the upshot was that I realised that it was going to be a disaster in the end. That there was no way in hell it could last." He frowned, wishing he'd paid more attention and was less tired, because he knew there was a formula for this kind of conversation. "Compatible. We weren't compatible. So I decided not to see him again." Put like that, without the desperation he'd felt at the time, it sounded strange. "So now you're not sure it was the right thing to do?" she asked. "No. No, I'm sure about that." She nodded, frowning thoughtfully, staring down at their hands. After a moment, she said, "But don't you think, maybe, it might've been worth it anyway?" He thought about it for a moment, then gave up. "What?" She looked up. "That the time you'd have had with him might've been worth the risk of things not working out?" "No." He thought about it again. Seeing Warrick fucking him swimming with him on Saturday mornings eating his bloody pancakes waking up with him and wondering every time whether this would be the day when he'd say, 'It's not enough'. He knew he wouldn't be able to bear it,

but at the same time, could it really be any worse than this? "Maybe. I don't know. I didn't think so when I walked out." "It must've been bad." "What?" "Whatever you heard about him. I mean . . . I hope you don't mind me saying so, but you obviously miss him. A lot." Ready to lie, he suddenly couldn't see the point. Who the hell would he be fooling? "Yes. God, yes I do." Every fucking minute of every fucking day. "But now it's too late?" "Much too late." If he kept telling himself that, eventually it would be true. "That's sad. Really sad." He nodded, letting the conversation fall into silence. He had no idea whether she meant it or not; he didn't much care, as long as she didn't change her mind about leaving with him. She had hold of his hand with both of hers now, massaging the palm. It felt good. Relaxing. He found himself genuinely looking forward to the fuck at the end of the proceedings, for the first time since . . . since he'd last fucked Warrick. Then, from behind him, a hand landed on his shoulder and he heard Warrick say, "I apologise for interrupting, but you seem to have hold of something of mine." Toreth froze, not daring to look round. It was deeply disconcerting to hear Warrick it was as if admitting out loud that he missed him had, somehow, summoned him. For a wild moment, Toreth wondered if three weeks of drugs and hard drinking had finally brought on an hallucination. Then Anne looked between them, let go of his hand and sat back. "Sorry," she said. Then, slightly defensively, she added, "He doesn't have a ring on." "Nor a collar and tag," Warrick said in a voice that could've snap-frozen a volcano. "But nevertheless, he's taken. At least for the moment. Now, I'd be grateful if you'd excuse us." She shrugged, standing up. "Sure." Then she smiled at Toreth and raised an eyebrow. Toreth nodded, praying that she wouldn't say anything to Warrick. She didn't. Instead she clinked her glass gently against his. "Good luck, then. It was nice talking to you." As she walked away, Warrick took the seat she had vacated, but he kept his hands to himself, folded on the bar. He looked at Toreth's glass and frowned. "What was all that about?" "What the hell are you doing here?" Toreth asked, ignoring the question. What did 'at least for the moment' mean? "Looking for you. And you've made it hard enough, I must say. You blocked my calls, I&I won't let me in the building, and Sara won't tell me anything. Then I waited outside the Int-Sec grounds for you with no result, so I presume you've been using another exit. The same with the gym. As you can see, I've been reduced to bar-crawling in an attempt to find you." "So take a fucking hint." He'd been looking for him. He'd been looking for him all this time. Warrick looked around, dark eyes assessing the room, lips quirking thoughtfully. Toreth wanted to kiss him, right then, as if it would somehow wipe away everything that had happened. "It's not one of your usual places," Warrick said, "which I assume is deliberate. Or is this one of

the usual places that we never go to?" Toreth closed his eyes, shutting away the temptation. It didn't help much, because Warrick was sitting so close that he imagined he could smell him. When he opened them again, he found Warrick looking at him, obviously expecting an answer. He groped back for the question. "I came here with a fuck once, and I was hoping for another one. Thanks for scaring her away. Now will you fuck off?" "That seems unlikely, don't you think, after all the trouble I've taken to find you? Where are you staying?" "None of your fucking business." Warrick carried on as if he hadn't spoken. "I've tried a credit and purchase check, but the systems are still patchy." "You won't find me. It's going straight onto expenses." "Ah, of course. I ought to have thought of that. I did get some bars to try, which is why I'm here. Well, the I&I systems will be riskier, but " "Warrick . . . " First time he'd said his name, and Toreth found himself unable to get past it. Warrick waited for a moment, then said, "I won't stay long, if you really want me to go. I simply wanted to speak to you. And I would like an explanation of why all this rigmarole has been necessary, if that's not too much trouble." "You won't get one. You don't need one. Now, fuck off." Please. Fuck off, fuck off. Skipping disk, stuck on the same message. "No, I don't think so. In an attempt to get this conversation moving, I will assume that the problem is Carnac. Or, more specifically, what Carnac said at my flat." He willed himself to get up and leave, producing no response. There seemed to be a mutiny in progress from his waist downwards, because Warrick's proximity after such a long absence was having its usual effect. His body didn't care whether Warrick was going to walk out in a month's time, or a year's time, or even in the morning it simply wanted him, right now. At least his voice still obeyed orders. "There's nothing to talk about, because he said it all, didn't he?" "They were only words. Carnac lies as much as and probably more than anyone else." "He wasn't lying, though." "Lying, talking utter shit, what's the difference?" Toreth blinked at the uncharacteristic phrasing. "Don't try to " "There is absolutely no need for this. For any of this." A hint of pleading broke through, before he sat up straighter and carried on. "What did he actually say?" "You know. You heard it." "Some of it. For the rest, I was far too busy stopping you tearing his head off something I've regretted frequently since. And of the parts I did hear, I'd still like to know what you heard, because I don't think it can have been the same thing." "He said no. I won't." Simple denial, no reason, because he couldn't think of one. Warrick sat and waited, letting the silence do the job of persuasion for him. Toreth looked down, into his drink, and wished he'd had a few more before Warrick had turned

up. "He said that you're going to leave. Because at the end of the day, we fuck, and that's all. And he's right. Why the hell should it last? I might be the world's greatest fuck but I can't " He kicked the bar, hard enough to jar his ankle painfully. "But there isn't anything else. None of the shit the rest of you want." "'Just you. It's enough'." He looked up and caught the last of a smile fading from Warrick's lips. "A quotation," Warrick said in answer to his expression. "Yeah? Who? Some clueless fucking idiot." The smile flickered again. "Very possibly. But nevertheless " "No. You can quote whoever the hell you like, it doesn't change what Carnac said, does it? Every fucking word of it was true. About me, about you and Sara. About how much I " And even though it didn't matter any more, he still couldn't say it. Because, just maybe, Warrick hadn't heard that part. "What I mean is there's no point dragging it out, so please fuck off and leave me alone." Warrick shook his head. "Carnac said some things, some of which may have been true to some degree, and then he produced a conclusion as if it followed logically. It's mental sleight-of-hand, that's all." "He made a prediction. It's what he does for a living. You're the one who said he was the best you've ever seen." He laughed bitterly. "Not that it's much of a prediction. You can't build a relationship on fucking and nothing else. Or so Elena says." "Who's she?" "Don Chevril's wife. You met her at Sara's ten year thing you must remember. She's a real stunner: hair down to her waist, legs up to her armpits, absolutely perfect skin. Fuck knows what she's doing with him." Fuck knows what you're he took a deep breath and went on quickly, talking so that he wouldn't have to say anything. "I fucked her once, at a party, in the dark. She felt like silk, inside and out. She was high as a kite we both were. She'd never have done it otherwise. We nearly died trying not to laugh, because Chev was there, talking, a few feet away. He'd kill me if he found out, so don't say anything. Even Sara doesn't know about it. I never told her because she'd only tell someone else and it'd get back to him. He'd go fucking ballistic, even after all this time. He really " "I won't leave you." So calm, so matter of fact, that the words gave him one piercing moment of hope, before reason reasserted itself. "Warrick, you don't have to say it to . . . to make me feel better or some stupid " "No, I don't. And I'm not saying it for any such reason I'm saying it because it's true." Toreth shook his head, resisting the temptation to believe despite himself. "Right. And you just happened to decide to tell me now. Coincidence." "I've never mentioned it before because I didn't think that you'd want to hear it. Besides, I didn't think it was necessary. I thought it was true enough to be obvious." "What, you've been taking lessons from fucking Carnac, now? You can't know it's true." "Very well. Here's the version with caveats. While I can't see into the future, neither can I imagine a likely scenario in which I would wish to leave you, taking into account the previous five years. At this moment, I can say that for as long as you wish me to stay and the situation between us

remains substantially the same, or changes in ways that are acceptable to both of us, I will stay with you." It was so perfectly Warrick that he listened, entranced, not hearing the words, just the flow and rhythm of it. Eventually, he said, "I liked the first one better." "I'm not going to leave you. Or was it 'I won't leave you'? In either case, the intention is the same. I could put it in writing if you'd like me to." Despite everything, he had to smile at the dead-pan seriousness of the offer. "Carnac would love that. He'd want it down and saved so that when everything went to hell he could pull the fucking file out and say that he'd told you so." "I know. Toreth, if you want me to go, now, I will. And " He paused, but his eyes didn't waver. "And if you want me to say that I won't look for you again, I'll do that too. But I would find it extremely annoying to give Carnac the satisfaction of having his prediction come true. Come home no, I mean, come back to the flat with me. Please. We can talk, or fuck, or sleep, or whatever you prefer." He half smiled. "God knows, you look like you could do with some sleep." He couldn't argue with the last part of that, at least. And he caught himself thinking, one night. One night and I could leave again tomorrow. Trying not to think it twice, he thought of something else, an inconsistency in the story that his brain had automatically flagged for attention. "How did you know where to find me?" The sudden change of subject or something else made Warrick hesitate before he answered. "I told you, I did a c&p and found the name of the bar." "No, you didn't. I've never spent any money here." "But you said " "I said I'd been here with a fuck, and I have. But he bought the drinks, not me. We only had the one round. So you're lying." Warrick clearly didn't know what to say. There was only one reason why it would be a dilemma whether to tell him the truth. It was the obvious reason anyway. "It was Sara, wasn't it?" Warrick hesitated a moment longer, then nodded. "She called me at home first thing this morning and gave me the name of your hotel." "So why didn't you go there?" "She sounded so concerned as to the possible consequences that I thought it would be less obvious if I met you somewhere else. I was regrettably unpleasant to her when I came looking for you at I&I, so I owed her a little extra consideration. She . . . well, to be truthful, she followed you here after work and then let me know where you were." He thought about the theatre, years ago now. "Quite a fucking conspiracy. Again." "Yes, I'm afraid so. Please don't be angry with her." "I'm not." He wasn't, which felt strange. He was giving in had already given in and what he felt was something like gratitude. "I'm glad to hear it. Now, will you come back to the flat?" Toreth knew he shouldn't go with him. He'd promised himself that if Warrick found him, he'd tell him to fuck off again, and keep telling him until he went. He had, at least, tried. Listening to Warrick had been the first big mistake, because he could make the most impossible things sound

completely and inarguably logical. Like Carnac. 'And there is nothing you will be able to do to make him stay'. So he'd resolved to go first. But he was too exhausted, and too lonely, to remember why it had seemed like a necessary thing to do. 'These things can always be mended. Always'. Elena had said that, and he didn't know whether to believe her any more or less than Carnac. He liked the sound of it better right now. And Sara had told him Fuck her. Fuck the lot of them. He knew what he wanted. He finished the drink Anne had bought for him and wished him luck with. "Okay. Let's go." Warrick's shoulders sagged slightly, and he bowed his head. When he looked up again, he said, "Thank you," and leaned forwards and kissed him. It was still a rare enough thing for him to do in public that the knowledge that other people might be watching added another few degrees to the delicious heat that flooded through Toreth. He's like a drug, Toreth thought, as Warrick broke the kiss and stood up. Except that no drugs were that good. If he could bottle it and sell it, he'd be a billionaire. On the way out, he noticed the woman whose name wasn't Anne, talking to a dark-haired man who simply had to be Justice, or maybe Service. She obviously had an eye for uniforms, even out of uniform. As they passed, she spotted them and smiled, raising a hand in farewell. He returned the wave, suddenly and impossibly happy. He was going home with Warrick. They'd fuck, and fall asleep, and in the morning he'd wake up and Warrick would be there. Right now, that was as far ahead as he cared to look. Outside it was freezing cold much colder than he'd noticed earlier, when he hadn't been noticing anything much. The world had come back into focus around him, and the effect disoriented him slightly. He was waiting for Warrick to find a taxi when a female voice said, "I hoped I'd catch you." When he turned, he found not-Anne, bundled up in a thick coat, scarf and gloves, which made him feel even chillier. He glanced round, but her recent companion was nowhere in evidence. "Calling it a night?" he asked. "More than that. I thought I'd copy-and-paste out of your file." "About what?" "Forgive and forget. Give things another go." She cocked her head. "Or don't you think I should?" He hesitated, blowing on his hands, trying and failing to remember anything at all that she'd told him at the start of the evening that might be a suitable subject for a reconciliation. "Sure, why not?" he said, hoping that he sounded as if he knew what she meant. "Good idea. And good luck with it." "Thanks." She smiled at him, and then unwound her scarf and wrapped it round his neck. "To keep you warm until you get home." He nodded, mute with surprise, and watched her walk briskly away, her breath leaving a plume in the frosty air. Then he straightened the scarf soft dark wool that must've cost a packet and

tucked his hands under it. There was a cough from behind him and he turned back to find Warrick standing by a taxi, door open. "Ready?" Warrick asked. "As I'll ever be." ~~~ Warrick closed the flat door and dutifully reset the security. He appreciated the necessity, but the delay annoyed him. He'd politely but firmly evicted the guard from the flat before he'd set off to the bar. Optimistic, but he hadn't wanted to have to do it now. No doubt SimTech Personnel Security would call tomorrow to protest he didn't care in the least. Now he had Toreth in the flat, Warrick knew he would stay. Or he was almost sure. He hoped he would. When he turned round, he found Toreth leaning against the wall, staring down the hallway towards the kitchen. "Toreth?" He looked round and smiled, not entirely convincingly. "Still here." Warrick crossed over and kissed him, then again, until Toreth started to respond, his hands sliding round Warrick's hips. Then Warrick pulled back and said, "Well?" "Absolutely fucking fantastic." Toreth shook his head, perhaps dismissing lingering memories of the last time he'd been here. "No, okay what?" "What do you want to do? Talk? Sleep? Fuck? It's up to you." Toreth tightened his grip, pulling him closer. "I'll give you one guess." It took longer to reach the bedroom than usual, primarily because Toreth refused to let go of him. When they finally made it to the bed, they were only half undressed and the chances of getting far enough apart to complete the operation seemed remote. It crossed Warrick's mind, briefly, that they were far too old to be behaving like this. However, most of his attention was thoroughly absorbed by the feel of Toreth pressed against him, holding him close, kissing, hips moving against his, hard flesh rubbing together. Even through far too many clothes it was almost unbearably good much too good to let him frame a request to stop so they could finish stripping. He hadn't realised how much he'd missed this, missed him or rather, he hadn't let himself think about it. Now Toreth was here, he wanted more contact, more skin against his; he wanted Toreth on him, inside him. Possessing him. And to hell with what Carnac thought about that. Toreth shifted against him, rolling them half over so that Warrick lay beneath him, and kissed him again, bruisingly hard. He moaned, feeling Toreth shudder in response, legs locking around his as he thrust against him. Evading another kiss, Warrick leaned forwards, finding Toreth's ear with his mouth. "Fuck me. I want you to " Toreth gasped, and Warrick managed to draw his breath in just before Toreth's arms tightened around him. "Warrick oh, fuck." And his whole body strained against him as he came.

When the tremors subsided, Toreth showed no sign of letting go. Warrick shifted his shoulders, trying to gain some breathing space, because suffocation had begun to seem like a real danger. To his relief, Toreth loosened his hold, and moved down the bed to lie against him, panting into his chest. "Christ," he said between breaths, his voice muffled but distinctly embarrassed. "Haven't done that for a while. And still nearly fucking dressed. Sorry." "It doesn't matter in the slightest." Not true, but what else could he say? "If anything, I feel rather flattered." That was the point at which he expected Toreth to pull away. To his surprise, he moved fractionally closer fractionally being all that was possible. "So you should. No one else can make me . . . no. Listen. I'll tell you something." He took a deep breath, his face still hidden. "You're the best fuck in the world you always have been." He stroked Toreth's shoulders, feeling the tension in them through his shirt. He didn't know what to say something was necessary, and in the end too flippant felt safer than too serious. "Well, if there were ever anyone who'd tested a statistically significant sample . . . " He didn't laugh. "Warrick, I mean it." "I know you do." That was perhaps a touch too sincere, a little too serious, because Toreth let go and rolled away from him, onto his back. He lay with his arms behind his head, still breathing deeply, and looking studiously up at the ceiling. Warrick cast around for a distraction, eventually finding something. "If anyone ought to apologise, then it's me." That seemed to work, because Toreth looked round and frowned. "What the hell for?" "I forget the specifics, but I think it was for doubting that you'd be able to thwart Carnac's plans. As you clearly did, I can only say that I'm sorry I underestimated you." "Fuck, I'd completely forgotten about that. Thanks. But . . . do you still think he should've closed down I&I?" The question caught him by surprise. After a moment's thought he said, "Not the way he wanted to do it. If the reforms stick, then I much prefer your solution. If they stick." Toreth nodded. "That depends on the new Administration letting them stick, doesn't it?" More or less what Carnac had said, and Warrick strongly suspected that Toreth shared Carnac's opinion of how likely it was. However, pursuing the conversation any further would only ruin the night, so he didn't reply. Toreth would be happy to let it go, because he always was. Warrick sat up and stripped off his remaining clothes, then moved across the bed, stealthy approach, until he lay against Toreth, touching full length. He expected a protest, but Toreth instead lifted his head briefly and moved his arm down to hold him, pressing him closer. They lay together, Toreth's fingers tracing patterns on his back, mapping out bone and muscle. After so long, every square centimetre of his skin ached for attention. Shivers started, up and down his back, running away from the gently exploring fingers. He tried to keep the reaction under control, but it was impossible he wanted Toreth too much. Flattering as Toreth's loss of control was, that was inadequate recompense for delaying what he desperately needed to make the reunion complete. His cock pressed against Toreth's hip, and eventually he couldn't keep still. He rubbed forwards

gently, trying for discretion, opening his mouth to keep the sigh silent. Toreth lifted his head and looked down at him. "Warrick?" It was an offer. Warrick shook his head. "I'll wait. I want " and he stopped to rephrase. "I need you to fuck me." Toreth's fleeting acquaintance with embarrassment seemed to have passed, because he grinned and settled back into the pillow. "Well . . . okay. If you insist. Later, then." "Mm. Not too much later." Toreth laughed. "Give me a chance. You're fucking insatiable, you know that?" "You've mentioned it before." It seemed uncharitable to point out that he hadn't been satiated in the first place for quite some time. He thought Toreth was falling asleep, because the hand on his back slowed and stilled, but after a minute or so, Toreth ran his thumb down his spine and said, "Say it again." There were two choices, and he took the riskier one. "I'll never leave you." Whether it was what he'd asked for or not, Toreth smiled. "Never is new." "That's what you get for asking me in bed. It reminds me why I put up with you." He cursed himself silently as Toreth's smile froze, then melted away. Warrick knew exactly what he was thinking. 'You're not that good a fuck, and, really, what else do you have'? Warrick didn't plan to add that to the list of topics best not mentioned. "He's right, of course." Toreth turned towards him again, confusion replacing what might have been fear. "Who?" "Carnac and the delectable Elena, for that matter. You can't build a relationship on nothing but fucking, not even when the fucking is this good." He felt Toreth shifting, starting to pull away. "Certainly not one that would last for, say, five years." Silence. "I suppose so," Toreth said eventually. "If you want to look at it like that." Oddly reassured by how uncomfortable he sounded with the idea, Warrick rested his hand on Toreth's chest, feeling his heart beat. "A major flaw in his logic, one might say." "One just did say." Toreth placed his hand on top of Warrick's, interleaving their fingers. Then he said, "Once more." "I won't leave you." He hesitated, then added, "And I can tell you why, if you'd like to hear it." Toreth shook his head quickly. "No. Don't. That's . . . that was the last time I'll ask, anyway." "It doesn't have to be. I don't mind telling you, not in the least." "No. But I mind asking." Toreth turned away again, closing his eyes. "That's enough. It's finished. Let's just forget about it about everything, and especially about fucking Carnac." "As you prefer." Barriers, being rebuilt. In a way, it was almost a relief. Toreth with his guard down, and not even coming at the time, was frankly disconcerting. The openness couldn't last, because the hidden fears that Carnac had dragged into the light were still there and no amount of repetition or reassurance would ever eliminate them. But they were here, together, now, and that was enough.

Chapter Twenty-One
In the third city since they had left Administration territory, Leo watched Kate sleeping in the broad hotel bed. By the cool dawn light he thought that, despite her grey hair, she looked astonishingly young. And beautiful no less beautiful than the day he had first seen her in the flesh, at their planned accidental meeting. Then, as now, the picture in her security file didn't do her justice. He had followed up the message that Kate was in danger from what he'd acknowledged to be a sentimental attachment to the memory of a woman he had not spoken to for a third of a lifetime. The letters handed to him so casually by his son had changed all that. In a way, he was glad that he hadn't seen them before. He had loved her, against all reason and protocol, from the first moment he had seen her. The years apart had blunted the memory of that and the pain of leaving her; a reminder so sharp, so vivid, delivered every week would have made those years unbearable. He'd started to read the letters while he organised her release, and then kept reading through the night, right up to the time he had set off to meet her. The opening letter he now knew by heart. Darling, Now that you have been taken from me, I know that I should let you go, but it seems so unfair that we had so little time together. If you could have seen me crying every night this week, I'm sure you would have been very cross with me. So now, I promise, no more tears. I will try to accept what cannot be changed, and go on, for the children and for everything our lives together meant. And I hope that, if you can somehow still hear me, you will forgive me this one indulgence to your memory. Keir and Dilly miss you terribly . . . He had loved her, once. He loved her again before he finished the first page, and he loved her more with every letter. They had moved him, amused him, saddened him, and made him deeply grateful for everything she had worked so hard to give him. Thirty-five years of herself and their children, a life in words that now felt more real to him than his own. In return, he had given her a single month, and he bitterly regretted that it was all he had to give. During that month they had talked about the past, not the future, but it was the future that occupied him now. Tomorrow he was due back at Int-Sec. No excuses or explanations would be accepted for a longer absence. Even now they were being watched. If he failed to return, they faced a life (and probably a short one) of flight and fear. The alternative defection from the Administration, the bartering of a lifetime of secrets in exchange for safety would be unthinkable for both of them. What he had done for her so far had used up many of the favours he had accrued in his long career. It had cost him all the rest to make sure that their son's name would never be connected to any of this Kate had insisted that the children must be safe, and for this month he had been able to refuse her nothing. He knew that she missed Europe, missed her home, and that most of all she missed her children, and Valeria, the grandchild he had never met. They must miss her too, as much he had done, or more. Her letters had given him the sweet illusion of a life lived together, and now her letters to them would have to do the same. He would ensure that they received them regularly. Stooping over the bed, he kissed her, and told her that he loved her, and she smiled in her sleep.

He had made her happy, for this brief time together, and that was some comfort. Not a great deal, but some. From the beginning they had both known the dangers, and the prices that might have to be paid. Once before, for the old Administration, he had given her up. Now, for the new Administration, he did what had to be done. And, because he loved her, and was grateful, he made quite sure that Kate didn't feel the shot that killed her.

Family Values
Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter One
"There's something I'd like to ask you, if I may?" Warrick's 'serious conversation' voice normally gave Toreth a reflexive urge to leave the building as quickly as possible. The urge was dampened, in this case, by the fact that he was naked, and that Warrick had spent the last half hour massaging him into a boneless heap of pure relaxation. Maybe that had been the point. "What?" Toreth asked. "I was just wondering . . . " Nothing, apparently, because the sentence trailed off a rare occurrence with Warrick. "Mm," Toreth said, and closed his eyes. Silence was fine by him. It had worked very well so far this morning. After a minute, Warrick said, "It seems a long time since the revolt, don't you think?" Where the fuck was this going, Toreth wondered? Then Warrick ran his palms down on each side of Toreth's spine, and talking didn't seem too high a price to pay to keep him doing it. Massage was fairly boring, after all, for the masseur. Now what the hell had Warrick asked? Something about the revolt, about "Well, yeah, it is a long time," Toreth said, his voice muffled by his arm. "Couple of months anyway." "Yes. Nine weeks since it started. Five since Carnac left I&I. And you've been here for almost a fortnight." So that was it. He'd been expecting this, because he'd known that there was only so long Warrick would be able to bear the invasion of his previously spotless flat. "You want me to go back to my place." "That's not quite what I " "It's not a problem. I still haven't got round to sorting things out there, that's all, because . . . " Because he had pushed it so far down his priority list that it had dropped off the bottom. "I'll get Sara onto it." "No, you misunderstand." Warrick paused to trickle more oil over Toreth's lower back. "I'm not complaining. Far from it. If I wanted you to leave, I would say so." True enough. However, now the topic had come up, the ignore-it-and-hope-no-one-notices strategy was fucked. "I'll sort it out." "Of course." Warrick sounded oddly tense, although his hands didn't give up the pressure as he rubbed his thumbs in circles at the top of Toreth's thighs. "If that's what you want to do." What else would he . . . ? And then Toreth realised. "Are you " No, it was a ridiculous idea. Obviously another misunderstanding. "Mm? Am I what?" "Are you asking if I want to stay?" "I didn't wish to make any assumptions." He worked his hands slowly higher, driving out the incipient tension. "I'm not expecting an instant decision one way or another. Some indication of your

long-term plans would be helpful, that's all." Toreth thought it over. Or tried to think it over. He considered telling Warrick that if he was hoping for serious mental exertion on his part he should stop, or at least move his hands somewhere else. At this moment, or probably any other, he could think about domestic arrangements or he could have his buttocks massaged, but he couldn't combine both. Of the two, he knew which he preferred. He squirmed slightly, which was as much movement as he could summon the energy for, hoping to direct Warrick's fingers somewhere that would distract them both from the question. Warrick seemed serious enough about not expecting an immediate response, because he obediently stroked down, pausing briefly for more oil. A finger teased him for a while, until he was wriggling again, involuntarily this time, then pushed gently into him. "Ah . . . mmh. Yes. Nice." "Charmingly monosyllabic," Warrick said. If he could manage to open his eyes and look round (both of which seemed unlikely), he'd be able to see Warrick's face. But he didn't need to he could hear the smile in his voice. What he wanted to say was Please, God, yes, keep doing that. More and more, for as long as I can stand it, and then fuck me. Come inside me, with me, then let's fall asleep here and I'll answer your stupid bloody questions later. A lot later. Instead he dragged himself up onto his elbows and went straight for the difficult part. "Would you want me to stay?" "That's an interesting question." The slow, easy rhythm of Warrick's finger inside him didn't falter. "Or a complex one, at any rate. I have given it some thought." It was probably extensive practise in the sim that meant Warrick could discuss and fuck at the same time. Toreth had always thought it was a very unfair advantage, but he wasn't about to start complaining now. That raised the awful prospect of Warrick stopping. The continuing silence suggested Warrick expected a contribution to the conversation. Monosyllabic seemed to be working so far. "Yeah? And?" "Occasional disagreements notwithstanding, I enjoy your company. I certainly enjoy the convenience of having you here, whenever I want you." Toreth moaned as a second finger joined the first, stretching him until he deliberately relaxed to accommodate it. Much tenser than he ought to be. "It's also, ah, significantly less disruptive than I expected," Warrick said. "Disruptive?" "In terms of clothes and towels on the floor, mess in the kitchen and so on. And, incidentally, I do appreciate the effort." Toreth might have taken offense, if Warrick hadn't finished the sentence by leaning forward and trailing feather-light kisses down his neck and upper back. "No problem," he managed once his spine had uncurled. "Good. I realise that I'm not the easiest person to share accommodation with, even on a temporary basis." Toreth grinned into the crisp pillowcase, fresh on the bed last night. "You're fine. For an obsessive-compulsive control freak with a clean towel fetish."

"Mm. Indeed. However, to return to the discussion, I wouldn't be opposed in principle to extending the experiment. On the other hand " which Warrick slid down between his legs, slick with oil, stroking his balls gently, " there are downsides to the idea. The flat is fundamentally too small for both of us, if you were . . . intending to spend a lot more of your time here." Move in, Toreth nearly said. Just say move in. We both know what we're talking about. But, somehow, he couldn't say it. The urge to leave, or at least to end the conversation, tugged at him again. However, the difficulty of concentrating with Warrick doing that made it a challenge, rather than an ordeal. "So . . . mmh, yeah, again . . . so what?" Warrick changed position, lying down beside him, propped on one elbow. "It would seem logical to move somewhere larger," he continued. "One reason I raise the question now is that, in view of the recent upsets, SimTech has reappraised my security assessment. They've asked me to consider moving somewhere with fundamentally greater protection. Actually, the head of security is being rather insistent about it. I need to know what kind of place I should look for." "I suppose so." Toreth shifted on the bed. "Can you a bit. Deeper . . . ah, yes. Fuck, that's good." Warrick laughed softly. "Nice to be appreciated. Anyway, that brings up a second point. I own this flat or to be accurate, SimTech owns it. The same would be true of a new flat. Would you have a problem with that?" "Why the fuck would I care?" "Honestly? Because I've made mistakes in the past and bought things for you, or arranged things to do, which were too expensive, and you disliked it. I'm sure I'd feel exactly the same if our financial positions were reversed." True enough. He considered it carefully, or as carefully as he could manage. "It'd be different." "Are you sure? Why?" "I could always apply for another flat if I didn't like it. I wouldn't have to stay there. But . . . " "But?" "I'd have to register the change of address. And my status in the new accommodation." "Ah. I'd forgotten all about that. Is that a problem?" Ridiculously, yes. "No. Does it matter what the hell it says in some file at the Department of Population?" "Not at all, as far as I'm concerned. I'm sure we can find a suitable box to select." There was silence for a few minutes, except for murmurs of appreciation and encouragement. Toreth began to hope that the conversation had run its course and they could get down to "There are other things. Such as " Warrick stopped and, more annoyingly, his hand stopped as well. Toreth nudged up with his hips, to no effect. "What?" "Do you ever take people back to your flat?" "Do I ? Oh, you mean fucks." "Yes. Fucks." He started stroking again. "Because that is something I couldn't tolerate. What you do away from here is your own business and I accept that, but " "I wouldn't do it. I wouldn't want to. I never take anyone home now. Only you." He paused.

"That's something else." "What?" "We keep most of the gear at my place. If we," lived together, "didn't have somewhere else, it would all have to be here. Or wherever. For people to see if they started nosing around. Dillian, for example." He bit back a moan of disappointment as Warrick took his hand away and knelt up again, sitting back on his heels. "She wouldn't." Tempting to agree, just to make him come back. "Jesus, you're joking. Of course she would. What would she think about the drawerful of stuff that was looted from my place?" Warrick hesitated, then said, "She'd be upset." "Upset? She'd throw a fucking fit, and then she'd have me arrested and you committed. I know how she feels about it. She thinks I beat you up, to start with. And that's before she gets on to what I do do to you. Remember what she was like about the cabinet?" "I remember how the hell do you know?" Curiosity, with irritation keeping it company. Oh, fuck. There was such a thing as being too relaxed. Warrick hated the idea of their sex life being a topic of outside discussion. Putting the blame on Dillian was a risky strategy, but in this case it was true. "She had 'a little word' with me about it. She said you'd shown it to her." It wasn't necessary to add 'which you never told me'. "Well . . . yes, I did. She noticed the bruises, so I had to say something. And what did she say?" He shrugged. "I don't remember. It was a long time ago." "Toreth, what did she say?" A non-negotiable tone of voice. "The usual. I don't like you, I'm keeping my eye on you. Be careful with him. If you hurt him, I'll etcetera." "Etcetera?" "Call Justice, I expect I've usually stopped listening by that point." Dillian would be happy with this, anyway, spoiling a so-far lovely morning without even being here. "It's none of her business, as I have made abundantly clear in the past. I'll remind her the next time I see her." Better and better. "Don't bother. There's no point it won't do anybody any good. You won't change her mind, and she doesn't need extra reasons to be fucked off with me." "I . . . very well." A further hesitation and then finally the combined massage and fingerfuck resumed. It took five minutes for Toreth to get back to the same state of happy relaxation, during which there were no further comments from Warrick. However, his next words made clear what he had been thinking about. "I have tried to explain it to her." Toreth sighed and hunted for a suitable discourager. "It doesn't matter. Listen what Dillian thinks about me is so far down the list of things I give a shit about that you'd pass housework before you got to it." That drew a small laugh. "So little? But I didn't want you to imagine that I let her think things

like that and didn't say anything. I could try " "Warrick, leave it. Don't give her ammunition. She's going to be bad enough as it is about me sharing a flat with you." It took him a few seconds to realise that he'd said it, quite accidentally. 'She's going to be'. That sounded dangerously like a decision. Silence. Then Warrick said, "Turn over." Too much effort. "Why?" "Because I want to fuck you. And I want to see your face while I do it." Warrick leaned down and gently bit the nape of his neck. "And, assuming the timing works out, I want to watch your eyes as you come. Then I plan to come also, and very probably fall asleep soon afterwards. After that I'm going to wing it. There may be a shower, and then coffee and some lunch and " "For God's sake. All right." Finally, he managed to roll over. "The fuck will do fine; I don't need your bloody schedule for the day." He shifted across the bed, allowing Warrick to move above him, and brought his legs up smoothly, resting his calves on Warrick's shoulders. As usual, Warrick paused and looked down. "God. That is so . . . I can't explain how much of a turn-on that is." "Enjoy it while you can." "Oh?" Toreth turned his feet inward, running his toes through Warrick's hair. "Yeah. Because I'm not going to be able to manage it forever. It's not as easy as it used to be." "Mm." Warrick kissed his ankle, then bit it gently. "Better make sure we get to the gym today, then. Shall we stop?" "If you stop now, I'll probably kill you." "In that case " Warrick leaned down, stretching his legs, and Toreth curled up to meet him for a kiss. Finally, Toreth thought, conversation over.

Chapter Two
In a way, he hoped Warrick would think better of the idea and quietly forget it. For the rest of the week, it seemed as if he had. Nothing was said, nothing arranged. Toreth continued to stay at the flat, but it felt different suddenly claustrophobic at odd moments. Unconsciously, Toreth had been aware of his residence there as a temporary thing. The possibility that it could become permanent, even though it would be elsewhere, had changed things. However, at the end of the week, on Friday morning, a message arrived at work from Warrick. He read it over, several times, then went out to speak to Sara. "I'm leaving at four today, or I'd like to. Is there anything urgent that I don't know about?" he asked, hoping for a yes. Sara shook her head. "Nothing at all. You know how quiet it's been since, well . . . " Since the revolt. Part of the problem was that the Administration's systems were still in confusion. However, the lack of work could largely be put down to uncertainty. It wasn't easy for a division devoted to investigating political crimes to find cases when no one knew for sure any more what a political crime was. "Where are you going?" Sara asked. For a moment, he had a ridiculous urge to lie. Then he said, "Flat hunting." "Oh, right." She looked back at the screen and he thought he'd got away with it, then invisible antennae twitched and she turned round. "On your own?" The innocent enquiry didn't fool him for a second. "With Warrick. He's looking for a new place." "A new place for him?" "Who else?" Yes, lying was easier. It wasn't as though they'd actually agreed anything yet. "He just thought I might be interested to see what the places looked like." Her eyes went wide. "You're moving in with him!" Heads came up around the room. Toreth tried to ignore them. "Put it out over the fucking system, why don't you?" She paled. "Sorry," she said, in almost a whisper. He hadn't meant it that seriously. What the hell was wrong with her? Whatever it was, it and then it hit him. Carnac. She was still feeling guilty about what she'd said to Carnac about his parents. He ought to have guessed at once, because this wasn't the first time; the weirdest things set her off about it. Toreth added another few euros to the debt to be extracted from Carnac if they ever met again. The bastard was going to have to put on some weight to come up with enough pounds of flesh to cover it. For the moment, he had no idea what to say to her. All he could think of in the end was to ask, "Fancy coming along?" To his surprise, her face lit up. "Can I really?" "Sure, if you like. Although I don't think it's going to be that exciting." "What? The kind of places Warrick's going to be looking at? Who wouldn't want to?"

Well, himself, for one, but neither could he bear the idea of Warrick making the decision on his own. However, he felt unexpectedly better about the idea. Sara would be moral support, in a way. Someone from his world, not Warrick's. Toreth paused and considered that last thought. Christ, but he was making a production out of this. They were only looking at a bloody flat. ~~~ Warrick picked them up in the SimTech car. He didn't seem in the least surprised to see Sara, although her inclusion apparently came as a shock to the other man in the car Rob McLean. However, his expression of surprise was short-lived, and after a round of greetings, the security consultant made a stoically silent fourth to the party. Fine from Toreth's point of view, although now Sara's interest in McLean seemed to have waned, Toreth was willing to concede the man wasn't too irritating. Hard to forget, though, that he'd been a witness to Carnac's little speech. When Warrick began to speak, Toreth was grateful for the distraction. "I have two places to try this evening," Warrick said as they drove off. "One's a new complex I have a recommendation for it from one of the sponsors. The other one's somewhere older. Even if you don't like them, it'll give you an idea of the size and layout I have in mind. Then I thought we could go back to the flat and look at specs for other places." "Sounds fine." Toreth winced inwardly at his own voice he sounded like Warrick was offering a trip to the morgue. The drive felt like an eternity, although it was actually only fifteen minutes. The car turned left, a barrier lifted, and they drove down into an underpass brightly lit and obviously newly constructed. Toreth glanced at Sara, who was craning her neck round, trying to get a glimpse through the darkened front of the car. Then the incline changed and they headed up again. The complex opened up in front of them like a puzzle box, surrounding them on all sides a mesmerizing construction of multilevelled buildings in glass and white stone. An open area of grass and flowing water in the centre softened the effect. The newness of the place everything clean and sharp-edged was overwhelming. It looked like a brochure, or a CGI presentation. Hearing a low whistle, he tore his gaze away from the window to find McLean looking faintly embarrassed. Sara, sitting opposite him with her mouth wide open, said nothing. That was how he'd describe it later to Chevril classy enough to shut Sara up. Toreth looked at Warrick. "Jesus fucking Christ. You have got to be fucking joking." Warrick smiled, looking as delighted as if he'd built the incredible place himself in the sim. "Not at all. However, I should say don't get your expectations up too far. We'll be looking at one of the smaller flats." They left the car outside the front entrance. Passing through the doors, which had no suspicion of a smudge on the glittering glass, Toreth felt a very strong sense that he ought to be on duty. He'd never been anywhere like this when he wasn't. Warrick gave SimTech's name at the vast reception desk and then they waited there. Toreth looked round at decor and people. The whole place stank of money, of corporate privilege and Senior Administration weekday residences. The kind of place people like Tillotson dreamed of living one day, when they'd backstabbed and slimed their way to the upper grades. Toreth had never even thought

about it. When their guide arrived after a minute or two, Toreth was almost too distracted to notice that it was a very attractive young woman, with the same shiny, expensive perfection as the building. Not quite that distracted, though. He put 'fuckable staff' down in his mental 'pros' column. McLean seemed to like the security, nodding approval to himself from time to time as they walked through the corridors. Toreth spotted plenty of obvious cameras, as well as a number of more discreet versions. There were equally discreet uniformed guards in evidence, some clearly armed. No doubt the security had been tightened up after the revolt. Toreth remained in a slight daze for the first part of the tour of the complex facilities. The ground floor held expensive shops and a variety of restaurants, currently almost empty. There was also a vast and comprehensively equipped gym that Toreth tried to imagine having the freedom to wander into any time he chose. Another big plus, and it made the concept of living in a place like this marginally more real, but at the same time somehow more uncomfortable. Toreth felt like a . . . a something he couldn't remember. As they walked through the endless corridors, he distracted himself with a search for the nagging word. Something he'd heard a long time ago and stashed away. By the time they reached the door of the flat, he had settled on either 'concubine' or 'catamite'. Not that he could remember what the latter meant, but he didn't much like it. Despite Warrick's warning, Toreth had prepared himself for something ridiculously vast; as it turned out, the flat was merely large. His own place would've just about squeezed into the combined living and dining area. There must be far bigger flats in the complex, but Warrick wouldn't waste SimTech's money gratuitously. Still, it was comfortable for two, and definitely excessive for one, at least by normal New London housing standards. Toreth wondered if McLean knew Toreth would be moving in, and whether SimTech security assessed the suitability of cohabitees as well as habitations. As they inspected the flat, Toreth derived a certain amount of amusement from the confusion the composition of their party caused their guide. Since Warrick or at least SimTech had made the appointment, she addressed the majority of her remarks to him. McLean had such an obviously professional air that he couldn't be anything other than paid security. However, she kept looking between Toreth and Sara, trying to work out the relationships, clearly wondering whether either of them ought to be included in the sales pitch. Judging by Warrick's occasional smile when the woman's attention was elsewhere, he'd also noticed her confusion and wasn't about to enlighten her. The air smelt strongly of new carpet and fresh paint. "I'm afraid you can't go in," the woman said as she opened the bathroom door. Tiles shone, spotless. "They finished decorating this morning and the adhesive isn't cured yet. This section of the complex has only just been opened for sale and we're expecting them to go quickly. We brought the opening date forwards, despite the recent troubles." "Or because of them?" Warrick asked. "Yes." She stepped back to make room, addressing her next remarks to McLean. "We've had enquiries from a number of corporate security departments. We provide a full protection service, with a twenty-four-hour armed security presence." McLean nodded. "I've seen the brochure. It's very impressive." Sara had taken the invitation to look around at face value. As Toreth peered over Warrick's

shoulder through the bathroom door, she reappeared beside him and grabbed his hand. "Come and look at this," she said, in a whisper that would have carried the length of the building. She led him through an open plate glass door and onto a large balcony. "Isn't it fabulous?" The flat was high up and tucked away in an angle of the architecture, and he wondered how much difference that made to the price. Perhaps not as much as before if many corporates were retreating into havens like this. From up here, the activity in the complex was more obvious: a handful of expensive cars entering or leaving, people strolling between entrances or along glassed-in walkways. Toreth leaned on the railing and looked over the edge into the centre of the complex, judging distances to cover and lines of sight. "McLean won't like it," he said after a while. "Alarmed or not, this is a large exterior access." "The whole complex is secure, though, isn't it?" "Yeah, I suppose so." The comment crystallised the feeling he'd had since they drove in. The elegant, beautiful buildings made him think of the detention level at I&I. Closed off from the outside world a prison. "Come on," he said. Not surprisingly, they found Warrick in the kitchen, discussing fittings and fixtures options with the agent. Toreth waited patiently for about ten seconds, then said, "Are you done?" It came out as more of a demand than a question, and Warrick looked round, surprised. "I . . . yes, I suppose so." "Good. Let's go." As they walked back to the entrance, Warrick asked, "What do you think of the gym?" "Nice." "Situation?" "Well, it's within walking distance of I&I, if I use one of the other gates. Further than my flat, but not too much further." "So, overall, do you like it?" "It's fantastic. But " He shrugged, unable to find the right words. "I mean, it's a bit . . . " Warrick shook his head. "No, actually, it's a lot. I don't think I could live here." Toreth blinked at him. "I thought you liked it," he said after a moment. "I do. The flat was excellent. However, there is a fine line between security and imprisonment. This is much too far across that line for my tastes." McLean, a little way ahead of them, must have heard, but he didn't comment. Toreth assumed that the security consultant had learned by now the futility of trying to change Warrick's mind once it was made up. Sara sighed and tilted her head to gaze with exaggerated wistfulness at the entrance to the shopping area as they passed it. "And I was so looking forwards to visiting you here." Warrick patted her shoulder in mock commiseration. "You'll get over it. See what you think of the next place."

~~~ At the second prospect, they parked the car a little way away rather than use the secure underground entrance. The late afternoon sun coloured the three white buildings a golden orange as they walked towards them. According to Warrick they had been rescued, at an expense Toreth couldn't imagine, from the clearing of the ruins of the old city. The decontamination alone must have cost more than the construction of a new building. Something Toreth had never understood what did it matter if they were the real thing rather than a modern copy? At first inspection, the trio of buildings were nowhere near as extravagant as the complex they had recently left. Nor were they in one of the prized corporate residential centres. However, Toreth knew the area from cases he'd investigated. Set on the edge of the corporate heartland of New London, roughly halfway between the university and the Int-Sec complex, the flats had a respectable location. "What do you think of it?" Warrick asked. He liked the style of the exterior clean curves, distinctive and idiosyncratic but not outrageously ostentatious, and he said so. Warrick nodded. "Art Deco." He smiled suddenly, brilliantly. "I've always wanted to live here, or somewhere like here. But flats rarely come up for sale, because there are so few. They're not to modern tastes." As they walked, Toreth examined the outer perimeter fence. Decorative metal, high and with regular notices warning of anti-intruder measures, nature unspecified. He liked the look more than the last place. At least the outside world was visible. Across the road from the residential buildings stood a commerce and entertainment complex, of modern construction but in the same style. According to the flat spec it was connected to the older buildings by underground access. They bypassed the complex, to Sara's obvious disappointment, and carried on to the main entrance. The unmanned gates opened to Warrick's ID, allowing them into a fenced courtyard area. A man emerged from a low, white building largely hidden by glossy-leaved evergreen shrubs. "Doctor Warrick?" The first few minutes of the tour consisted of a potted history of the place, which Toreth ignored. He looked around the courtyard, noticing McLean doing the same thing. Both of them assessing the security, Toreth thought, if for different reasons. It took Warrick a little time to pry out of the agent the detail that the previous owner had died here the man obviously expected them to be put off by the revelation, and was plainly relieved when they weren't. "That might lower the price," Sara whispered to Toreth as they set off towards the building entrance, and he nodded. Not that it was anything to do with him, but the idea of a slight bargain appealed somehow. As they climbed the stairs up to the third floor, Toreth heard Sara say to McLean, "It doesn't look as safe as the last place." "It isn't," he replied, sounding disapproving. "It's in the bottom quarter of the acceptable scoring." "Scoring?" she asked. "There's a system for assessing security provision in a building. And another one for assigning a value to personnel. It's not quite as bad as it looks. This place does meet Doctor Warrick's required

level. The security systems are top class, and there are a lot of concealed modifications to the structure. Sympathetic to the architecture." Toreth looked over his shoulder. "And you don't like architectural sympathy?" McLean smiled slightly. "Not when I'm on duty, no." At the top of the stairs, Warrick stopped and turned. "You're exaggerating the risk, McLean." "Possibly." He didn't look at all discomforted. "But that's my job, too. I'd rather have completely modern construction with better-assessed materials." "It's in the corporate high security zone. If there's any sign of trouble, the whole district is saturated with corporate security forces. Not to mention Service troopers." "If the troopers show up, yes." Warrick shrugged. "A fair point." He turned to the hovering agent. "Please, carry on." The flat was significantly larger than Warrick's current residence, but it was still a sane size for two people. It spread over two floors, which would be a novelty for Toreth. He'd never lived anywhere with internal stairs. It opened a whole new range of possibilities for fucking. Downstairs there was a kitchen, living room, dining room, office, and a completely empty room, with startlingly green walls, that the agent called a library. Toreth boggled slightly at the idea of living somewhere with a library; Warrick seemed quite unfazed by the idea. Upstairs, the main bathroom contained an interestingly large bath, and Toreth spotted an oddly reassuring cracked tile or two. There was a second, smaller bathroom off the main bedroom with a spacious shower. Added to the one squeezed into an oddly-shaped room downstairs, Toreth realised they'd have more toilets than residents, which seemed wrong. Still, the place wasn't vast. Not so obviously corporate, either. Not so easy to imagine hordes of guests here, and corporate events full of tedious corporate tossers Toreth didn't know or didn't want to know. There were two smaller bedrooms as well as the main one, and a room described in the particulars as a dressing room, which Warrick suggested would do as somewhere to keep Toreth's exercise equipment. The master bedroom certainly appealed even with furniture, there would be plenty of floor space for games. The large curved windows, filled with coloured glass, flooded the room with tinted evening light. Best of all, the room was shaped to provide a large alcove opposite the central window. Probably meant for the bed, but there was room elsewhere for that. Toreth imagined the curtains looped back on either side, framing the alcove, the cabinet within it, and Warrick, his body dappled with sunlight through the coloured panes. Panes and pain Toreth smiled, surprising himself with the idea that he liked the place. So surprised, in fact, that he felt compelled to tell someone, to test the feeling out. "It's not bad, is it?" he asked Sara. "No, I suppose not. No balcony like the last one, though." "And has fewer shops?" She grinned. "There is that. But it's further from I&I." "The extra walk won't kill me. Or I can get a taxi and walk the last part." "Not so convenient for nighttime calls." Toreth shrugged. "If I'm further away, maybe I'll get fewer of them."

"No gym in the building," she said. "There's a swimming pool in the basement. Probably something across the road, too." Talking himself out of the problems with it. That had to be a good sign, didn't it? When Warrick asked him what he thought, he didn't have to feign enthusiasm. "It's great." "If you want to think about it . . . " That was the last thing he wanted to do. "No. I'm fine with it if you are." "Excellent." Warrick turned to the agent. "I'll we'll take it. I'll have someone get in touch with you to discuss details." As they left the building, Toreth said, "Christ, can you just do that?" "What?" "Say you'll take it." "Well, no. But I can tell Asher tomorrow, and she can clear it with the appropriate people. This flat is somewhat cheaper than the first one we looked at, which should please her." Warrick's slightly sour tone caught his attention. "Is SimTech in trouble?" he asked. "Good Lord, no!" Warrick stopped in the middle of the courtyard. "Or . . . not yet, at least. But the market for luxury items like the sim has taken a rather brutal hammering, so any savings are welcome." "So why move at all?" Sara asked. "I did offer to pick somewhere less expensive, or even stay at the current place, but " "Neither of those options are possible," McLean said with finality. "The security is what costs. All the corporate insurance schemes are increasing their required security levels for providing coverage. You'd be uninsurable." "So I've been told," Warrick said. "But security already did a first approximation check of this place, so I don't imagine there will be any problem. Will there?" The security officer shrugged. "Not from what I've seen." Warrick looked at his watch. "Shall we get something to eat?" In a spirit of exploration, they tried one of the restaurants in the complex opposite. In view of Toreth and Sara's uniforms they avoided the more expensive-looking establishments, although the Eastern Mediterranean place they eventually selected would still have rated a stiff memo from Accounts if Toreth had tried to slide it past on expenses without a good cover story. Conversation during the meal revolved entirely around flats and other domestic things, and was carried out primarily by Warrick and Sara. Toreth felt glad she'd come along, since he couldn't think of much to contribute. The easy spirit in which he'd agreed to living at the flat had slipped away, leaving him feeling oddly exposed. McLean sat in an apparently more contented silence, expressing professional opinions when required to do so. Someone else spectating on a world he didn't belong to, Toreth thought. But so was Sara, and she seemed quite at home and not in the least overawed by the evidence of Warrick's corporate credentials. Toreth had liked the flat. As the meal wore on, he found himself having to deliberately recall that, silently repeating it. For a while, thinking of the master bedroom and the prospect of installing the cabinet there worked to ward off the growing unease. However, by the time the other three were

discussing dessert, even that image had lost its power. The discomfort, vague and so impossible to drive away, grew until it was hard even to sit still. Then he wondered why the hell he was bothering. There was no obligation to stay, no reason to put himself through this. Warrick wouldn't care, and keeping up a front for Sara was even more stupid, considering what she'd seen in the past. McLean could go fuck himself. Toreth stood up abruptly, dropping his napkin on the floor and not bothering to pick it up. "I've got to go." No need to apologise or explain. Warrick simply nodded while Sara said, "See you on Monday." Once the restaurant door closed behind Toreth, Warrick looked at Sara, who shrugged and held her glass out for a refill. A moment later, McLean discovered a tactful need to visit the toilet. "What did you expect?" Sara said, when they were alone. "More or less that, at some point." "He'll be back. And he'll say yes to the flat." "Do you think so?" he asked, surprised by her confidence. "I know so." She had a mouthful of the wine. "Are you going to get new furniture?" "Mm . . . yes. I'll have to pay for it personally, rather than taking money from SimTech, but I'll buy something new for the living room and dining room at least." Not the bedroom furniture or at least he'd have to get new furniture that also matched the cabinet. The bedroom at the new flat had conjured some irresistible images. He glanced down at his hands, automatically rubbing his wrists, then looked up in time to see Sara hiding a smile. "Sorry," she said. He shook his head, annoyed with himself rather than her. "I don't want to embarrass you." She waved her hand dismissively. "Doesn't bother me in the least. Why on Earth would it? Actually, I think it's all kind of sweet. You two." Before he could think of an answer to that, she glanced over towards the toilets, then lowered her voice. "Can I ask something that's probably none of my business? Nothing to do with chains." "Go ahead." "It's just . . . are you sure you want to do this?" she asked. "I would hardly have asked him to move in if I didn't." "Okay. But . . . well, you know what he's like about his flat. I mean, that he doesn't invite people there much. Ordinary people." People other than the two of them. "Yes, I know." "And I've lived with you. Not for very long or anything, but, well . . . " "You couldn't help but notice that I'm an obsessive-compulsive control freak with a clean towel fetish." "Um . . . yes. And I'm still really, really sorry about your carpet. And so is Bastard." She was blushing, but she pressed on determinedly. "What I wanted to say was, well, do you think there'll be enough room?" That didn't simply mean in the flat across from the restaurant. "You mean, won't putting Toreth and me in the same flat, however large, be something like tying two tomcats in a sack and poking them with a stick?"

Sara snorted. "Except louder." He picked up his beer and had a mouthful, savouring the hops. The chances of the cohabitation lasting was something he'd tried not to dwell on excessively. Second-guessing Toreth's reactions was an exercise in frustration that provided only an illusion of control in return. And despite the careful planning he'd put into his circumspect approach to asking Toreth to stay, Warrick hadn't really expected him to agree. The whole project had a disconcertingly uncontrollable feeling. Comparisons with his marriage to Lissa were no help. She'd shared none of Toreth's mess of fears about commitment and dependency. If they tried this and failed, what effect would that failure have on Toreth? Out of the corner of his eye he saw McLean, hovering, obviously trying to work out if it was a conversation he could interrupt. Warrick set his glass down, consciously not aligning it with the other items on the table. "I don't know, Sara. Maybe, yes. We'll have to see."

Chapter Three
Sunday brunch in the park had seemed like such a good idea when Warrick had sent the invitation. The park cafe was the setting for so many happy memories that he was sure it would be the perfect place. They could go back to something they'd had a long time ago, before life in its infinite complexity and frequent unpleasantness had complicated things between them so impossibly. There, they would know who they were, or at least who they had been. Then he had arrived, and it wasn't the same at all. Literally, since the building had been demolished. A large and grander new cafe had replaced it, built in unexceptional and rather soulless modern style, and the spotless white walls had none of the familiar, friendly shabbiness he'd hoped for. According to the polished steel letters set above the entrance, the building was only a year old surprising that Jen hadn't mentioned it. In the cafe, a floor-to-ceiling glass wall gave a view out over the main park, directly overlooking the complex paths and elaborate topiary of the formal garden in the centre. At least that looked to be substantially the same. On the grassy bank closer to the restaurant, the hands of the floral clock stood still. Two uniformed park employees worked at planting out the dial, filling in the bare earth between the white hands and numerals. He was still absorbed in the view when Tarin said, "Keir?" There was an awkward moment as Warrick stood up from the table and neither of them knew what to do. He half offered his hand, then Tarin took it and pulled him forwards into an embrace. No hesitation showed in his firm thump against Warrick's back. "Good to see you, Keir." "And you. Glad you could make it." When he stepped back, Tarin looked over the table, noting the other place setting, and he frowned. "That's not " "It's for Dilly," Warrick said quickly. Tarin raised one eyebrow. "Quite a family get-together." "Yes. I thought it would be nice for us all to see more of each other. Not just the three of us Val too, and Jen and Philly, but we can start small." "Nothing too ambitious, I see." Tarin smiled slightly. "Reduce the chance of anyone getting knocked out." Warrick grinned. "Sit down." "This is a nice place," Tarin said as they sat. "Good choice." Relief warmed him. "I had no idea it had changed so much." "No? I bring Val here a lot, with and without Philly. I must admit I didn't like it when they knocked the old cafe down. Like someone had taken a bulldozer to my childhood." He shook his head. "Val and I took a piece of the wall home and put it in the garden, for a keepsake. Ridiculous how you can get attached to something like a building, isn't it?" "Not at all. If it wouldn't bore you to tears, I'd tell you about the sim and the emotional recall linking of place memories." "No, you should." Tarin picked the menu screen up, then set it down again. "Tell me rather than

bore me, which I'm sure you wouldn't. I'd like to hear about it. And I'd like to try the sim too, sometime if you don't mind." "Mind? Not in the least. When you come to stay " He hesitated, thinking of the fraught circumstances of the original offer made after Kate's arrest. "If you still want to, that is." Tarin nodded. "Yes. I haven't mentioned it to Val yet, but that's only because she'd pester me every time I see her until we do go." "Then when you come down " "My God!" Dillian's voice echoed across the sparsely-populated restaurant. "Tarin!" Tarin looked over and waved, then smiled wryly at Warrick. "Do you think that means she's pleased to see me?" Dillian hurried over, heels tapping on the mosaicked floor, and they both stood up again to exchange welcoming kisses with her. "What on Earth are you doing here, Tar?" she said. Then her gaze swept over the table and she said, "Keir invited you?" She turned to him. "Why didn't you tell me?" "I thought it would make a nice surprise. And besides " He hadn't been quite confident she wouldn't come up with some excuse not to attend. However, the two of them were being perfectly friendly, or at least more than simply civil. His own abrupt silence had gone unremarked. Dillian had taken her seat and was chatting happily to Tarin about how the park outside hadn't changed a bit. She too had noticed the clock, and before long they were deep in recollections of designs that had been planted in the face in past years. The menu had changed completely too. Without any meals from the past available to relive, Warrick picked beef and barley broth, with allegedly fresh-baked bread in which he would believe when he tasted it. Dilly and Tar were still staring out of the window, pointing out parts of the formal garden that hadn't changed. Warrick examined the pair, trying to map their appearances back onto the childish faces he remembered. Dilly seemed easy, but perhaps that was only because of Valeria, who was so like her as to suggest cloning. He wondered if it ever bothered Tar probably not, since it would have to remind him primarily of Kate. Philly, who had never liked Kate, might find it a less pleasant effect. Tarin himself Warrick remembered only dimly as a child. He should have taken the time to look at photographs before he came. His earliest memories were of Tarin in his midteens, and he remembered him most clearly later still, already almost an adult: not so heavyset, but with the same sandy hair although thinning now firm jaw and grey-blue eyes. He'd always seemed like the kind of person who ought to have frown lines, but even sat next to Dillian Tar was aging well, with a minimum of lines around his eyes and mouth. All three of them so much older, and with so much time wasted. An approaching waiter interrupted Warrick's comparisons. After they had ordered food, Dillian turned to him and said, "Was this what Ash meant about news?" "I'm sorry?" Warrick said. At the same moment, Tarin said, "Ash Linton?" "Mm-hm that Ash. I spoke to her yesterday evening. She said Keir had some news, then clammed up and went all mysterious and said I'd better ask him because it wasn't for her to tell me."

She looked to Warrick. "Did you tell her the three of us were having lunch?" "Ah, no. There's something else." These were, he realised, possibly the two people in the world who would take this news worse than anyone. "Nothing very exciting, I'm afraid." It was a measure of how well Dillian knew him that her eyes narrowed at once. "Oh? So what is it?" "I'm moving flats. For security reasons to do with the revolt. I've found a place already, so it's just a question of the contracts being signed. You'll love it. It's rather larger than the place I have now, because " Dillian's eyes went wide. "No," she breathed. "Because Toreth is moving into it with me." "Oh!" She leaned back in the chair and looked up, apparently seeking inspiration from the distant ceiling. After a few seconds, she sighed and looked back. "Well, all I can say is good luck, because you're going to need it." "I won't bring Valeria there," Tarin said in a precise, brittle voice. "Not if he's living there with you." Warrick had been so absorbed by Dillian's reaction that he'd barely registered Tarin's icy silence. "But " "No. I won't have Val in a house with him." His normally ruddy cheeks had flushed a darker red. "And I don't want to hear about reforms at I&I, or changes to procedure, or any damn thing. He's a torturer, and it doesn't matter a damn what the Administration says he can or can't do, because it's what he is. If you think I'll let that sick, twisted " His voice had started to rise. No wonder Tarin had been so useful to Kate. Warrick closed the thought away and held his hand up. "Fine. I understand. I told you before, though, I don't expect you to see him or speak to him. I'll make sure you don't. I thought that was all right?" "That was when he lived somewhere else. But if that's his home, then no. I won't take Val there." Dillian drew breath, but Warrick interrupted before she could show which side she was about to take. "Let's talk about it later," Warrick said. "We can do it over the comm instead of here. Let's not . . ." "Spoil this place," Dillian said. Warrick nodded. "Just what I meant." After a long moment, Tarin nodded. "Sounds like a good idea. Since we're supposed to be getting along." "Right," Dillian said firmly. "Let's have lunch and then go for a walk and see how many of the names we gave the topiary animals we can still remember." "Tar will win," Warrick said. "I remember hearing Val using the same names." So they moved on to safe topics, and it wasn't long before the crisis had passed and Warrick thought that at least they might make it to the end of meal without anyone throwing a punch or walking out. However, while the shared memories might help, there was too much bad history along with the good. Had things between them degenerated so far that the best they would ever be able to hope for, as Jen would say, was no blood on the floor?

Chapter Four
For a month, to Toreth's surprise, everything went like a wet shave perfectly smooth except for the occasional small nicks. Work was busier, which made for a distraction from other things. Section heads were, crablike, sidling into new positions, subtly redefining their sections' remits to emphasise the 'politically important' nature of the crimes they claimed, and deemphasise the purely political. Corporate Fraud and Computer Crimes were busy, as the corporations took advantage of the confusion to start another round of sabotage. General Criminal, whose catchall description had always been a handicap, was well placed to bid for incoming cases. Tillotson developed a disconcerting cheerfulness which suggested the section was doing well in the post-revolt prestige wars. Annoyingly, news of Toreth's planned house move had leaked out into the section, although Sara swore it wasn't her fault. Chevril produced an endless series of cracks about corporate sugar daddies. The rest of the seniors backed him up. It was fairly good-natured, for I&I, but it grated. After a couple of weeks, Toreth had come in to work to find a box containing a cheap but very sparkly paste engagement ring on his desk, along with a bridal bouquet of pink plastic flowers. He'd slammed out into the main office and announced that if he found out who'd left them there, he'd be returning the gift with interest and a rectal speculum. It had caused a lot of laughter, but he got no more presents. Outside work, things could have been much worse. The topic of the new flat had stayed in the background. Warrick had said so little about it, in fact, that Toreth had occasionally asked him how things were. Reassuringly, the answers were never very interesting, as everything was being arranged by SimTech's legal department. A few times Warrick had asked his opinion about something. Decor, mostly: carpets, wallpaper, paint, furniture. Nothing Toreth cared much about, but fortunately Warrick had made it easy by presenting a limited range of choices for each item. Presumably, Toreth had decided, Warrick had already winnowed out all the options he couldn't live with personally. No doubt he would be happy with anything Toreth picked, so Toreth didn't give himself ulcers worrying about the decisions. After the first couple, though, he'd paid more attention, hesitating over the choices and trying to read from Warrick which was the one he wanted, which ones he was less keen on. Naturally, it hadn't taken Warrick long to notice what he was doing and, equally naturally, to try to avoid giving anything away. Usually, reading Warrick was so easy that Toreth had enjoyed the challenge provided by the novel subject. It had almost been fun. Today, however, things weren't fine, or fun, and it was no longer a game. The day had started well enough. Bright spring sunshine, warm enough that Toreth had set off early and walked most of the way to work. He'd had to catch a taxi for the last part, because the journey on foot took longer than he anticipated. Walking to work was a habit he'd let slide when the streets were still too dangerous for an I&I uniform. On the way, he'd even thought how much more convenient it would be once they'd moved to the new flat. He'd been in his office for five minutes before he called Sara in. As she closed the door, she looked apprehensive, as well she might. "What the fuck is that?" he demanded, pointing at the screen.

She didn't even pretend to need to look. "Accommodation form for the Department of Population, just like it says at the top." "You filled it in." "I thought it would save you time, that's all." He couldn't reasonably make a protest. She'd filled in hundreds of forms for him in the past, both work-related and personal, and he'd never been anything other than grateful. "Is there any rush?" "The deadline to let them know is today. Counting from the last time you were at the old flat." Of course she would know that. Sometimes she was too efficient. "With all the chaos from the revolt, does it really matter? The whole citizen registration system is a bloody shambles. I doubt the DoP'll be handing out fines for late address changes. Have they even decided whether change-ofresidence went out with movement notification?" "Yes, they did, and no, it didn't. It's still in force." He cast round for another argument, finding nothing. "Yeah . . . yeah, you're right. Thanks for remembering." "My pleasure," she said as she closed the door, sounding as if she really meant it. No doubt looking forwards to the house-warming, so she could try to pick up a rich corporate guest. If she got off so much on domestic arrangements, she should move in with Warrick. He frowned at the screen. This was the real step. This meant abandoning all rights to his own flat, which had belonged to the Administration anyway, and having nowhere to go except Warrick's flat, which belonged to SimTech. Looked at like that, it wasn't much of a change. Except that it was. He'd said it to Chevril a hundred times: there was all the difference in the world between working for I&I and belonging to the Administration, and working for some corporate on a personal contract. Even though having the DoP know he was fucking Warrick on a regular basis wasn't anything like putting his name to a body-and-soul corporate contract, it provoked an oddly similar gut reaction. The form sat on his screen, luring him back to read it again. Relationships to other residents. And Sara had selected previously unregistered sexual partner. Perfectly true, but the idea of having it recorded felt dangerous. Like a hostage to fortune, in some utterly illogical way. Previously unregistered, meaning now registered. Toreth closed the form without authorising it. Maybe a professional corporate contract with Warrick would've been better, at that. At least then he'd have had a chance of understanding the fine print. He delayed all day, increasingly irritated because he knew why he was hesitating. An hour in the gym at lunchtime usually a surefire pick-me-up barely improved his mood. Sara didn't help, because she didn't nag him. If it had been any other deadline, she would have been in his office every half hour until he did what was necessary. She didn't even mention it when she brought afternoon coffee, unprompted and with biscuits. When he opened his office door at the end of the day, wearing his coat, he stopped in the doorway, wanting her to say something. She didn't. She simply looked at him, also obviously waiting for him to have the first word. After ten seconds, he stalked back into his office, read slowly through the form one last time, and sent it off. When he emerged again, Sara had already escaped.

Never mind. Another hour or so in the gym before he went home would work off some off the stress. Without really thinking about it, he sent a message to Warrick to tell him that he would be late. ~~~ Toreth opened the door of the flat and the rich smell of roasting meat poured out to meet him. A treat, obviously, because Warrick didn't do serious cookery midweek. On his way to the kitchen, Toreth wondered whether it was good news or bad either could provoke unexpected cuisine. A rack of lamb sat steaming on the counter, and Warrick was doing whatever-it-was to the roasting tin to make gravy. Deglazing, that was it a random technical cookery term he'd picked up. "That smells fabulous. What's the occasion?" Toreth asked. "The purchase of the new flat completed today. Could you open that bottle, please?" Toreth opened a drawer and took out the corkscrew the one thing in the kitchen that he could guarantee to find in the dark. Holding the neck of the bottle steady with one hand, he turned the screw slowly, watching the spiral dig its inexorable way into the plastic and wondering if it made any kind of metaphor. "That's most of the legal requirements fulfilled," Warrick said after a moment. "So all that's left is for the decorators to finish work, which should be the end of this week." "That's great," Toreth said, while his stomach tried to claw its way out through his spine and run. There went all the relaxation benefits of an hour's worth of lifting weights. "The new furniture isn't all ready yet," Warrick continued. "But we can use what's here until it is. I suggest we move on the thirtieth of April, if that's acceptable." "Don't see why not." A week. One fucking week. "I'm afraid it's a Tuesday, but the corporate-level security-rated removal services are fully booked right now. It was that or wait another six weeks, which would complicate the sale of this place SimTech could use the money." Six weeks would be fine by him. Another year would be better. "All my stuff's here anyway. They can just sling it in the transporter without me if I can't get away." "Asher happened to be in the office while I was organising it, and she asked if we were having a house-warming. I said it sounded like an excellent idea." He paused. "If you do too, of course. But I didn't think you'd object to a party." "Me? God, no." Or to a drink right now. He swigged a mouthful from the wine bottle, hoping Warrick wouldn't notice. "Any suggestions for a date?" "How about " He picked a day at random. "The Saturday afterwards?" "I'll organise things, then. Let me know how many people you want to invite." "Uh-huh. Sure. Sara. Chev and Ellie. B-C, Mistry. Nagra, I guess. Maybe a few more." "Call it half a dozen to a dozen, then," Warrick said. "Bottle, please." Toreth watched while Warrick splashed wine into the tin and stirred the gravy. Now was the logical moment to mention his own news get all the stressful crap out of the way in one go. He organised the words in his mind, getting the right casual tone. His chest felt strangely tight. When Warrick had set the bottle down again, Toreth said, "Speaking of legal requirements, I sent the change of address off to the DoP today."

At least Warrick seemed to appreciate that meant something, because he tapped the spatula on the side of the pan, laid it down on the chopping board and turned round. "Really? Excellent timing." "Yeah." Breathe, he told himself. "Couldn't be better." Warrick's brow furrowed very slightly. "Are you " "Why don't I get the plates out? And a couple of glasses, if you want to drink the rest of the wine." "Thanks." Warrick turned back to the bubbling gravy without further comment. Toreth laid the table, thinking about the mismatched assortment of cutlery and plates at his old flat. Had the looters left any of it in a usable condition? Probably not, and in any case most of it had been there when he moved into the flat. All that had really been his was the assortment of glasses stolen from bars around New London. Warrick seemed happy to leave the topic of the flat alone, and for the duration of the meal they talked about other things. When they'd finished eating, Warrick made coffee. As the water boiled, he said, "I also had the last of the flat paperwork through this afternoon utility provision, complex fees and so on. I don't think you need to sign anything, though. Just let me know what information you need to have in order to arrange accommodation allowance payments from I&I." "I want to pay half the bills." Even though it hadn't crossed his mind before, Toreth suddenly did want to, very badly. "Even if it's more than the allowance." "It's not necessary," Warrick said carefully. For what definition of necessary? Toreth folded his arms, knowing he must look childishly stubborn. Warrick turned off the heat under the coffee brewer. "It's not even as if half would be an equal division. Everything I pay for this place goes through SimTech, and there are all sorts of tax considerations and allowances. It would be insanely complex to calculate what it's really costing me. It would be far simpler if you just pay whatever's the maximum accommodation allowance Int-Sec will give you for private arrangements." "I'll work it out," Toreth said. "A large proportion of the money goes towards the corporate grade security. That's my expense, not yours. And " He sighed. "To be brutally honest, you can't afford it." It didn't help that this was exactly the kind of thing he'd assured Warrick wouldn't bother him. "My salary will cover it. Just show me the fucking paperwork." "Very well." Warrick took out his hand screen and expanded it. He passed the screen over and sat down opposite Toreth, his face impassive. The vacuum brewer gurgled and splashed its way through its usual routine while Toreth read the numbers half a dozen times and still didn't believe them. Fuck it, Warrick was right. He couldn't pay half. He couldn't even pay a quarter. He was going to be a kept man. Sara had long cherished an ambition to be a kept woman, but he wondered if she'd really like the feeling any more than he did. He put the screen down, resisting the urge to throw it. "Okay. I'll get Sara to find out what the

accommodation section need to know." "Toreth, I'm sorry. I had no intention of making you uncomfortable. But I'm afraid there is no other way around that particular point." Toreth stood. "I'm going out. For a walk." The lie sounded unusually awkward. He half hoped Warrick would protest. No such luck. Warrick merely looked up, then nodded slowly. "I shan't wait up for you," he said, his tone only faintly ironic. Outside the spring evening still felt pleasantly warm, so he did actually set off walking, away from the campus. He could find a taxi once he'd decided where to go. For the first half kilometre he considered simply crashing at Sara's for the night. However, to his irritation, despite the fact that he was alone he couldn't stop thinking about Warrick, or about the new flat. In the end he decided that he needed a distraction. Not running away not like it had been after Carnac. An orderly retreat and regrouping. He needed to get his life back to normal, and he knew just how and where. ~~~ If there had ever been a Gegi involved with the management of Gegi's Bar, Toreth had never met him or her. Since he'd first been there over ten years ago, that put any hypothetical Gegi a long way in the past. The bar stood on the edge of an entertainment district not far from the Int-Sec perimeter, on the far side of the complex from I&I. While the area itself was respectable enough, Gegi's was far from it. Sara refused to even cross the threshold. However, it had escaped the revolt largely undamaged and tonight it looked reassuringly busy; since the lifting of the curfew, business had been brisk. Gegi's Bar had three kinds of patrons. The first and by far the smallest group went there almost every night. They all knew each other, by sight if not by name. They sat in regular groups having, Toreth presumed, regular conversations. Why the hell they'd chosen this vast, dark, noisy place, out of all the bars in New London, he couldn't imagine and hadn't asked. In fact, he'd never spoken to any of them, even though some of them had been there when he'd first visited the place. But then Toreth didn't go to Gegi's to talk. At the other end of the spectrum, there were the irregular clientele the vast majority of the crowd. They made single visits, or came for a few days, then disappeared. Sometimes they would return, after a space of time, and sometimes they would transmute into the third type, the semiregulars. Semiregulars were the people like Toreth, for whom Gegi's was only one stop amongst many. A frequent enough one, however, that the bar staff remembered names and drinks, and occasionally even details of jobs and lives. Semiregulars and irregulars shared something they came to this place to look for someone, because Gegi's primary reputation was as a pickup bar, and one where it was possible for almost anyone to find someone to their specifications. In fact, it was a little more than that. The upper floor contained private rooms small, scrupulously clean and chargeable by the half-hour. Not that Gegi's encouraged the presence of professionals on the premises. In fact, being unlicenced for that kind of business, and in addition situated between the Int-Sec and Justice complexes, the management discouraged it strongly and on occasion painfully. The rooms were simply for the pleasure and added convenience of the customers. They prevented those who were in search of very short-term liaisons from having to leave the building once they had acquired a partner. The rooms were both a profitable sideline and kept up the bar sales. Not unsurprisingly, Toreth had never brought Warrick here. It wasn't the sort of place to take a regular thing, but more than that he hated the idea of the kind of attention Warrick would attract. The

default assumption was that, outside the hermetic enclaves of the regulars, everyone at Gegi's was available. Warrick would stand out as especially available, being a clear social cut above the usual Gegi's did not attract a large corporate clientele. He bought a drink and abandoned the bar to prowl. The noise soothed him music and voices, loud and tangled into an incomprehensible web of sound, but familiar and comfortingly detached from him. He let it wash over him, run through him, easing the tension. After half an hour, he felt normal enough to start hunting in earnest. He'd considered the ideal pickup as the taxi drove him across the city. Physique wasn't important, or even gender, but married would be good. Someone who didn't do this regularly someone looking for something new and dangerous, maybe needing a little persuasion to take the final step. Someone he'd have to concentrate on. A couple of targets suggested themselves immediately, matching the pattern he'd built on the way over. He'd almost picked one for an approach before he processed why they'd attracted him. One man, one woman, both dark-haired, both medium height, both with high cheekbones and pale skin. Both too damn much like Warrick. This was supposed to be a distraction, not one of those annoying evenings when he found himself fucking someone while mentally cataloging all the ways in which they weren't quite like Warrick. He tried again, surveying the bar slowly. There that was better. A man, taller than Toreth, with wavy brunet hair framing a long, mobile face. He was watching the women openly and the men surreptitiously. Check another box. And then, final clincher, the man turned a little and revealed the ring on his finger. Third finger, left hand check. In business for the night.

Chapter Five
He told Sara about the house-warming party as soon as he arrived at I&I the next morning. Predictably, she thought it was wonderful. "Who's coming?" She grinned. "Other than me, of course. I have to be there, just in case he's got any rich single friends I haven't met yet. Do you want me to tell people?" "Yeah. Tell anyone on the regular team who's free don't bother with the new pool lot. Mention it to Chevril, tell him to bring Ellie. And . . . " Who else should he invite? Mike Belkin, maybe? And his wife, he supposed, except that Toreth had no idea of her name. He'd met her maybe twice, and all he remembered was that she was mousey and bruised. Then there was Bevan, who might be married at the moment he often was. Daedra, Christofi, Liz Carey . . . I&I acquaintances, not friends. Toreth had a sudden vision of Warrick's flat filled with I&I faces all his regular drinking crowd, which was what Sara meant by 'people'. Few of them were people Warrick would want there. Nor were any of them witnesses Toreth wanted to his official inauguration as corporate pet. Which was now less than a week away. Shit. His heart was beating far too fast, and he wondered vaguely if the idea of actually moving in was going to give him his first ever non-phobic panic attack. Or maybe this counted as a phobia too. What was the medical name for a fear of new flats? "Toreth?" He blinked at her. Not surprisingly, she was looking at him curiously. He was about to tell her to keep it within the team, maybe including Chevril, when he paused. Why the hell shouldn't he invite people? Warrick kept saying it was their flat. Fine. Then he'd treat it like his, and fuck Warrick if he didn't like it. And fuck anyone at I&I who wanted to make cracks about his rich corporate. The resolution seemed to dilute the panic down to manageable proportions. "Keep it down to a dozen or so and try to avoid the ones who throw up and start fights. Send the names along to Warrick when you've got an idea of who's coming we don't want security shooting anyone not on the list." He paused, then smiled at the image. "Well, you could leave a couple of people off." Sara smirked back. "I can think of a few I wouldn't miss. So " She paused. "What?" "So . . . you're really moving in there?" "Yes, of course. Why wouldn't I be?" he asked with determined cheerfulness. In a few months he'd look back at all this and think what a fucking idiot he'd been to worry about it. "Right, since the Administration was still paying us last time I checked the account, what have we got on today?" Sara gave him an odd look, then turned to her screen. "The Isinpharm corporate burglary is looking very good. Justice got the main suspect last night." "Justice?" "Yep. He was at a squat where they picked up a dozen indigs in a random illegal pharmaceuticals raid. His description came up on the ident system which is the first miracle, with the problems the

system's had and they held him in situ, and they didn't mess up the crime scene. Nagra was on call, so she went out with " Sara frowned and paged down a couple of screens before she gave up. "A couple of pool investigators. None of them stay around long enough for me to remember their names." Short-staffing was still crippling the section; pool staff were assigned for the exact time they were required and not a minute longer. That made it extra nice of Justice to be helpful for once. "Well?" Toreth asked. "Did she find anything?" "Yes. All the stolen pharmaceuticals, plus the matching formulation data. But this is the really good part while Nagra was there, the corporate sab contact turned up to collect the stuff and pay. Somehow he managed not to notice two Justice cars parked in plain view down the street, and he walked right into the middle of it with a case full of cash." "Stoned, probably." "That's what Nagra reckons. Because Nagra was there, there weren't any arguments about who gets the arrests. Our two prisoners are downstairs. The corporate sab has three previous arrests, no convictions, so there should be no problem with a decent damage waiver." This, Toreth reflected, was why he liked his team. Juniors who solved his cases for him before he even got to work were just what he tried to recruit. "Nagra went home to bed about six-thirty," Sara continued. "But she left a lovely IIP. In my obviously totally unqualified opinion, it's pretty much wrapped up. Except . . . " She raised her eyebrows and shrugged. Except that there were no interrogation staff free to have a nice, friendly, new P&P-style chat with the prisoners. "Okay, I'll do it." "Before you do, the news about Isinpharm got back to Tillotson already, and there's a new IIP filed for a corporate kidnapping. No ransom so far, but there are some forensics that look quite promising. All the files are here, and there are a few witnesses to talk to." He considered. "Tell B-C to take charge of the kidnapping for now and he and Mistry can carve up the interviews however they think is best. I'll do the interrogations this morning and then join in." As he went through into his office, he caught himself whistling. ~~~ "I'll be moving out on the thirtieth," Warrick told Asher as he closed her office door behind him. "And Toreth suggested Saturday the fourth for the house-warming, if you're free." "I think so I'll check with Greg." In the corner of her office, the last few drops of a fresh brew were splashing quietly into the pot. The rich smell reminded him that his caffeine levels were far too low for a weekday morning. "Do you want a coffee?" Warrick asked. Asher smiled. "Aren't I supposed to ask you that?" "Yes, but I can't wait for you to remember your manners." "Pot, kettle," she said as she stood. "I didn't manage to find time for a cup this morning." And with only one of them there, the idea of making coffee had seemed oddly pointless. Ridiculous, when he'd drunk morning coffee in solitude for years.

"What's that?" Asher asked, nodding towards his hand. He held up a large airtight box. "I brought biscuits. Ginger, shortbread, chocolate chip, double chocolate chocolate chip, and those unnamed coconut-chopped walnut-syrup-crisp things Jen's recipe. All homemade." "Good Lord. In that case, definitely coffee. I'll pour it." He took one of the low upholstered chairs. Asher set the cups on the table and sat opposite him. Sipping his coffee, Warrick watched her pick out a couple of biscuits. They hadn't been a deliberate attempt to bribe his fellow director into a good mood, but they couldn't hurt. He was anticipating a difficult conversation. "Why the bounty?" Asher asked indistinctly through a mouthful. "I had an unexpectedly spare evening, and I realised I hadn't baked anything at all for weeks. It's wonderfully therapeutic. Once I started, I ended up getting rather carried away. I had to send out one of the security guards for extra chocolate." "I should make some myself, but somehow I never find the time." Asher sighed. "I remember baking biscuits with you and Dilly and Jen. I'd like my kids to have memories like those, but I can't see " "You and Greg will make wonderful parents. Have you heard anything about the reproduction licence application?" "No. We should still get on the corporate fast track, I hope, but apparently the Department of Population is deluged." She tilted her head slightly, quizzical. "I've just realised you're the only person who hasn't asked if we're doing it because of the revolt." The idea had crossed his mind. "Well, I knew you were thinking about it before. And you're both far too sensible to rush into anything." With the opening presented, he couldn't help asking. "So, is that the reason for trying for a licence now?" "I don't I mean, my parents asked that, so did Greg's, even Jen dropped a few subtle questions last time I saw her." Her mouth quirked. "It's starting to annoy the hell out of me, truth be told. And I've been telling everyone so firmly that it's nothing at all to do with the revolt that I'm beginning to wonder if I'm protesting too much. It's so hard to think about it objectively." "You have plenty of time. The application, and then " He waved vaguely, suddenly realising he had no idea of the details of the process. Lissa and he hadn't made it that far through the DoP maze. "Implant removal that must take time too?" "Three to six months for full fertility to return for both partners, for the majority of couples," she said promptly, then smiled. "I have a horrible feeling that I'm going to turn into an awful baby bore." He laughed. "You couldn't possibly. But I'm afraid it's really not my field. I can give you a good estimate for code delivery, but . . . " "I don't think it's quite the same, somehow." Asher shook her head, smiling slightly. "So, talking about family rearrangements, Toreth's really moving in with you?" "We're moving in together, but yes, basically." With other people he might pretend, but he'd known Asher for too long. "He didn't back out when I mentioned a date, so I think there's every chance he'll go through with it." "Well, I have to say I never expected it." "Nor I." He picked up a squishy, sticky walnut square. "The revolt changed a lot of things."

"Yes." Asher looked down at the table for a moment, and Warrick wondered if this was the start of the conversation. However, when she looked up, Asher said, "I had dinner with Dillian last week. She seemed . . . slightly unenthusiastic about the idea of the two of you in the same flat." "Ah. If she had any expectation of it lasting, I'm sure she would have been more than 'slightly'." "And you?" "I'm trying to keep my expectations realistic." Asher smiled, looking satisfied. "I'm glad to hear it. At least now we can finalise the sale of the old flat, too. That will please the bank." Warrick frowned. "Are they making trouble?" "Not really. They were sniffing around to see whether we might like to borrow money at a very reasonable rate. I told them we have other places to raise it if we need it." "And do we?" "It's possible." She sighed. "We'll have to make a decision soon, Keir. We can't keep delaying." "There are still units shipping from the production plant. We have work for months, even building and programming flat out." She laid the half a ginger biscuit in her hand back down in her saucer. "I grant you we have a long backlog of orders, and the cancellation penalties are keeping most people on the list. That doesn't change the fact that new orders are below even the lower boundary of the original projections." "Not far below," he countered. "Perhaps not. But I don't want to hit the end of the current list with no money in reserve and no prospect of an income." "What about the negotiations with the Administration Leisure Centres people? Did they follow up their first enquiry?" Asher grimaced. "I got a new set of requirements from them first thing this morning. They want the stripped-down basic units, no custom programming and a price to match." "But if we had spare capacity at the factory, presumably it would be worthwhile?" "Perhaps. But take a look at the requirements from this morning when you have a chance I'm almost certain they only approached us because they think that can use the prospect of a deal here as leverage when they negotiate with P-Leisure over the same contract." She sighed. "From that point of view, it's a waste of our time. Still, the longer it goes, on the more contacts we'll make in the Leisure Centre administration." "As long as we're careful not to offend P-Leisure by looking as though we're actively trying to poach their customers. They've been very generous over the years, and it's to everyone's benefit if they get it all back several times over. Did you talk to Tavi Lennox-Phull?" "Yes she knows what the Leisure Centre people are up to as well as we do. Handy to have an old friend of yours working for P-Leisure. She isn't worried she knows we can't yet match PLeisure on that kind of deal." She smiled, a neat but combative show of teeth. "Just give me a few years, when we have the new production facilities. Then I'll show you an income stream." He grinned back. "And I look forward to swimming in it. But for now all we've got is our technical expertise and experience of innovation." Asher gave an exasperated sigh. "I'm not suggesting we stop research, just that we refocus on the immediately useful applications."

"How will that save money?" "If we have fewer experimental programmes, that means we can move the developers from there who are all the best developers and put them into the core projects." "And that will let us cut staff? No out of the question." She held up her finger. "We won't have to sack anybody. We've been expanding the staff yearon-year since we started. If we simply stop recruitment for new places and to replace people who leave, then we'll save a lot of money. That was one of the ideas behind short-contract flexibility, if you remember." This was really a discussion that ought to happen with Lew present, but he couldn't help his reply. "We have to keep developing." "We have to be sensible." "Do you think P-Leisure and the other corporations with development licences will 'be sensible'? No. They'll keep developing with their eye on the long term." "They're larger," Asher said. "They can afford to." "And we're smaller so we can't afford not to." "I acknowledge the dangers, but it's better to make decisions now than to let the situation fester. People will be happier with a decision made and a plan in place." "Not that decision," Warrick said with finality. "Have you spoken to Lew?" Asher nodded. "What does he say?" She quirked an eyebrow. "Guess." "That we should cut back the software budgets and concentrate on the next generation of sim hardware?" "Right. And you insist that the software is the most important part of the business." "No, I think software and hardware research are equally important. We should keep both as they are." She smiled wryly. "What am I going to do with you?" "Nothing, not yet. Leave it until the end of the month. Or a little longer than that." As she started to protest, he said lightly, "You wouldn't want to spoil my birthday by wrecking SimTech, would you?" She set her cup down firmly on the table. "Keir, I'm not trying to do anything of the kind." To his surprise, she sounded genuinely angry. "Do you think that I don't appreciate the importance of research and development? This is my corporation too. Don't you dare behave as though you're the only one who gives a damn about SimTech." "I'm sorry, Asher. I know quite well that I'm not." "Good. You said it, Keir we have to keep our expectations realistic. We can't hide our heads in the sand and hope the economic turmoil from the revolt with simply vanish. But " Her voice softened. "We can wait for a while still, I suppose. And I have no choice, if we three can't agree on what to cut. I'll cobble something together to tell the staff." "Thanks." She shook her head. "Two weeks, Keir. That's as long as I'm prepared to wait." ~~~

That evening, Toreth felt unexpectedly uncomfortable as he opened the flat door. It was the first time he'd stayed away all night in the last few weeks, which was weird in itself. Warrick wouldn't make a fuss about it, since he obviously hadn't expected Toreth to come back to the flat. However, it meant that Warrick knew for sure where he'd been. Not like before, when Toreth had his own flat and there was always the possibility that he'd been tucked up in bed with a warm glass of milk and a good porn mag. This, he realised suddenly, was what it would be like all the time at the new place. 'Where were you'? 'Stoned out of my mind on probably illegal drugs in a flat owned by a guy who had no clue he was fucking an I&I para'. Maybe he would lie, and say he'd been at Sara's. He didn't like that thought either. It wasn't that he minded lying far from it. Lies were what kept life smooth and easy. However, the idea of lying because he felt obliged to, rather than because he wanted to, was something different. Toreth found Warrick in the kitchen, cooking again, something that smelled unusually unappetising. Warrick didn't comment about anything from the previous night not the argument over the bills, not Toreth's abrupt departure or the fact that he hadn't returned. Sticking very much to the rules, which was a relief. "What are you making?" Toreth asked. "Smells awful." Warrick looked round. "Deviled kidneys. Treating myself. I called in at the fresh produce market on the way home." "The place stinks." "The flat management system will take care of it." Warrick began methodically turning the sliced kidneys. "I'll tell it to turn up the filtering. I'm sure it will be gone by the time you get back." "Back from where?" "I'm sorry. I thought you were going out?" Why would . . . oh, yes. Section birthday party, for someone he'd never liked that much anyway. Annoying that Warrick remembered events like that when he didn't. It felt too much like Warrick keeping an eye on him. The irritation crystallised the earlier unease into an urge to test the rules, and to hurt. "Yeah, I am. In fact, I should change and go, or I'll be late." "Well, have fun." "I will. I did last night, at least." Warrick's shoulders stiffened slightly, but he said nothing. These days Toreth didn't do this, and he'd forgotten how much fun it could be. "I went somewhere I don't think you've been. Pickup place not far from I&I." "Really," Warrick said. "It's not a bad place, if you just want a quick fuck. Lots of potential." "I'm sure there was." And then, the words forced out unwillingly, Warrick added, "Man or woman?" "Man. Luckily he didn't live too far away, so it saved me the price of a hotel." "How very fortunate. What was he " Warrick shook his head and slid the contents of the pan

onto a plate. "No. That would be a bad habit to get back into, wouldn't it?" So determined to be reasonable, not to argue. "Didn't feel at all bad to me. Blowjobs never do." "I meant myself, since obviously 'getting back' would be redundant in your case." Warrick turned suddenly and his voice sharpened. "You are nothing if not relentlessly predictable." "Yeah, well, I need to unwind. Not all of us get to spend all day in the sim fucking teenage graduates who'll do anything for a job at SimTech." "Even if that were anywhere near accurate, it's hardly the same as bar-crawling all night in a desperate attempt to track down the tiny remaining handful of New London citizens you haven't already fucked." "So? I thought what I do away from here is my business." Warrick paused, then said calmly, "Indeed it is. I'll consider the topic closed." "You fucking started it." "No, I did not." He pointed at Toreth with the stinking spatula and a drop of sauce spattered onto Toreth's shoe. "You brought it up, quite deliberately, for reasons we both thoroughly understand. But if you want an argument I'm afraid you'll have to find someone else for that as well. Have a good evening." The sudden exposure of the subtext infuriated him. Treating him like a fucking child, and it only made the anger hotter to acknowledge that there was a certain amount of justice in that. "Fine, I will have. And a nice fucking night, as well. I'll see you tomorrow. Maybe." Without waiting for a reaction to the announcement, he went off to shower and change. ~~~ Dressing to go out didn't improve Toreth's mood. Sara had mentioned the birthday party as he left, and he'd managed to forget on the journey home. He had no real desire to go; if he wanted to do anything tonight, it was take himself back off to Gegi's or somewhere equivalent. Before the revolt he wouldn't have gone wouldn't even have bothered with an excuse. Now the pressure to attend was politically unignorable. Everyone in the section seemed to feel a ghostly urge for solidarity from the still-empty desks and offices. Enforced socialising irritated Toreth as much as enforced anything else. Two or three more minutes and he would've gone. He'd been delayed anyway when Warrick answered the comm, Toreth was still in the process of looking for his coat, which he thought he'd thrown down somewhere in the living room. "Yes?" Warrick said. Something about his stillness, a sudden change in attitude after the casual greeting, penetrated Toreth's bad temper and made him stop his search and watch. There was a long pause, during which Warrick drew breath to speak half a dozen times. Finally Warrick said, "I can't . . . Jen. Jen, listen to me. Stop . . . is Dilly there with you now? Let . . . let . . . Jen, let me talk to Dilly. Please. Let Dilly? Tell me what happened." Half a conversation after that Warrick was mostly listening, nodding, the blood draining from his face. Warrick pale and distracted was usually something that Toreth found very appealing indeed. Not this time. He looked sick, shocked. Family bad news, Toreth guessed. When the call finished, Warrick's first words confirmed it. "It's Tar." "Is he dead?" "Not . . . not yet. Jen's at the hospital, with Dilly. They're giving him a ten percent chance. One of them said less."

"What the hell happened?" "I don't know no one seems to. Dilly hasn't been there long and Jen's not . . . Dilly said there was a collision. Tar was in a private car or a taxi, they're not sure yet that went out of control. He's been unconscious since they brought him in." Sounded like a mess. "They'll have done a DNA check. Next of kin would be in his medical file." "Valeria's all right," Warrick said, as if he'd asked. "She wasn't in the car with him." "Yeah? Good." Warrick sat down abruptly. "Did I tell you he was coming to stay at the flat?" "Tarin? Here?" "Yes. Or no the new flat now. With Val. They were coming for the weekend. I arranged it, oh, weeks back. When you were . . . " The sentence trailed off. "I thought you didn't like him?" "Yes. So did I. For years." He sounded lost. "Strange, isn't it?" Toreth kept silent, feeling uncomfortably and surprisingly out of his depth. Over the years he'd spoken to a lot of people who'd just had bad news: kidnaps, murders, violent assaults, rapes, financial ruin more or less everything in which I&I might conceivably have an interest. On many occasions, he'd been the bad news, arresting suspects or explaining damage waivers to prisoners. It was just that he'd never actually given a shit before. About cases, yes, but people never. Not that he cared if Tarin was dead, alive or somewhere in between. But he felt something an odd echo of Warrick's obvious distress. Sharpened, perhaps, by the memory of the stupid argument in the kitchen. Not so fucking impervious now, was he? Toreth enjoyed the thought for a moment, then he shrugged the feeling aside. He considered the range of options, settling for doing what Warrick would have done. "I'll make some tea." Warrick looked up, focusing on him for the first time, and smiled slightly. "Thanks. But I don't have time Dilly wants me to go there right away." "You've got time for tea. I'll make it. You call a car and tell SimTech security where you're going. They'll throw a fit if you just disappear. Pack some things, too you'll probably need to stay tonight." Slightly to his surprise, he found himself adding, "I'll come with you, if you like." Toreth waited until Warrick nodded, then he went back into the kitchen. He could call Sara from there; at least this would make an acceptable excuse to skip the damn party.

Chapter Six
Outside Tarin's room in the ICU, Toreth leaned against the spotlessly white wall, listening to the medic explaining the situation to Warrick. Toreth had heard it all before, dozens of times, and this woman seemed competent enough at it. Telling the distressed relative what had happened, what they had done for the victim patient so far and what more they could do, had to be the pain-in-thearse part of the job. Not that Warrick appeared particularly distressed, unless you knew what to look for. Probably she did. The SimTech security guard stood a little way down the corridor. Toreth had recognised her at once when they met her by the car at Warrick's building. He knew the recognition was more than his general familiarity with SimTech staff, but it wasn't until she introduced herself as Alicia Dean that he remembered speaking to her during the old investigation at SimTech. Right now she looked slightly uncomfortable but completely professional and alert. Not surprising, since there'd been an unexplained accident involving a corporate family member. Single phrases from the medic caught his attention, creating a picture. More details than Dillian had given over the comm: the accident had happened at around four-fifteen. Tarin had been on the way to collect Valeria from school, and only a hundred metres away from the building his taxi had inexplicably been hit by a delivery tanker carrying something flammable. The fire had started at once, with suggestions of an explosion. Injuries from the impact. Burns over Tarin's whole body his clothes burned off him. At least, Toreth thought vaguely, they wouldn't have had to tear them off, and the flesh with them. But he was distracted by the knowledge of what would come next . . . soon. Any moment now. "We have him in a flotation tank while " Hearing the dreaded words at last, Toreth gagged, hands clenching as he fought for breath, his senses hijacked by fear. Warm, medicated, oxygenated fluid buoyed him up, keeping him hydrated. Flowing in, circulating around him, flowing out to be purified and eventually returned. Pumping through the mask into his scorched lungs. In his nose, in his mouth, in his throat it didn't matter that it was keeping him alive because it felt like drowning, except that it went on and on. Sickness swept over him, making him glad of the support of the wall. Toreth had never in his life experienced a flotation tank. He didn't need to. He'd seen them working, and that was enough to build the false memory from other terrors. Just one more thing in the world to avoid. If he'd known that it was this, he never would've come with Warrick. If he could've made it the length of the corridor he might have left, and damn what the medic or the security guard thought. However, it was taking all his strength to stay upright. Eventually it registered that the medic was finishing her spiel. Toreth struggled for composure, succeeding to the extent that when Warrick turned towards him, he didn't seem to notice anything amiss. "Dilly took Jen home before we arrived," Warrick said. "Once I've seen Tar I'm going on to Kate's . . . to the house. I'd be, ah, very pleased if you'd come, too." "I said I would, didn't I?"

"Yes, of course you did." He watched Warrick turn, start for the door to the room, reach for the handle "Don't go in," Toreth said suddenly. Warrick stopped. "Why?" "Because you don't want to see him." Out of the corner of his eye he saw the medic watching them, her face expressionless. Dean had her attention fixed on the far end of the corridor. "It might be the last chance," Warrick said. "It makes no fucking difference. He'll be completely out " Toreth's throat tightened. "And you can't touch him or talk to him, so there's no way he'll know whether you're there or not. Have you ever seen anyone with those kinds of injuries? No? I have. If he does die, you'll be glad not to have to remember what he looked like. Trust me on this." Warrick seemed to be weighing up the idea. Finally he said, "Dilly saw him." "Jesus Christ, it's not a bloody competition. You " Why the hell was he bothering? His own pathetic fears? He had no obligation to follow Warrick through the door. "Fine, go in if you want to. I'm waiting out here." Warrick hesitated a moment longer, fingers resting lightly on the handle, then nodded. "Very well." Toreth wasn't sure what he meant until Warrick let go of the handle and turned back towards him. "Let's get back to the car." All the way there, Toreth had to fight back the smile, annoyed with himself over the ridiculous feeling of triumph. 'Trust me on this'. ~~~ Dillian greeted them at the door of Kate's house, for once too distracted to disapprove of him. Dean's presence didn't seem to register. Of course, Dillian was corporate too, and used to ignoring minions. He'd bet any money that she wouldn't be able to describe Dean in an interview tomorrow. "Did you see Philly at the hospital?" Dillian asked after she'd closed the door. Warrick shook his head. "You must have just missed her. She brought Val here, then went back to the hospital when we got home. She said she'd stay there." "Good that there's one of us there, I mean. How's Jen?" "Keir, I'm so sorry. She called me before she went to the hospital, and by the time I got there she'd already gone in to see him, and she just . . . went to pieces. She told me she'd call you, and then when I got there she hadn't done it." She bit her lip. "I should have done it myself. I oh, God. I'm sorry." Warrick put his arms round her, dark head bowing down to hers, rocking her gently. "Shh. It's not your fault. I'm here now." Dillian had obviously been crying, and as they went through towards the kitchen, Toreth reflected on how much more popular people became when they died. Or, in this case, didn't quite die. However, the atmosphere was palpably that of a bereavement

neither Warrick nor Dillian was the sort of person who would take a ten percent chance and pin serious hopes on it. Ten percent was a backstop figure medics used because they hated it when patients they'd pronounced hopeless surprised them and lived. Outside the kitchen door, Warrick paused, then turned to Dean. "I assume you want to check over the security?" "If I could, please. If it's not acceptable, I'm afraid I might need to call some more personnel from SimTech." "Do whatever you think is necessary. I sent your ID to the security system from the car, so you have full access for now. When you're done, wait in the living room. I'll be through to talk you later." Dean nodded and faded tactfully into the background. Toreth wondered if functional invisibility was something they taught at security school. It would be a handy trick to learn. Jen was waiting for them in the kitchen. Warrick went over at once, before anything was said, and embraced her with the ease and warmth that always left Toreth feeling uncomfortable, something between jealousy and distaste. Other people's families. Over Jen's shoulder, Warrick mouthed, "Tea." Toreth went to start it, but Dillian intercepted him. "I'll do it," she said. Busy with the tea things, and slicing one of the cakes that seemed to be a permanent fixture of the house, she nevertheless managed to spare time to direct the occasional unwelcoming glance at Toreth. Hadn't taken her long to get back to normal, Toreth thought. Fuck her. He hadn't come here for her. He was supposed to be here providing . . . well, moral support for Warrick. Whatever 'moral support' was. With Sara it usually amounted to alcohol and light flirting, which unfortunately wasn't likely to do the trick here. However, his uncertainly didn't seem to matter. It quickly became apparent that his contribution, moral or otherwise, would be limited. The conversation now underway in the kitchen didn't concern him. Practical arrangements, who needed to be contacted and told what, discussions about Valeria and Tarin's wife Philly family matters, and he wasn't family. He didn't need Dillian to tell him that. Hanging around on the edge of things, feeling unregarded and unwanted, he wondered whether he shouldn't just go and leave Warrick in Alicia Dean's capable hands. Warrick didn't need him, Dillian didn't want him, Jen seemed scarcely to register his presence. Why the hell had he come here at all? He stopped picking currants off the cake on the work surface beside him and thought about that. Shorn of the disgusting self-pity, it wasn't a bad question. Why had he come? He didn't usually feel a need to trail around after Warrick like a puppy on a leash, and although it was tempting to wrap it up in some stupid association with the new flat, it wasn't that either. Partly it was the same feeling he'd had in the flat: the attraction of seeing Warrick helpless, faced with something he couldn't push aside with a mask of indifference and a cold smile. Something that couldn't be smoothed away with the magic touch of money and status, or solved by cleverness or corporate contacts. Something levelling. So Toreth had seen it, and now he should go, before the shine of the experience tarnished in the face of Warrick's composure and competence. However, there was also a professional angle here someone who, if he wasn't technically a corpse, was a close approximation of one. An accident, or an attempted murder there was nothing to choose between them at this point. There were, at most, suggestive circumstances: Warrick was

corporate, Tarin had some interesting political views. He wouldn't submit an Investigation in Progress based on that vague a suspicion unless the victim was important enough to merit it. Justice would doubtless think the same thing, assuming they even heard about it. The Transport Safety Division would have first call on the investigation. Only if they found signs of illegality would Justice take an interest. At that point, Tarin's unwitting link to Int-Sec might flag up a blazing stop sign as soon as Justice pulled his file. Toreth would probably be able to tell that by how quickly and enthusiastically Justice dropped the case. Or maybe there was no flag, now that Kate was gone. An investigation might end up digging too deep and revealing Tarin's resister connections. That led into such a world of shit he didn't want to think about it. All hypothetical anyway, until the accident was proved to be something more. Leaving it alone would be the sensible thing for him to do too, but a nagging compulsion wouldn't let him. Toreth didn't believe in intuition feelings like this were usually triggered by sound reasons that he hadn't consciously put together yet. Almost reflexively, he began assessing the group in the kitchen, looking for guilt, for aberrant reactions, for knowledge out of place. Jen interested him. From Warrick's partial comm conversation and Dillian's words when they'd arrived, he'd expected their aunt to be hysterical. Certainly the obviously shaken woman in the kitchen made a contrast to the sharp, sardonic Jen he'd met before. However, she seemed controlled enough. Possibly she'd pulled herself together for her nephew's benefit. At the moment she was stubbornly resisting Warrick's gentle suggestions that she might want to lie down for a while. Dillian looked at least as upset as Jen. Toreth would have expected her to deal reasonably well with a shock like this certainly better than she seemed to be. On the other hand, it was only a few weeks since Kate's disappearance, which complicated the situation, so perhaps her distress was partly due to that. Warrick was Toreth caught himself before he extended his assessment farther. No one in the kitchen was a realistic suspect he needed to be more methodical. Talking to witnesses was the first step. What did children drink? Sweet things, probably. He poured a glass of tonic, then made himself a gin and tonic. As he picked up the drinks, he glanced at the group around the table still engrossed in their conversation, and paying no attention to him. He murmured a vague "Won't be long," and slipped out of the kitchen. To his relief, Dean was nowhere in sight. Finding Valeria's room proved no challenge to his investigative powers her name was painted on the door. He balanced the glasses in one hand in order to knock. When there was no reply, he knocked again, then opened the door and went in. Valeria sat on the bed, with a screen balanced on her knees. She didn't look up. It had been a long time since he'd taken the introductory paediatric interrogation course. However, as far as he could recall, the basic principles were no different to adult interrogation certainly not at level one. He managed to close the door without spilling anything and tried a neutral opening. "Hello, Valeria." Now she looked up, her expression brightening briefly. "Uncle Val!" Nice to be wanted by someone. "We'll make a para-investigator out of you yet. How are you?" Her expression closed down, making her look disconcertingly like Warrick. "I'm fine." She had

the family talent for packing a lot of feeling into not many words. These two clearly said, 'go away and leave me alone'. "Is there anything you want?" he asked. "Anything I can get for you?" "No. And I don't want to." He considered the statement for a moment. "You don't want to do what?" "I don't want to cry." "Fine by me." Snivelling kids were even worse than the standard kind. "Auntie Dillian said I ought to," she said, concentrating fiercely on the screen again. Memories surfaced, unpleasant and unwanted, of what it was like to be a child, trapped in a world of adults with incomprehensible rules and impossible demands that could never be satisfied, imposed with absolute and uncaring authority. Anger he couldn't control welled up, directed at Dillian. Christ, but he hated paediatrics he always had. "Well, Auntie Dillian," should mind her own fucking business, the stupid bitch, "probably meant you could if you wanted to." She shrugged. "Maybe." But they both knew that Dillian hadn't said that. He took a deep breath and reminded himself of the level one rules: make yourself a friend to the prisoner, someone who isn't as frightening as the guards and the cells and all the distant noises. Be someone who can help them. He walked over to the bed, trying not to loom over her. "How about a drink instead?" That produced a spark of interest. "What is it?" "One of them's tonic, and one of them's gin and tonic. Guess which is yours." "Gin," she said promptly. "If you like." As he expected, she took a single sip and wrinkled her nose up in disgust. "It's an acquired taste." He swapped the glasses. "Means you have to drink a lot of it before you get used to it." "I know what acquired means." "Well, good for you." Precocious as well as obnoxious. Useful in the current situation, however. He sat on the bed and glanced round the room, which seemed to have all the mod cons a nine-year-old might want, and all surprisingly tidy. Jen's work, or did Valeria share Warrick's neatness? "Nice room," he said. She nodded. "It's big. I like it more than my other room, but I don't say that to Mummy. Her flat is really teeny." He didn't actually know anything about the domestic arrangements. "You don't live here all the time, then?" "No. I live with Mummy, but I come here to see Daddy lots. And Auntie Jen and Granny, before Granny went away." She frowned at him. "Do you know where Granny is?" He ignored the question. "Can I ask you something?" She set the glass down carefully on the table by the bed and pulled her knees up against her chest. "Okay."

"Do you always get a taxi home from school?" The question didn't seem to surprise her. "Only on Tuesday." "Why Tuesday?" "Because I have band practise. I play the violin. Usually I go home with Sarah's mum, 'cause Sarah lives near Mummy and me. But Sarah isn't in the band, so Daddy picks me up and I come here with him. Mummy comes for me later, or sometimes I stay all night." Routines, which were always the first point of danger. It would be interesting to know how many people had access to that information. Toreth wondered if he dared look to see if it was noted in Tarin's security file. "Did you see the accident?" She shook her head. "Some people at school did. Katty did." "Who's Katty?" "She plays the flute in the band. She's really good, lots better than me. She's my best friend." She looked down at the screen again. "We wait outside together after band, because there are some other girls who don't like her and I look after her. But yesterday I stayed inside." "That's very nice of you to do that for your friend." Praise if you can, he remembered, as long as you don't praise answers to direct questions. "Why didn't you wait with her today?" "There was a man outside the school fence. When we went outside first he was watching us. And " She shrugged. "It was creepy, so we went and waited inside. We took turns to go out and look to see if Daddy was there." "Was the man there every time you went out?" She nodded. "I told Ms Plaice and she said it was okay. But we thought he was creepy. We thought if only one of us went outside, then whoever was inside could tell a teacher if he did anything bad." "Very clever," he said absently. Someone watching the school on the one day Tarin would be there? Slim, tenuous link, but it might be worth chasing up. "Did you see the man's face?" She nodded. Toreth considered options. If he'd been at I&I, he could have started putting together a profile for the ident system and called in a paediatric interrogation specialist to keep the evidence as untainted as possible. However, there was no way in hell Warrick or Dillian would let him take Valeria to I&I. "Did Katty see him?" "Maybe. I didn't talk to her. She went home with her mummy, like I did she was crying. I didn't cry." "Good for you. Your friend does she ever come round here to, um, to play?" "Yes, sometimes. Uncle Val . . . " She looked up at him, the expression in her dark eyes reminding him of Warrick again: curiosity and calm intelligence. "Are you investigating?" Shit. "Yes, I am. But unofficially. Do you know what unofficially means?" She squinted thoughtfully. "Kind of." "It means . . . not because of my job. On my own." It had to be worth a try. "Secretly." "Secretly?" As he'd hoped, the idea seemed to appeal. "Does Uncle Keir know?" "Ah . . . no, he doesn't. Nor does anyone else."

"Auntie Dillian?" "No." Christ, he hoped he wasn't going to have to go through the entire list of their mutual acquaintances. She pondered the answer for a while, then said, "Auntie Dilly won't like that." "Maybe not." "So I won't tell her. You shouldn't tell her either," she added seriously. "Granny says don't tell people things if they'll get upset." Words to live by. "Kate . . . your granny's a very smart woman." Valeria nodded slowly. "I want Granny," she said, and he saw the tears beginning to well. And then, "I want Daddy," and the flood started as she reached out for him. Oh, fucking hell. He held her close against him, wishing fervently that he had one of his investigation team here to do this part for him. Mistry, for preference. She'd hold Valeria's hand and blow her nose and somehow get half a dozen useful bits of information in the process. Comforting witnesses was something Toreth had written out of his job description, along with various of the other tedious but necessary chores. What was the point of being a senior if you had to do crap like this? A soft, startled exclamation caught his attention, and he looked up to find Dillian in the doorway. The expression on her face made up for the damp patch growing on his chest absolute, unbelieving shock. He nodded to her. "Dillian." She came into the room, hovering by the bed, obviously wanting to take Valeria away from him but seeing no way to do it. He decided to make it easy for her. "Valeria?" He eased back a little, lifted her chin. "I have to go." She nodded, accepting another incomprehensible adult necessity. Still, it took her a while to let go of him. As he went to pass her, Dillian halted him, her hand on his arm. "Keir said you stopped him going in to see Tar," she said in a low voice. "Yes." "Thanks." Her hand tightened. "I mean that." He couldn't help his reply, or the harsh tone. "I didn't do it for you." The hurt showed in her dark eyes, which were usually so calm, so arrogant so like Warrick's, and he took a vicarious pleasure in it before she covered the expression and walked past him to the bed. ~~~ Toreth killed some more time by offering to fetch a takeaway for a rather late dinner. He'd half expected Warrick to insist he'd cook, but constant tea-making seemed to be satisfying his usual crisisinduced domestic urges. It was a relief to be out of the house, and he took his time, changing his mind more often than was strictly necessary before he finally selected Italian. As he sat in the restaurant, nibbling bread sticks, he considered the information he'd got from Valeria and the worries her outburst had begun to stir.

Valeria could want her granny as much as she liked, but she wasn't going to get her. If someone had tried to murder Tarin and he reminded himself that so far that was only a suspicion then there was a chance Kate could also be dead. He'd never asked Warrick the details of how he'd arranged his mother's release. Now might be a good time to find out exactly what had happened. How could he do that without arousing any suspicions on Warrick's part? There were several possible reasons why Tarin was in hospital. The first was that he'd had a genuine accident. Even with traffic control, such things could happen. However, if the Transport Division investigation concluded the collision had been accidental, that could simply mean that any saboteurs had been talented. Sabotage was certainly a possibility to consider. Family tragedies could be used to distract corporate heads at critical times; extortionists who couldn't get to a primary target might go for less well-protected family members. A target assessment should have revealed that Dillian would make a better target, but on the other hand, Warrick had invited Tarin to his flat, so they'd obviously been talking recently. Toreth wondered if anyone else had known about that invitation. Come to that, he wondered why Warrick hadn't said anything about it to him. Probably because Toreth wouldn't have been happy about it. Given Tarin's resister connections, it was sensible to avoid contact with him as far as possible. 'Resister' and 'political criminal' might be in the process of being redefined, but that didn't mean it was safe to fraternise with one. Even or especially when fraternising had a more literal meaning. The attack on Tarin could be the first shot in a corporate sab campaign a threat made against other family members would now be that much more effective. If this were the case, Warrick should be receiving a demand soon. That wouldn't be Toreth's problem. SimTech security could deal with it. He pitied the poor fucking sabs who tried to tangle with Warrick. On the other hand, it might have nothing to do with Warrick. Tarin might have had enemies of his own, either personal or connected with his idiotic ideals. Toreth's experiences of resisters suggested that they were fractious and definitely not above eliminating someone they saw as a threat. Resister in-fighting would be even less of Toreth's problem. Except that . . . Toreth was connected to all of it. He made a legitimate target for corporate sabs wanting to reach Warrick. He knew far too damn much about Kate's Citizen Surveillance history. He was a para-investigator, and so a target for resisters too. "Sir?" Toreth looked up, startled. The waiter stood at the counter, holding the heated boxes. Toreth paid and left, still half absorbed in working through the possibilities. The more he thought about them, the less he liked them. ~~~ Dinner was quiet. The dining room reminded him of meals there at New Year, although the subdued voices made a striking contrast to the usual cheerful noise. The takeaway was excellent, and to Toreth's slight surprise everyone, including Dillian and Jen, ate well. Valeria, dressed in pyjamas but looking determinedly awake, stuffed herself. At least her presence reduced the amount of discussion about Tarin, which was beginning to grate. Neither Warrick nor Dillian had liked the man, as far as Toreth had ever noticed. Toreth couldn't put the abrupt reversal down to hypocrisy, because he'd seen it too many times before with sudden deaths and serious injuries, but even so some consistency wouldn't hurt. He found himself looking round the table at the others. Alicia Dean had declined an honest

invitation from Jen to join them and taken her meal into the kitchen, so the table was family only. Now that Tarin wasn't there to spoil the effect, the transgenerational resemblance was frighteningly strong, and it made him think of the family portrait in the living room. Kate was missing, of course, but Valeria made up the numbers. Presumably she had been too young to be included when Cele painted the picture, or maybe she hadn't even been born. He stopped and rewound the thought. When Cele had painted it. That opened up a possibility he hadn't thought of before. After the meal, he left the others to clear up and went to find a quiet corner to make the call. "Cele? It's Toreth. Have you heard?" He listened impatiently through the usual litany of 'how awful'. "Yeah, terrible," he said eventually. Her next question surprised him. "Where are you?" "Kate's . . . I mean, Jen's house. With Warrick and Dillian and a very stoney SimTech guard." "Good. I'm glad you're there." And the genuine-sounding relief at his answer surprised him even more. "Poor Tarin. And poor old Keir. I bet it's hit him harder than you'd expect, hasn't it?" "Yeah. Listen. I need to see you about something. It's urgent." "What is it?" "I'll tell you when I see you. Is tomorrow morning okay?" "I have to be somewhere at eleven." "Great. I'll be there before then." "What " "See you soon. Bye." He cancelled the call before she had the chance to ask any more questions. Better not to display too much curiosity over the comm. ~~~ Jen and Dillian were still tidying up the remains of the meal. Toreth found Valeria sitting in the living room with Warrick, who was listening to her read. Warrick looked by far the more exhausted of the two. When he saw Toreth, Warrick smiled, then yawned. "Time for bed, Val. I'll take you up." She shook her head. "I want Uncle Val to." "I don't think he " "It's okay, I'll do it." Toreth grinned at Warrick's startled expression. "Well, if you're sure," Warrick said doubtfully. "What, you think I've got an ulterior motive? Give me another seven or eight years for that. Who do you think I am, Lew Marcus?" Warrick's eyes narrowed. "Toreth, that isn't at all funny. On any level." Ignoring him, Toreth turned for the door. "Come on." They climbed the stairs in silence. Inside the room, she looked up at him. "You're supposed to tuck me in," she said. "Forget it. You can manage."

She stared at him for a few seconds, then suddenly laughed. Once in bed, she looked up at him solemnly. "Read me a story?" "You can read your own. I saw you just now, remember?" He sat down at the end of the bed. Valeria sat up expectantly, hugging her knees to her chest. "You were telling me earlier about the man you saw at school." She nodded. "If I asked Cele Auntie Cele to draw the man, could you tell her what he looked like?" She thought about it, scratching the elbow of her pyjamas with her thumb. "I s'pose so," she said finally. "I could try." "All you have to do is try. It doesn't matter if you can't remember in the end." He considered options for a moment. "Are you going to school tomorrow?" "I don't know. I don't think so. Mummy didn't say if I was or not." "How about your friend Katty, the one who saw the accident?" "Don't know." "Okay." How the hell was he going to arrange this without Warrick or Dillian finding out? Maybe Jen would help. The problem was that he didn't know her well enough to be sure he could rely on her to keep quiet about it. "Uncle Val?" Valeria said quietly. "I didn't tell anyone about the investigating." "Yeah? You're a good girl." He stood up and turned to go. As he put his hand on the light switch, she said, "Leave it on, Uncle Val, please." He paused. "Do they usually let you have it on?" She hesitated. "Yes. Always." The lie was utterly transparent. He let go of the switch. "Fine. See you in the morning." With any luck, it would annoy Dillian. ~~~ Warrick wasn't in the room they'd shared the last time Toreth had visited the house. For a moment, Toreth wondered if he'd got the right room, then he saw the bags folded and stacked in the corner. When he checked, he found their clothes neatly placed in the chest of drawers. Jesus, sometimes the man's tidiness really did verge on the compulsive. It felt odd to be spending the night at Kate's house again, Toreth thought as he undressed. Odd that her shadow still lay on it so heavily. He'd spent only one New Year there before Warrick had thought better of the idea and not invited him again, but he remembered her quiet domination of the family. She had been gone for two months, and her presence seemed to have faded little if at all. Eventually, tired of waiting alone in the bedroom, Toreth grabbed a dressing gown and went in search of Warrick. Toreth only found him because the door to the room he was in was ajar. A bedroom he didn't recognise Tarin's, presumably. Inside it was dark, the only light coming from the street outside. Warrick stood by the window, arms folded tight across his chest, looking out. "Are you coming to bed?" Toreth asked. "Yes. Go on, I'll catch up." His voice was thick with tears. "I won't be long." Oh, Christ.

Wanting desperately to leave and pretend he hadn't seen this, Toreth went over and stood behind Warrick. Pause, deep breath, then he placed his hands gently on Warrick's shoulders. As far as he expected anything, he thought Warrick might turn round, and the idea of that, of having to hold him as he'd held Valeria, made him feel queasy. The pleasure at seeing Warrick brought low had transmuted entirely into unease. However, Warrick didn't turn, although he did lean back against him, and one hand crept up to tighten over Toreth's. Otherwise he stayed as he was, crying almost silently, the tears glistening in the light through the window. Shaking a little. It felt very strange. Not unbearable, but strange. Staring out of the window, through their dim reflections, Toreth thought about all the witnesses and prisoners he'd watched cry. About Sara in the hospital, years ago now, or at I&I with that bastard Carnac, or over her latest broken heart. It was easy. Piece of cake nothing to it. Eventually, Warrick sniffed once or twice and pulled away. "Go on," he said again. "I won't be long." "Okay." Back in the room, he spent a minute or so considering what would work best, then switched off all the lights, got into bed, and pretended to be asleep. By the time Warrick appeared, the pretense had almost turned into reality. The soft closing of the door woke him enough to listen to Warrick moving in the dark, undressing, then standing by the bed. "Toreth?" Warrick asked softly. He kept still, breathing slightly irregularly, until finally Warrick climbed into bed beside him. Then it was simply a question of timing the movement right so that they met in the middle, accidentally, and his arm slipped accidentally round Warrick. Why, he wondered sleepily, did he still bother pretending?

Chapter Seven
The other side of the bed was empty when Toreth woke in the morning. He checked his watch hastily, hoping he wouldn't be late for Cele, but it was still ridiculously early. He found Warrick downstairs in the kitchen, talking to Jen. "Warrick, Sara called," Toreth said. "I've got to go in to work I'm sorry." Warrick looked up. "That's fine. Thanks for coming out here in the first place. Do you want the car?" "I'll get a taxi. I'll call later, see how things are. If you're still out here, I'll come back this evening." Warrick nodded, then stood. "If you can wait just a moment, I'll add you to the security system." He hesitated, as if expecting a protest, then added, "In case we're out when you get back." ~~~ Cele's flat-cum-studio was filled with clear spring light. She made coffee, then took it over to the giant cushions on the floor by the floor-to-ceiling windows in her work area. As they settled down, the expensive view caught his attention and he realised what an easy shot they would both make for a sniper in any one of dozens of places. Paranoia levels high and rising. Cele looked at him expectantly. "What's so urgent?" On the way over he had considered how to approach the problem the best idea seemed to be to say as little as possible. "What do you know about what happened?" he asked. Despite the question sounding more professional than he meant it to, she answered without hesitation. From the phrases she used, she'd obviously got the story from Dillian, and possibly spoken to Warrick as well. But she gave him no reason to think she knew anything more than the publicly available facts. When she'd run through the events, he said, "And what do you know about Tarin?" She glanced at him sharply, then turned away to refill her coffee cup. When she settled back into her cushions, her wariness was unmistakable. "What do you mean?" she asked. "Come on, we both know he has some dangerous friends." Which sounded better than 'traitorous'. "And a lot of risky opinions." "Do we?" she asked. "Cele, I'm not planning to arrest him out of intensive care. Christ, how long have you known me?" At that she did look a little embarrassed. "It's just not something any of us would ever talk about. At least . . . " "Not in front of me. And believe me, I'm grateful. But right now we can't afford to ignore it. Politically, things are volatile. Opinions like his might not be treason any more, or even a reason for an arrest, but on the other hand they might be. And whatever the official position turns out to be,

they're still potentially bad for your health." She looked at him, still uncomprehending, then her eyes went wide. "Christ on a crutch you think someone tried to kill him." "No, I don't. I think it's possible." "Who?" "I have no idea, and there's no safe way of asking anyone else to look into it." Play it down. "If there's anything to find out in the first place. It could be nothing more than an accident. However, Valeria saw a man hanging around her school yesterday afternoon. And I thought you could " "Whip out a pencil and draw him for you?" "Got it in one." She cocked her head. "Do Keir and Dilly know?" "No. It'll probably turn out to be nothing, and they've got enough to do." She nodded, a little reluctantly. "What about Tarin? Will he be safe in the hospital?" "Yeah. Those places have too much security for anyone to get to him easily. Besides, odds are he's going to die anyway." Cele stared at him, then said, "So that would make it a pointless risk to go after him again unless they say he's going to pull through?" "Right. Don't worry about him." "That's one way of looking at it." She studied him for a moment longer, then added, "I'm glad I don't live in your world." That gave him pause for thought. Cele was a close family friend. Not as close as him, in the sense that she wasn't currently fucking any of the family (unless there was something still going on with Dillian), but there was an outside chance that she could be in danger. Then there was Asher Linton, the other New Year regular at Kate's house, and a SimTech director to boot. He'd also carelessly forgotten Philly, who as the putative target's wife was probably in more danger than any of them. Well, more targets meant more chance of a corpse showing up that wasn't his own, which improved the odds of finding whoever was behind it. On the other hand, too many accidents in a row would make Warrick suspicious, and if that happened Warrick would want to do something. He was a talented amateur, but an amateur he still was and he could stir up a lot of danger. Too many complications, and he began to wish his suspicions had never arisen in the first place. He felt hemmed in by the uncertainty of the dangers, and having to worry about Warrick as well as himself was an unwelcome novelty. "What are you thinking about?" Cele asked. "Warrick." He looked up and smiled, with his best show of natural charm. "If I'm looking blank, I'm usually thinking about Warrick." "Sweetheart, you never look blank. Not even when you're sleeping and/or passed out." Before he could ask for an elaboration, Cele stood up. "That reminds me. I've got something for you. Although I'm not sure if now's really an appropriate time to show you, but . . . " She hunted through a rack, then returned with a portfolio. "Keir called me about the move and the house-warming, so I was looking out a present for him.

This is from the good old days, when he had time to pose and I had time to draw him." He shifted round on the cushions to sit side-on to the window, to improve the light, and opened the file. Studies of Warrick sleeping. In most of them, the bed was a shadowy presence, sketched in with a few lines to give a context for the figure. Faces, hands, torsos, full length. Frowning, he wondered when the hell Cele had had a chance to draw these. She always said and Warrick had always said that they'd never fucked. Cele cleared her throat quietly. "He slept at the studio for a while, way back when. A different place I couldn't afford anywhere this swish. I never laid a finger on him, although God knows I was plenty tempted. But he was engaged to Mel; they'd had a fight, which was why he was there at all." Without looking up, Toreth nodded. Pretty much what he'd thought, he told himself. Repeating that a few times made it feel almost true. Reassured, and with Tarin completely forgotten, he took his time. He'd never watched Warrick sleeping until this moment he'd never even considered it. What would be the point? He wanted to do it now. To study him, to map out the differences in his body between now and these images from years ago. To see if he looked the same: vulnerable, guarded, irresistible. He touched sleeping lips with his finger, wondering. What are you dreaming? About fucking your precious Lissa? Or about something else something she couldn't give you? A cock inside you, chains on your wrists . . . So many subtle nuances of expression, so many varieties of sleep. He had no idea how long he browsed, or even how long he spent looking at a single drawing of Warrick on his side, perhaps nearing waking, his cock hard, his hand lying curled carelessly beside it. His slight, inviting smile made Toreth want to reach into the paper, shake him awake and fuck him into the mattress until they both came screaming. Except that Warrick hated fucking before breakfast. What a criminal bloody waste, if this was what A soft scratching made him look up. Cele now sat on the floor a little way away, leaning against the window, a large sketchbook on her knee. Cele smiled. "Carry on, Seven Inches don't mind me." But he couldn't, not once he'd realised he was being watched. He set the portfolio aside. "What are you drawing?" "You and your gorgeous cheekbones. Come see." Feeling oddly reluctant, he went to crouch beside her. She had indeed drawn his gorgeous cheekbones. His face was, so far, the one clear part of the drawing everything else was sketchy but expressive lines. As he watched, Cele was filling in the details of his arms and shoulders, the open portfolio on his knees, his hands lifting a sketch to get just the right angle for the light what was on the paper wasn't visible. Everything faded gently away from the focus of his face, with mere hints of the cushion and the rest of the background. His face, looking at Warrick's face. Nicely recursive. Like all Cele's work, it was very good. Very true to life, or he assumed it was. Sketch-Toreth was intent on the drawing in his hand, absorbed, oblivious to surroundings and observer. And his expression was . . . Oh, Christ in heaven. Burn it. Burn the damn thing right now. The pencil stopped moving. "Well?" Cele asked.

Toreth stayed where he was for a long moment, appalled and yet unable to look away, then he stood up and looked at his watch. "Finish it, if you like. Give it to Warrick. I have to go I'll get in touch about Valeria. We need to do it soon, though." "Okay. Do you want to take one of those old ones? In exchange for giving me this." She lifted the sketch pad. "Yeah, sure. Thanks." He skimmed through the sketches again, for form's sake, but he knew which one he wanted. She signed it with a flourish, gave him a sleeve to protect it, and let him out of the studio. ~~~ At I&I, Sara was waiting for him, agog to hear the news. He told her the public version: unlucky accident, with SimTech considering the possibility of something corporate. There was no need to worry her with his speculations. Back in I&I, away from the gloomy atmosphere of Kate's house, the idea of a deliberate murder attempt seemed less plausible. All he really had was Tarin's resister background and the word of one child witness that a man might have been outside the school. He wished he hadn't spoken to Cele about it, even though he felt confident she wouldn't tell Warrick or Dillian. He was surprised to get a call from Cele only half an hour after he reached the office. "Toreth? I'm going to Kate's place this afternoon. Dillian and Warrick have to go back to the hospital with Philly, and they don't want to leave Jen on her own with Val. I didn't tell them I was calling you." What a star. "Great. When you get there, see if you can get her friend over the one who saw the accident. Katty is all I know." After a few minutes' thought, he copied the appropriate section on eliciting descriptions from child witnesses from the P&P and sent it to her. That shouldn't be too risky. He thought about going straight back to Kate's but decided against it. The later he got back, the less time he'd have to spend with Dillian glowering at him. Besides, the more work he could get done today, the more time he'd have free to devote to unofficial investigations later. ~~~ Toreth sat in Jen's kitchen, which was becoming familiar, and watched Cele sketching. She had Valeria's rapt attention, or at least all the attention she could spare from a plate of biscuits. The girl seemed to be enjoying the process of producing the likeness, which was good from the point of view of keeping her cooperation, but bad in that it made her more likely to drag the sketching out and distort her recollections. He kept quiet but listened carefully, making sure that Cele stuck to the protocols from the guide he'd sent her. The house was silent except for the soft scuff of the pencil and Cele's occasional questions. Jen was asleep upstairs, and the SimTech security guard had gone with Warrick. "How about that, sweetheart?" Cele said, turning the sketchbook towards Valeria. Valeria studied the drawing with a thoughtful frown. "His nose is wrong." Cele rolled her eyes, but all she said was, "Wrong how?" "It was pointier." Valeria dipped her last chocolate chip cookie into the glass of milk and nibbled. "Okay." Cele began to erase lines. "I'm not sure you should give her any more of those," she

added without looking up. "And if you do, you're responsible for cleaning up the consequences. I traded my maternal instincts in years ago for a pair of genuine leather trousers so tight you could count my pubes." Toreth paused, hand on the biscuit tin. Valeria eyed him hopefully. On reflection, he decided Cele was probably right. The brat was certainly smart enough to spot a bribe pattern. She'd already provided a description and a second recounting of the events that was clearer than many he'd heard from adults. "How about that?" Cele asked at length. "Give it a good look, sweetheart." After a lingering glance at the tin, Valeria obeyed. "It's okay," she said eventually. Cele laid the sketchbook down on the table and all three of them examined the drawing. "I know him," Cele said at length. "What?" "I have no idea where from, but I've seen him. I'm sure I have. Or someone who looked damn like him. Or maybe a picture of someone." She shook her head. "I can't put my finger on it." "Well, that narrows it down. Val?" Valeria shook her head. "He doesn't look like anyone except him." ~~~ It was almost three by the time Valeria's friend arrived. Toreth lurked in the hall while Jen and Cele spoke to someone he assumed at first was her mother, but who turned out to be a child minder, summoned at short notice. "Mrs Waller said that Katherine could stay for as long as Valeria wanted her to, but you were to make sure she wasn't upset." "Of course," Cele said soothingly. "Don't worry Val doesn't seem to want to talk about it." "I think she just needs one of her friends," Jen added. "Someone familiar, someone her own age." "Sure. Makes sense." The minder didn't sound interested. "Would it be okay if I didn't stay? Only I have things to do. I'll leave my comm number." A score, Toreth thought, grinning. No need to pry the child away from a clingy parent. It took another half hour before Katherine and Valeria were alone in Valeria's room. Leaving Cele with instructions to keep an eye out for Dillian and Warrick, Toreth went upstairs with the sketch. He paused outside the room, running through the questions he wanted to ask. This would be so much easier if he could involve Mistry. She'd sit and chat to the kid and then an hour later she'd somehow have all the important facts run through three times and a summary distilled from them ready for him. He didn't appreciate her enough. When he went into the room, they were sitting at opposite ends of the bed, legs stretched out and feet touching. They both seemed to be absorbed in reading separate books, which made him wonder if they were really so friendly after all. They both looked round as he entered. "Val, would it be okay if I had a word with Katty?" he asked. Valeria nodded but stayed put, looking grimly determined. Toreth decided it would be easier to let her stay. He set a camera on the dressing table, making the gesture as casual as he could, then sat down on

the floor beside the bed. "Do you know who I am?" he asked Katherine. She nodded, sitting very still, her hands under her thighs. "I told her," Valeria said. "And that you were investigating." He put his finger to his lips and she nodded. "I'd like to ask you some things about yesterday afternoon," he said to Katherine. "Can you tell me what happened?" She looked down at her feet. "I went outside, and I was standing by the fence when there was a bang. A big bang." She shifted on her hands. "I looked up the road and there was a big fire." "What happened then?" "I went up to the gate to see it better. There was the big fire on a big transporter and all around on the road, and there was a car in it, all twisted up. But I only saw it for a minute before Ms Plaice came out and we had to go in. She said it was goulash." He considered for a moment before he got the word. "Was there anyone else watching? In the street?" She nodded. "Lots of mummies and daddies. Of people who're in the band." "Anyone else?" "Don't know." He laid the drawing on the bed beside her. Before he could say anything, she nodded. "He was right by the gate but he wasn't looking at the fire. He looked at me. And he looked at the school and then Ms Plaice came out and I didn't see him again." "Ms Plaice teaches music," Valeria added. He nodded, without looking away from Katherine. "Have you seen him before?" "I don't know." He was prompting too much, but he couldn't see another way forward. "Have you seen him at the school before? Someone's daddy, maybe?" "Maybe. I might've done." "Do you " Valeria said brightly, "Hi, Auntie Dilly." Toreth turned round, only then realising that he hadn't properly closed the door. How long had Dillian been standing outside? Long enough, judging by her expression she looked ready to add a murder to the recent mayhem. He cleared his throat. "I didn't hear you come in." "I can tell that." Before he could stop her, she crossed to the bed and picked up the sketch. "Who's this?" Valeria kept quiet, but Katherine piped up immediately. "He was at our school on the day that Mr Marriot " Valeria kicked her and she stopped, glancing anxiously between Valeria and the adults. "Downstairs," Dillian said, looking directly at Toreth, cold and furious. He nodded. There was no need to have his only witnesses contaminated by witnessing this too. Toreth followed Dillian out, pocketing the camera on the way.

~~~ "How could you get him involved? How the hell could you let him talk to Val? How could you encourage him?" Dillian waved the sketch towards him without looking at him. Toreth crossed his arms. To his surprise and relief so far most of her venom had been directed at Cele. He'd gathered only thirdperson scorn. He wasn't about to push his luck by saying anything. Warrick had also said nothing so far. Perhaps he was waiting for Dillian's fury to blow itself out, although Toreth caught the odd appealing glance thrown in his direction by Cele. "If you thought it wasn't an accident, why the hell didn't you call Justice?" Dillian demanded of Cele rhetorically, because since she'd slammed the kitchen door she hadn't paused for longer than it took to gather a fresh lungful of outrage. "Dilly " Cele said for the fifth time. "If there needs to be an investigation, that's Justice's job, it's not anything to do with him." "I said that Toreth could speak to Val," Warrick said. Dillian stopped dead, her mouth open. After a moment she tried to speak, but nothing came out except a protesting squeak. Luckily she was too surprised to check Toreth's reaction, because he knew he must look as stunned as she did. "I thought it was for the best," Warrick continued. "The best?!" Dillian was starting to wind herself up for another assault when Warrick stood. He crossed the kitchen and stood beside Toreth, hip touching his, hand behind Toreth on the counter. Presenting a united front. For his part, Toreth managed some kind of a neutral expression, although it was a struggle. "I'll spell it out if I have to," Warrick said. "Tarin did and said some dangerous things in the past. Do you really want Justice to start taking a close interest in him? What else might they find? What about Philly and Val?" He gestured round the kitchen. "What about us?" Dillian closed her mouth, then sat down, the sketch crumpling in her hand. "Toreth offered to look into it, I accepted. Blame me, if you have to blame anyone. Certainly not Cele." "Oh." Dillian looked down and rubbed her nose. When she looked up, she was flushed. "I'm sorry." "Don't worry about it," Warrick said. His voice had softened, and he crossed over to crouch beside Dillian, putting his arm round her. Toreth couldn't help smiling. Classic Warrick attack and retreat, punch hard and then offer a soothing hand. God, he must be a demon in corporate negotiations. "Everyone is upset," Warrick said. "And I'm sure no one will take anything to heart." He looked up. "Right?" Cele nodded and turned to Dillian. "Already forgiven and forgotten, sweetheart." The door opened and Jen looked in. "What on Earth is going on? The noise woke me up." She sounded more like the Jen Toreth remembered sharp and collected. "It gave me flashbacks to twenty years ago. What's wrong?" "Nothing," Warrick said as he stood. "Frayed tempers, that's all. Why don't I "

Toreth mouthed 'make some tea' along with him, and caught a faint smile from Cele. "I'm going to see Val," Dillian announced. "I'll take something up to her." "I'd lay off the chocolate biscuits," Cele said. Toreth detached himself from the discussion going on around him and thought about what Katherine had said. 'Maybe a parent at the school' was the best identification he had. Odds were the girl was only trying to be helpful. Valeria hadn't recognised him, and she seemed like the sharper observer. On the other hand, he did have a possible adult witness the music teacher. "Toreth?" Warrick's voice. Toreth looked round. He'd just poured water into the teapot through the wisps of steam, his eyes were cold. "Could I have a word?" Warrick said. "In the living room." ~~~ "Nice move in the kitchen," Toreth said. "You had no right." Warrick's voice was low but furious. "No right at all." Toreth blinked. "I thought " "I meant what I said. Dillian had no need to blame Cele for what happened. Now what exactly do you think you were playing at?" "I'm not playing at anything. I'm talking to witnesses, which is my job." "Not here. Not without my permission, unless you have a warrant you didn't show me. Why the hell didn't you tell me?" "Because you'd have thrown a fit like Dillian just a different fit. You were dead right in there, you know. What if Justice take an interest? There should be a big hands-off flag in Tarin's security file. But Kate's gone now, so what if there's no flag any more? What if they press an investigation? Besides, don't tell me it never crossed your mind there might be more to it than an accident." "I've hardly had time to think about it, have I?" "Bullshit. Free tip if you're going to lie, just lie. Don't make it into a question, because it's a real telltale. I knew you'd think of it. So I wanted to look into it quietly and find out if there was anything to worry about. If there had been, I'd have told you right away. Until then, the fewer people who knew about it, the better." Warrick's shoulders relaxed. "I see. And I admit it's logical, although I still wish you'd told me. I'm sorry I was a little sharp." And I'm sorry your sister is such a fucking bitch. "No big deal." "What was the sketch Dillian was going on about?" Warrick asked. "Oh. Valeria saw someone at the school, just before the accident. She thought he might be watching her. I asked Cele to sketch him. Probably nothing to do with anything, but I'll look into it. I can do it a lot easier from I&I ask around a bit, get a photocomposite made up, maybe run a systems search with a borrowed code. It'll only take me a few days to do it perfectly safely. You've got enough to do without running an investigation." Warrick smiled wryly. "True. Well, then, thank you and be careful." "Fuck, yes. Sit down, I'll get the tea."

"Bring the sketch in," Warrick called after him. In the kitchen, Jen and Cele glanced up when he came in from the sudden silence he surmised they were talking about either himself or Dillian, or possibly both. As he crossed the room, Cele turned her head to follow him, then winked at him out of sight of Jen. At least she was still talking to him, which might be useful later. Jen had the sketch in front of her, smoothing out the creases. "Who's this?" she asked. Toreth looked over her shoulder. "Someone Valeria saw outside her school before the accident." Jen nodded. "The source of the argument," she said drily. "But what I mean is who? His name." "No idea." With two mugs of tea ready, he paused by the table and turned the sketch towards him. "Do you think the accident wasn't one?" Jen asked. Toreth glanced at Cele, who shrugged slightly. Jen was too sharp to lie to, and there was little point now that so many other people knew. "Maybe. I've got no real evidence one way or the other. Mostly it's that I deal with far too much crap like this at work, and it kicked off my paranoia." "I see. And Dilly was upset because you talked to Val?" Jen frowned thoughtfully. "It doesn't seem like her to go off the deep end like that, if that was all it was." "Everyone's upset." He shrugged. "And she doesn't like me." "I've noticed." She paused, then added, "Kate was very fond of you." Noting the past tense, he looked at her curiously. She smiled wanly. "I was there when she was arrested. Keir told me that Kate was in some kind of trouble, that she'd had to leave the Administration. He also said that it's unlikely she'll be back, so I try not to let myself hope. One more thing we shouldn't talk about, I suppose." You have no idea. "Yeah." "I wish she were here now she was always stronger than me, although most people would tell you it was the other way round. I'm all front, I'm afraid." Cele snorted quietly and, remembering Jen's performance in defence of Tarin, Toreth tended to agree with Cele. "I wouldn't say that." Fuck, for all he knew Jen could work for Cit Surveillance too. He looked down at the drawing. "Don't suppose you recognise him, do you?" "No . . . not really. There's something a little familiar." "Dillian said so too," Cele added. "What?" "She said she thought she recognised the man." Cele smiled wryly. "Once she'd calmed down and actually looked at the sketch. But then she changed her mind." He nodded. He'd looked at the damn picture so often he was beginning to think the same thing himself. Probably the guy just had one of those generic faces that every witness you spoke to thought they'd seen. Still, he'd see what Warrick could do. When he went back to the living room, he found Warrick in a chair, his head back and his eyes closed. However, he looked up when Toreth closed the door, and he took the tea with a heartfelt "Thanks."

"Here you go," Toreth said as he sat beside him. He laid the sketch on his knee and blew on his tea to cool it. "Bonus points if you don't think you recognise him." "But I do," Warrick said quietly. "I think I met him recently." Startled, Toreth looked up. Warrick had gone very still. "You where? Who is he?" "He probably isn't a colonel in the Service." "Huh?" Warrick smiled fleetingly. "After you told me that Kate had been arrested, I came here. I found a number on her computer and sent a message to Citizen Surveillance to say she was in trouble. Someone who looked not unlike this man arrived at SimTech later that evening. He was the one who arranged her release." Damn it, he knew he should have asked Warrick more about Kate. "Why the hell was he at the school?" Then he regretted the question. He could think of a dozen reasons, all very unhealthy, but what he really needed was a way to kill the whole conversation before "We have find out who he is." Fuck. Too fucking late. "Whoa. Hang on a minute." He grabbed for the first distraction that came to mind something from the list of leading questions for witnesses. "How sure are you it's the same man?" "Well . . . " Warrick hesitated, studying the sketch. Toreth smiled to himself. Ask a witness that and they always started looking at the differences, not the similarities they were fixed on earlier. "Moderately sure," Warrick said at length. "But not one hundred percent, I admit. Or even . . . it is only a sketch." "Right. So you want to go looking for trouble because you think this guy looks like someone you met for, what, twenty minutes? Did he tell you his name?" "No, he didn't. But . . . " Warrick trailed off, frowning thoughtfully. "What?" "Someone else might know," Warrick said slowly. "Who?" "Didn't you say that Carnac had a copy of Kate's security file? If the man I met was involved in handling her, wouldn't that be recorded? Then we could compare the handlers to " He pointed to the sketch. "I don't remember seeing handlers' names. But then I wasn't close reading for detail." Being too worried at the time about looming humiliation and death. "So, yeah, they could be. But I don't have the file." "Carnac may well have, though." "Oh, no. No fucking way." "The idea doesn't appeal to me either." Anger flattened Warrick's voice. "If I never spoke to the man again it would be no loss." "Fuck. Shit." Toreth gave it twenty seconds' thought and still couldn't convince himself, even if stopping the end of the world depended on it. "I can't. If I lay eyes on the bastard again, I won't be responsible for my fucking actions." "I wasn't suggesting that you go." Warrick sounded horrified. "I'll speak to him."

"Go? Hang on. To fucking Strasbourg?" "Of course. I can hardly ask him for a file like that over the comm, can I?" "There has to be a way of getting a secure message " Toreth shook his head sharply. How the hell had they ended up discussing this as if finding a starting point for raiding Cit Surveillance files was a desirable thing? "Not Carnac." He gritted his teeth and forced the word out, hoping it would be enough. "Please." Warrick's eyes widened briefly in surprise, and Toreth didn't know whether to be glad or not that the plea had had the desired impact. "Very well," Warrick said. "So what do you suggest? There has to be another way." "There's no need to rush into things. We don't even know whether we need to do anything at all." Warrick raised his eyebrows. "Whether?" "Even if he is the same man you saw at SimTech, we've no proof he was behind it. Maybe he was hoping to stop it and didn't get there in time. If he rescued Kate, there's no reason to assume right off that he'd try to kill Tarin. Or it could be a complete coincidence. Aren't you the one who always says the world's full of coincidences? We haven't even heard from the Transport investigation yet it could easily have been a genuine accident. Let's not start kicking wasps' nests until we've got a reason to, huh?" Warrick stared at the drawing for a long moment, as if hoping it would speak. Then his head lifted and he nodded slowly. "That's sensible, I suppose." "Good. A few days, that's all I need." Toreth folded the sketch and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Wanting to distract Warrick, he asked, "How did things go at the hospital?" "You were right yesterday I wish I hadn't gone in to see him." He leaned his head back against the chair and sighed, then added quietly, "And I wish you'd been there today." Meaning, maybe, come with me next time. Tarin would probably be better company than usual at the moment, but the idea of the flotation tank was too much. "No, you don't," Toreth said. Warrick turned his head and started to say something, but Toreth carried on over him, wanting to get the conversation over with. "Not unless you wanted the distraction of me throwing up all over the room, which is what I'd have done. It's the tank." Warrick's face cleared. "Of course. I'm sorry. I ought to have remembered." "You've got other stuff to think about." In a way, it was a relief that his stupid loss of control in the Jacuzzi hadn't made a bigger impression. Warrick didn't say anything more, so after a while Toreth said, "We had to interrogate a witness in a tank once, after a resister bombing. She had chemical burns, vapor damage to her lungs." "Really?" Curiosity surfaced. "How did you manage it?" "They woke her up in the tank and we asked the questions through a nerve-induction earpiece. She did have one good hand, so she typed the answers for us. She kept choking on the " He swallowed. "Before we started the interview, I went to the toilet and stuck my fingers down my throat. Then I took an anti-nausea shot. I still spent the whole three hours one breath away from puking on the floor. She died a couple of days later. Systemic poisoning. So what did the doctors conclude about Tarin?" "Nothing, so far." Warrick looked up at the ceiling again. "The choice is simple enough. They can carry on the treatment, or they can let him die. It wouldn't take long. The doctor we spoke to said

they're struggling to keep him going as it is. Even if he makes it through the next few days, there's a strong possibility he could die later if they can't suppress the infections. He'll require constant medical support for . . . well, a long time. In the very unlikely event that he pulls through, it will take months of treatment before he can leave the hospital. Not just skin replacement muscle groups, some organs." Warrick swallowed. "His hands. They couldn't make any firm long-term predictions; they haven't been able to assess him conclusively for brain damage yet. Although that was the one thing they were optimistic about." Sounded like a hell of a lot of hassle and expense to go through for someone you didn't like. Warrick had stopped talking, so Toreth asked, "What did you tell them?" "Nothing. Philly is his registered next of kin they're technically still married and they never changed it after the legal separation. But she wants Dilly and me to decide. I think she wants us to let him go, but she can't make herself say it because of Val. And I just don't know what to do. I don't " He stopped dead, then looked round. "I don't know why I'm telling you all this. I'm sure you're not interested." "No, carry on. I don't mind." This was just what he needed to know to predict if the potential killer might feel the need to follow up his first attack. "I didn't know Tar well enough to even begin to guess how he'd feel about it. It would be much easier if Tar had left any indications of what he'd want " Warrick shook his head. "I have no room to talk. I've done nothing like that either, even though the SimTech legal department asked me to." "I have," Toreth said. "Not much, but enough for that. About all it is good for. I've got a whatsit patient directive in my medical file, saying that they can't put me in a flotation tank. Under any circumstances. Full body burns, whatever. I'm never going in one of those fucking things." "But " "They knock you out. I know. But knowing it's possible . . . no. It's the idea of them fucking up the sedation. Of waking up in there. It happens. The odds are one in a thousand, maybe, but I'd rather die. Isn't that stupid?" "Actually, yes." Toreth ignored him. "Your lungs are full of the stuff they put in the tank, and you're breathing it. The water the supportive fluid for burns to the lungs. Can't speak, can't move odds are the sedation would wear off before the muscle relaxant. They might not even notice you'd come round. You'd be " With difficulty, he forced himself to shut up before he talked himself into a full-blown panic attack. Not looking at Warrick, he drank the cooling tea, trying to clear his mouth of imagined saltiness. What would flotation tank fluid taste like? Beyond the basics, flavour was mostly scent. Could you taste at all if your nose was full of liquid? "I wouldn't let it happen," Warrick said suddenly. Toreth blinked at him, lost. "If the alternative was that you'd be dead or crippled, you'd go in the tank. I have very good lawyers they'd force the hospital to treat you while they found a way to tear the directive to shreds." He stood up and shrugged. "I'm sorry, but that's what would happen. If it's any consolation, in the very unlikely event of it ever being an issue I promise I'd have the sedation constantly monitored. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to talk to Dillian about what we're going to tell the doctors tomorrow." Toreth stared after him, too surprised even to protest.

What the hell did Warrick think it had to do with him? He had no right to make any announcements like that. Sara had been Toreth's registered next of kin for years. In a crunch, she'd probably give in to Warrick, though, which was a thought he didn't like. Of course, once they were cohabitees, registered sexual partners, boxes ticked and forms filed at the DoP, that would give Warrick some say in things. Toreth didn't recall offhand if it included nextof-kin rights, but it might. He didn't like that either, any more than he liked the idea of things being the other way round, of being responsible for Warrick. Corporates made targets too, so it wasn't impossible that Toreth shook his head. What a morbid bloody train of thought. What he needed was a drink.

Chapter Eight
The next morning Valeria proved unexpectedly useful by announcing that she wanted to go back to school. Toreth offered to drop her off on his way back into town. It had the double advantage of reducing the chance of his visit to the school ringing warning bells and of pissing Dillian off beautifully. In fact, Dillian was still trying to think up reasons why he couldn't do it when he loaded Valeria into the taxi. Toreth climbed in behind her and closed the door firmly. "Wave to your auntie Dillian," he prompted as the car set off. Valeria knelt up on the seat and waved out of the back window; Toreth added a wave of his own from behind her. Dillian waved back, looking ready to punch something, and Toreth hoped Warrick was out of the line of fire. Valeria sat down, and Toreth opened his hand screen and started reading. With luck the kid could take a hint. "Why doesn't Auntie Dilly like you?" Valeria asked after a minute. Because she's a bitch. Or just possibly because she's got a huge fucking hard-on for her brother and she hates that I'm the one who's fucking him. "What makes you think she doesn't like me?" She didn't manage to hide the snort of laughter. "She's not very nice to you?" "It's not that she doesn't like me. She just doesn't like my job." "Why?" Toreth thought it over. "Okay. At school, do you like the strict teachers, or the teachers who let you piss about and misbehave in class?" She giggled. "I like the nice teachers." "Right. Well, part of my job is like being a teacher for grownups. I make sure that citizens don't misbehave, and I try to catch them if they do. So a lot of people don't like us." That seemed to make sense to her. After a moment, Toreth returned his attention to the screen. However, the silence didn't last very long. "Does Auntie Dilly think you should let people misbehave?" "Not quite." Toreth sighed and closed the hand screen. Suddenly, this cover story for getting into the school didn't seem like such a great plan. "Look, you know it's a bad idea to say some things?" "Like what?" "Like, you don't think the Administration is a good thing. Don't you have citizenship classes?" "Oh, yes. On Mondays, Thursdays and Fridays." "So they tell you the Administration's a good thing, right? That you should do what the Administration says. 'The government is best that " He frowned. Pity he'd skipped so many of his own citizenship lessons at her age. "Right. 'The government is best that ensures the greatest security for the greatest number'." Or something like that. She nodded. "But Mr McVade said last week that sometimes we have to think about things for ourselves and decide if they're good or bad." Toreth raised an eyebrow. Teachers spreading sedition? There was a snippet of info that might

come in handy. "Fine. But I bet he didn't say that before there was all the trouble in the city, did he? Before that, he said you should trust that the Administration knows what's best and don't ask questions, didn't he?" She nodded again. "Well, you should stick to what he said the first time, because if you don't you could get into deep sh . . . big trouble. And my job is making sure that people do do what the Administration says." "Why?" "Because if people don't obey the law, then the Administration won't work." "Why not?" "Because . . . " Jesus, how did anyone work in Paediatric Interrogation and keep their sanity? He took a deep breath. "Look, remember what I said about not asking questions? Well, that's a good example of a question you really, really shouldn't ask." "Oh. Okay. Only Daddy always said you should ask 'why' if you don't understand something." And that is exactly why the fucking idiot is doing a deep-fried crispy chicken wing impersonation in an ICU. "For some things. Not everything. Not the things they tell you about in citizenship classes, to start with." How the hell had they ended up here? "I thought you wanted to know why Dillian doesn't like me." "You said. Because of your job." "Right. Because my job is to stop people misbehaving, which includes asking 'why' too much. Sometimes your daddy used to ask questions he shouldn't have done. She thinks I'd tell people about that and he'd get into trouble." That seemed to give her pause for thought. "And did you?" she asked very quietly. "Nope. Can you guess why?" He watched her thinking it over. Then her expression cleared and she smiled. "Because you're one of the nice teachers!" God, in a few years she'd be a real heartbreaker. He hoped he'd still be around to find out. "Got it in one. That's me. One of the nice teachers. And now I've got some work to do." She craned her neck to try to see the screen. "Are you marking homework?" He looked at the file, which was B-C's IIP for the day before. "Yeah, in a way." ~~~ The school looked like the brand of minor corporate/middling Administration outfit that could afford to provide a decent level of security. Also the kind of place where the management would be nervous about losing its reputation for the same. A large new extension suggested a recent Administration grant or corporate tax-deduction gift, but the other buildings were old. In places they could do with some work. He took Valeria's hand and walked into the school. He'd thought he might have to flash his ID, but in the end he was welcomed in the entranceway by a slender, grey-haired woman in her fifties, with slightly rabbity teeth. Katherine stood next to her. "How are you, Val?" the woman asked. Toreth blinked, but Valeria was already answering, "I'm fine, Ms Plaice." "I'm very glad to hear it. Now, Katty, I want you to take good care of Valeria today. Go along to

registration with her now." Katty took Valeria's hand and led her off, looking delighted with the responsibility. "I don't think we've met before?" Ms Plaice asked. "No." He considered lying, then weighed up the chances of Valeria and Katherine keeping his name quiet if asked. "My name's Val Toreth." She raised her eyebrows at the name. "Yes, it is a coincidence, isn't it? I live with Valeria's uncle, Keir Warrick. Can I have a word with you somewhere private?" She showed him to a small, obviously communal office not as spruce as the public parts of the building, which suggested either a stretched budget or a low priority on staff comfort. Once he'd refused a coffee and they'd sat down, she said, "I couldn't help but notice your uniform, Mr Toreth." He smiled. "People do. Senior Para-investigator Toreth." "Are you here about the accident?" He didn't feel like exposing his interest to that extent. On the way over, he'd considered a variety of stories, none of which would stand up to close scrutiny. "Actually, no; I'm doing a favour for someone. I'm investigating a complaint by a parent." He waited until she stiffened, then said, "Nothing to do with the school as such. Someone said their kid had been approached outside the gate by a man who wanted to talk to them." He waited for her to ask why the parents hadn't come to the school directly. Instead, she sighed. "I bet that what they didn't tell you was that they were breaking school policy." "I'm sorry?" "We ask people to come through the gate and drop off or collect their children in the designated areas of the grounds. But there are always queues and consequently people who are too busy to worry about child safety." "I, ah " He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to look a little uncomfortable. "No. I'm afraid they didn't mention that." "No doubt they said they thought a complaint would have more weight with the I&I name behind it." As that had indeed been his cover, he didn't have to fake surprise at the statement. She smiled wryly. "It's happened before, Para-investigator. Do you have any details you can let me know without compromising the parent's identity?" "I have a picture of the man." Ms Plaice studied the sketch carefully for a few seconds, then nodded confidently. "He's been there four or five times. I've seen him twice, personally, on band practise afternoons. I know all the regulars who collect the band members, at least by sight. He wasn't one of them, though there are always relatives or new responsible adults picking up the children for the first time. I saw him this week, in fact . . . " She hesitated. "On the afternoon of Mr Marriot's accident." He ignored her questioningly raised eyebrows. "Did he ever do anything suspicious?" "Not as such. I noticed him because he was watching the children leave, but I never saw him approach a child."

"Why didn't the school call the Justice Department about him?" "We did, a couple of weeks ago. We sent pictures from the security system. They investigated and told us that since the man had no record of unlawful behaviour they couldn't do anything. Lack of manpower." "Always the way. Did they give you a case number? I can pass it on to the concerned parties, and they can make their own enquiries if they're not satisfied." "Just let me find it for you." As he waited, Toreth studied the picture again. Cele had given the man a neutral expression, helpful in a witness picture. On prolonged inspection, however, it gave him a secretive, slightly sinister look. The case number was handed over on a strip of paper, saving Toreth the bother of faking a problem with his hand screen. The fewer electronic trails he left, the better. "One last thing," he said. "Can you tell me where I might find a Mr McVade?" ~~~ Through the window in the classroom door, Toreth could see but not hear the lesson in progress. McVade leaned on his desk, hands braced behind him. Toreth had expected him to be young, mostly because of his suicidally open expression of anti-Administration sentiments. In fact, McVade had a slightly crumpled, hangdog face, and Toreth guessed him to be forty, although his untidy sandy hair and slightly scruffy clothes might be deceiving and he could be older. It would be easy enough to check in the security files when he reached I&I. Finally, McVade stood up and turned to pick something up off the desk. He caught sight of Toreth and paused, eyebrows raising in a silent question. Toreth raised his own eyebrows and pointed into the room. McVade nodded, beckoning him in. Closed, the door had hidden everything except Toreth's face. When Toreth opened it, McVade performed one of the most beautiful double takes Toreth had even seen, then sat down abruptly on the edge of the desk. The class, seated behind their screens, watched in undisguised fascination. "Do you recognise my uniform?" Toreth asked as he strolled over to the desk. McVade nodded, looking as though he were about to be sick. "Well?" Toreth prompted after a few seconds. "You're a " He cleared his throat. "You're from I&I. The Interrogation and Investigation Division." "Investigation and Interrogation just think of the order we do them in. You really ought to be able to get that right, given your subject." "Of course. Investigation and Interrogation." He turned to the class and gathered himself with an obvious effort. "Can anyone tell me what department the Investigation and Interrogation Division belongs to?" After a long pause, a few hands rose. "Alan?" McVade said, his voice rather high. "The Department of Internal Security?" the boy said. McVade sagged slightly with relief, and Toreth smiled. "I'd like you to step outside with me, just for a few minutes," Toreth said evenly.

McVade didn't respond he looked as though he were trying to summon an excuse and the courage to use it. Finally he nodded. "Now, class, while I'm away I want you to start test number, uh, seven-six-six. Anyone who finishes that may read the next government history chapter." Once in the corridor, Toreth looked both ways. Quiet enough. He returned his attention to McVade, who had his hands clenched in his pockets and his back braced against the wall. Toreth examined him with mild interest, wondering if the man was about to faint. When the teacher had started to shuffle his feet, Toreth said, "Mr McVade, I have a question. Would you say that the Administration tries to do what's right for its citizens?" "Of course," he said quickly. "Of course. Would you say that children should be taught that the Administration has their best interests at heart? And that the people who run the Administration know what's right and what's wrong?" "Well, yes. Para-investigator, all teaching staff are required to have extensive background checks and interviews about their " "Shut up," Toreth said evenly. "I'm not a citizenship specialist, but would I be right in saying that nowhere in the current curriculum does it say that children should be taught that it's important to learn to think for themselves about questions of right and wrong?" Now his skin had the curd-pale colouring of one of Warrick's more exotic cheeses. "Oh, Christ," McVade breathed. "Or maybe I'm wrong. Have they changed the curriculum and not told us?" To his surprise, McVade straightened, taking his hands from his pockets and putting them behind his back. "I'm not saying anything else until I have access to an independent legal representative." Under the new P&P, the bastard would probably be in luck. "For a political crime like spreading sedition and to minors at that? I think you know better than to expect a rep for that." Some of the colour had returned to McVade's face. "Then I demand to have the head teacher present before we continue this, this . . . " "Interrogation?" Toreth broke out one of his nastier intimidating smiles. "Mr McVade, this isn't an interrogation. It's a friendly informal interview. Besides, the school wouldn't thank you for making the whole incident official. Even if it went no further, I'd have to put a note in your security file and the establishment's file. You know what that would mean?" "My complete and irreversible unemployability?" McVade said bitterly. "Right." Toreth relaxed his stance. "But I don't think it needs to go that far, do you? Not when it's all based on a misunderstanding." McVade stared, obviously wondering if he'd misheard. Finally, he licked his lips. "Misunderstanding?" "Do you know why I'm here? Someone I know has a child in one of your classes. We had an interesting little chat recently about your idiosyncratic interpretation of the citizenship lessons. I told her that she'd probably made a mistake and you just weren't very clear when you explained things. Kids that age can easily get the wrong end of the stick." "Yes, they, er . . . they can." McVade looked like a man trying to work out where the trap lay. "I'll make sure I'm clearer in the future."

"You do that. Nice talking to you, and I hope I don't have any reason to do it again." Toreth clapped him on the shoulder, and the man nodded fervently. "You won't, I promise." "You'd better get back in there, eh? Before the little bastards set the place on fire." ~~~ When Toreth arrived in the office, he found that Sara had left a physical note on his desk, in bright red ink on yellow paper, to remind him that it was Warrick's birthday a week from today. That, he realised, was after the move, assuming it all went ahead in light of the recent excitement. Warrick hadn't said otherwise. The corporate kidnapping interviews had provided no immediate leads for Nagra and B-C. Everything they had so far pointed to amateurs trying their luck in the volatile political situation. That meant a higher chance of finding them eventually, but also that they probably didn't understand the corporate anti-extortion rules. Very soon, it would dawn on the kidnappers that they had a high-profile victim on their hands, no chance of getting the ransom they wanted, and no backup plan. That was usually bad for the victim. As the case had ground to a halt, Tillotson was already sending memos suggesting if Toreth didn't get somewhere soon, the four pool investigators he'd been assigned would find new work elsewhere. A two-day investigation was hardly old enough to write off as hopeless, Toreth thought, but he knew there was no point arguing. He applied himself to the case, trying not always successfully to avoid wondering what Warrick was doing. By lunchtime, Toreth found his concentration wandering more and more often. Finally, he abandoned official work for a while. Nagra's attention would suffice for the kidnap victim, Toreth decided, while he concentrated on a genuine political criminal. Oblique avenues of investigation into Tarin were limited, but at least Toreth could firm up the cover for his visit to the school this morning. McVade must have been telling the truth about his vetting for the teaching position, but Toreth pulled the man's file anyway. The 'no action' flag caught his eye at once. Panic gave him a stirring adrenaline kick until he checked the details and relaxed. It was only a low-level warning, meaning no arrest and no interrogation, but also no absolute prohibition on contact. An informal interview at the subject's place of employment wasn't likely to arouse the wrath of . . . whoever. The notes didn't specify the agency behind the watch on the teacher. That left a variety of clandestine divisions inside and outside Int-Sec as candidates. Without a higher-level access code there was no way of finding out which one, and Toreth didn't feel like attracting attention by digging for the information. To hide his interest, he pulled Plaice's file, then those of three more teachers at random. Thankfully, they were all unexceptionably loyal Administration citizens. He logged the visit to the school as following up an anonymous tip-off about anti-Administration sentiment: no IIP to be filed and no specific mention of McVade. After he closed the report he sat and stared at the blank screen, biting his thumbnail. This was exactly what he'd worried about: that digging at any part of the case would turn up unpleasantness that was better left buried. ~~~ The I&I canteen had been one of the last parts of the building to reopen after the revolt. While it

was closed, Toreth had got into the habit of making sandwiches, or at least of throwing an assortment of junk from the fridge into a box with a couple of pieces of bread. Mornings weren't his best time for culinary inspiration, or anything else, but on most days he'd surprised himself by opening the box at lunchtime and discovering a largely edible meal. It was easy enough when he had Warrick's miraculously well-stocked fridge at his disposal. However, Toreth hadn't felt comfortable with the idea of rifling Jen's fridge, so he'd been forced back to the canteen. As he queued, he noticed that they had taken the opportunity of prolonged closure to hike prices yet again. Probably they hoped no one would spot the difference. "Toreth!" Chevril cut into the queue beside him, ignoring the muttered comments from the gaggle of admins behind. "Elena not packed your lunch?" Toreth asked. "Yes. Full of low-fat stuff." Chevril patted his stomach. "I ate it, and now I've come over for a bacon sandwich, if there's any left. How're you? Keeping busy?" "Weren't you here yesterday?" Toreth asked. Chevril shook his head. "Up north, doing work that should be done by a bloody junior if I had one. I got back late last night after eleven, because the train timetables are still haywire. Elena was livid. So what happened here?" "Didn't Kel tell you?" "I've got better things to do with my time than track your every move." Chevril grinned, unabashed. "But now you mention it, he said you'd been out of the office all day and no one knew why. I thought if Sara hadn't told even him, then it must be something good." Sara was clearly getting paranoid about letting any information about him out. Of course, telling Chevril's admin was tantamount to taking out an advert in the division newsletter. "Sorry to disappoint you, but it's nothing exciting," Toreth said. "Warrick's brother got himself badly smashed up in a car accident. Warrick wanted me to go over to the hospital with him." It was, he realised, a perfect opening for a corporate toyboy joke, probably involving handholding. Instead, Chevril shrugged. "Good for you. No point having family crisis leave days in the contract if you don't use them when you get a chance." He isn't my fucking family, Toreth thought irritably, then wondered how Sara had booked the leave. Surely she wouldn't do that to him? "Getting anywhere with your missing girl?" Chevril asked. "Nowhere at all. And Tillotson's demanding results on one hand, and threatening to take my pool investigators away with the other. Usual brilliant management logic if the investigation's taking too long, you can speed it up by cutting the team." He made the mistake of pausing for breath, which left a conversational crack into which Chevril slammed his new favourite crowbar. "If you've got a team to cut, unlike some people . . . " Toreth sighed silently and resigned himself to another round of Chevril's current top complaint: the hopelessness of trying to replace a team with no decent investigators to choose from. Chevril seemed to be surprised by how much work Sedanioni and the rest had done for him, and by how much he had to do now. Chev had been unlucky, as usual Kel was the only survivor of his regular team.

Toreth tuned him out, waiting for his turn to bitch while no one listened. If he could be bothered. In an odd way, he realised, he almost enjoyed the pressure from Tillotson for results. Cases had been so few in the weeks after the revolt that it felt good to have a reason to moan about the head of section's impossible demands. It was about the only thing in his life that felt normal like the good old days. ~~~ That evening, Toreth found himself missing his own flat more than he had for a long time. Although Kate's house wasn't small, it was surprisingly hard to find somewhere private in it. There was always someone around one of the adults or, more irritatingly, Valeria. Tomorrow night, he decided, he'd sleep back at Warrick's flat, whether Warrick was there or not. Needing to be closer to work would be a perfectly acceptable reason. Not long after Toreth arrived at the house, Dillian went to the hospital, which was something of a relief. In her place arrived Philadelphia Wintergreen. Toreth had never met Valeria's mother before. After the years of wondering vaguely what she looked like although admittedly never enough to pull her security file she proved to be a mild disappointment. Certainly the woman was not as impressive as her name. Ten years older than Toreth, she wasn't ugly but she was extremely serious. Granted, part of that might be due to a day spent at her husband's bedside (or was that tankside?), but Toreth suspected it was a permanent condition. Her straight mouth and grey-blue eyes had no evidence of laughter lines around them. She even had serious hair, a uniform brown in a sharp-edged bob. On reflection, she was exactly the kind of earnest, solid type that Toreth could imagine Tarin marrying. It came as no surprise at all to find out that she was an official at the Department of Education, and an ex-teacher. One thing that did interest him was how much she knew about Tarin's resister connections. When Warrick introduced her to Toreth she seemed wary, but as he had no reference for her usual reaction to strangers it wasn't conclusive. Curiosity piqued, Toreth made two coffees and took them through to her in the living room. She didn't look welcoming, but as he'd expected she didn't object as he sat down beside her. "I'm sorry about Marriot," he said when he'd handed her a mug. "Are you?" Her voice didn't waver, and she was examining him with curiosity. "I didn't think you knew him." "Not well at all," he admitted readily. "We were both here for New Year, about three years ago. If you haven't heard the story from someone else already, he called me a psychopathic Administration torturer behind my back, but within earshot." She stared at him and he smiled, trying to look a little self-deprecating. "I thought two out of three wasn't bad, for someone who'd barely spoken to me. He'd already given his opinions about Administration reform at lunch. Warrick was a hell of a lot more surprised than I was when Dilly called him about the crash. From what I heard that New Year I'd say he's been damn lucky so far." Her surprise had vanished behind a wary mask. "I didn't think the roads were so dangerous." "You know what I mean." He set the cup down. "There's a reason I'm telling you all this. There will be an investigation into the accident, even if it's only by the transport safety people. They'll be

working on the records and the vehicles already. If anything suspicious turns up, Justice will get involved. Maybe I&I. And in a case like this, the first place either of them will start looking for a culprit is at the victim's family and friends." "Friends?" she asked drily. "That seems like an inappropriate word." "Friendship's overrated. Most murder victims are killed by someone they know. And if Tarin had any friends who thought the way he did, it's not a healthy circle to be moving in. Advocating comprehensive reform of the Administration isn't something I'd put down on an application for life insurance." Now she looked bewildered. "But the revolt, the change of Administration . . . ?" "Might make less difference than you think. Who knows what the hell counts as a political crime these days? Anyway, what I need to know is if Justice turn this accident into an investigation and start looking hard at Marriot's associates, will they find anything?" She shook her head, but it wasn't disagreement. Rather, she was fighting the instinct not to tell him. He wished he'd taken the time to change out of his uniform before he talked to her. At the school it had been an asset here it was an enormous liability. Not that Philly looked to be the kind of woman who'd forget who she was talking to. "Ms Wintergreen, I don't go looking for extra cases. Even if sometimes I have to try very hard not to see them." A little exaggeration wouldn't hurt. "In the past I've heard more than enough from your husband to have him taken in for interrogation." She didn't even blink. "So why didn't you?" "Because he's Warrick's brother. Half-brother. Mud sticks, and you don't get mud any thicker than an arrest for anti-Administration resistance." "From the sound of it, you already think you've heard enough to make up your mind about him." "Yes. But is it just him?" "We had some friends he's still in contact with who weren't unsympathetic. And . . . I don't disagree with him." She gave him a challenging look. "I doubt any moderately intelligent, rightthinking person could disagree that there are fundamental problems with the Administration. If there weren't, we wouldn't have had mobs on the street." Once she decided to go, he had to admire her for going all out. Toreth shrugged. "I don't care, as long as agreeing was all you did." Her defiance damped down a little. "In my younger days, perhaps, I had a few more radical ideas. But it became too dangerous. There were too many arrests whenever any plans were made, the Administration always seemed to be ahead of us. I felt sure, in the end, that someone was betraying us." "There are a few intelligent, right-thinking people who admire the Administration and aren't so keen on anarchy." She didn't react to the dig. "After Valeria was born, I decided it was too dangerous to stay involved. Tarin agreed with me at first, but he . . . he changed his mind. The others talked him round." She shook her head. "It doesn't surprise me that Kate has gone. For a long time I thought that she encouraged him in his views." And then some. "I don't know anything about that. But what you're saying is that he's tied in and tied in deep."

"Yes." "That's what I thought." "And now what?" "I don't know." He was tempted to suggest she consider joining Kate on a one-way holiday out of the Administration. But Kate had escaped with the connivance of Citizen Surveillance. Without that kind of help, fleeing the Administration was an admission of guilt that was tantamount to a confession. "If you happen to know anyone who might have any evidence they'd like to get rid of, now is a good time to suggest it to them. Apart from that, I promise I'll do what I can for him." That caught her by surprise. "Why?" Jesus, obviously Valeria had inherited that question from both sides of the family. "For Warrick. And for me." Forestalling her question, he added, "Because mud sticks." ~~~ All the talk of mud at least gave Toreth an idea for finding some peace and quiet. Upstairs, the bathroom was empty and Toreth ran himself a deep, hot bath, which he felt he deserved. He even found a bottle of masculine-scented bath salts and tipped in a generous dose. If they were Tarin's he wouldn't be needing it for a while. The hot water felt wonderful, the bath deep enough to get at least an illusion of buoyancy. He settled back to think over what he'd found so far. The conversation with Ms Plaice had confirmed that the stranger outside the school had been there more than once. Four or five sightings, at least two coinciding with Tarin collecting his daughter from the school. Not conclusive, but suggestive. Warrick's identification of the man as the Citizen Surveillance agent had upped the stakes. Was he tidying up loose ends from Kate's undercover operation? According to Warrick's account of their meeting the man had been helpful enough, but that could have been a first-stage response and this the rather more final cover-up. The unofficial killing of resisters was much like the unofficial annex deaths at I&I, only without the complication of a trial. If citizens were too well connected or difficult to arrest for other reasons, then a quiet accident helped the Administration run smoothly. It was a shame, Toreth thought uneasily, that Warrick wouldn't look at it in the same light. If he became convinced there was foul play involved, then he'd be out for blood A Citizen Surveillance connection gave him another focus Kate. If Kate wasn't dead, then she might be behind the attempted murder. Still working for Int-Sec, or even on the run, she could see it as a necessary step towards tidying up the remains of her old life. Since she'd raised Tarin as a tool for Int-Sec to use in monitoring resistance groups, she'd probably not lose much sleep over eliminating him. He wondered how she felt about Warrick, who knew more than anyone about the circumstances of her escape. She'd always seemed very fond of her younger son, for what very little that meant. There was the picture in the living room downstairs to consider: Kate, Jen, Warrick and Dillian. If it was Kate behind the killing, then she might be thinking as much of her family as of herself, assuming she gave a fuck about any of them. Could Kate know that Tarin and Warrick were reconciling? That would give her an incentive to act now, before they grew too close. Killing Tarin now would go a long way towards shielding Warrick and the others from taint by association. There could be no subsequent arrest and interrogation, no trial, no messily public execution or reeducation, no chance that he could say something to suggest Warrick or Dillian had

ever expressed anti-Administration sentiments. If Kate wanted to protect her other children, then if Tarin died the danger would be over. Almost over. Tarin had been cut out of the family in the letters Kate had written to her absent husband and excluded from the portrait. That left Toreth with the uncomfortable awareness that he wasn't in the picture, either. That omission was purely a function of time the picture had been painted before he'd met Warrick. But had Toreth's name been in the recent letters? Other considerations affected how much danger he was in. Did Kate know that he knew about her secret? Did whoever Warrick had contacted to arrange her release know? Could they have found out about his old mistake of pulling Leo Warrick's file? Warrick had said that he'd had messages from Kate, sent from outside the Administration. If she was free and clear, was it really likely that she was behind this? Toreth pushed his hair back, realising as he did that he was sweating. He nudged the tap with his toes, letting a little cool water into the bath. While it ran, he debated the merits of going downstairs and telling Warrick about his teacher eyewitness. The longer he left it, the worse Warrick would be about the omission. However, he didn't want to give Warrick any ideas about leads to chase down. With any luck, Toreth had bought himself a few days' grace to decide what to do. ~~~ When Toreth went downstairs, he found that Dillian had returned, and she, Warrick and Philly were locked in a deadly serious-sounding conversation in the living room. Toreth left them to it and spent a moderately entertaining evening talking to Jen. He managed to steer her away from amusing anecdotes about Warrick's childhood and towards stories about teenaged Dillian. A little ammunition was always welcome. He didn't have a chance to talk to Warrick until they both went upstairs to bed. "How's Tarin?" Toreth asked out of a vague sense of duty as he roughly folded his clothes which was getting to be a habit and stacked them on a chair. "He's " Warrick shook his head. "No. I'm sorry, but I've been talking about it all day, with doctors and family. I'll tell you in the morning." "Hey, don't bother. I don't give a fuck anyway." Warrick stopped stripping, his shirt half unbuttoned, and stared at him. What now? Toreth wondered. It wasn't as if it was a surprise: Warrick had said yesterday that he knew Tarin's health was of zero interest to Toreth. Warrick laughed suddenly, brief and humourless. "Lucky you. Sometimes I wish " "What?" Warrick shook his head. "I wish we were back at the flat." Obviously not what he'd been about to say, but it made a successful distraction. "What, right now? Why?" "Because then there wouldn't be anyone sleeping in the next room. Or at least no one I'm related to." "If you want to play, I can keep you quiet." "'Want' doesn't really cover it." Warrick sounded strained and he glanced around a little helplessly. "But we don't have anything here. Not even the belt. And Philly's sleeping on this floor."

Warrick stopped speaking as Toreth took his hand. He held it for just a couple of seconds, his thumb stroking gently over the palm, before he shifted his grip to Warrick's wrist and twisted it up behind his back, following the movement smoothly round to end up standing half behind him. Warrick hissed at the sudden pain, his hand flexing. "Is this it?" Toreth asked. "We can't . . . " He twined his fingers in Warrick's hair and pulled his head back, leaning in to breathe the words into his ear. "Is this what you need?" Warrick's eyelids closed, lashes dark against his skin, and he moaned softly. "I asked you a question." He twisted Warrick's arm further up, forcing the pace. "Is it?" "Ah! Yes. Yes, I need it . . . " "That's right. I've told you before if I want to take you, I'll do it anywhere I like. Any way I like." Toreth let go of his hair and stroked possessively down Warrick's neck, round his collar and inside his open shirt, cataloguing the textures under his palm: smooth skin, rougher hair, hard peaks of nipples. He ducked down to bite Warrick's neck, wanting to hear his breath catch. "Toreth, please don't let me make any noise." "And I can do it with or without toys. I don't need props. I don't need anything to make it work. Do you?" "No." Warrick let out a long breath. "God, no. Only you." "That's right. Only me." Only me. Only me. The words stayed in his head in a constant background counterpoint. In the end they had props, even if only the basics. He pulled Warrick's shirt forwards over his head and down his arms, leaving the wrists still buttoned, then pushed him face down on the bed. Toreth followed quickly, not giving Warrick time to find out that he could wriggle out of the sleeves if he tried. With his arms trapped and Toreth's weight holding him down, Warrick was already lost in the game, his eyes glazing, dark and pleading. Toreth had made vague plans, ideas drawn from the stock he kept ready for impromptu sessions, but he dropped them all in favour of 'just fuck him'. Right now, that was enough. Nothing more elaborate needed for either of them. Only me. Only me, he thought, as Warrick struggled under him, cloth tearing in staccato bursts because even strong, expensive corporate-shirt cotton can only take so much abuse. The ripping cloth sounded louder than it was, but much quieter than Warrick. Toreth pinned him to the bed, fucking him hard while he kept his hand clamped tight over Warrick's mouth, smothering the noise. And, God, it felt good. Unexpectedly, shockingly good, in a way it hadn't felt for a long time. Not just each deep thrust or Warrick's body hot against him, but the game itself: power and control, the rules building a wall around them, a solid barrier against the chaotic world outside the room. Only me. Only us.

Chapter Nine
When the comm chimed, Toreth was surprised to see the clock say eleven. They'd been in bed for only half an hour. However, the comm hadn't woken Warrick he slept deeply beside Toreth, and in the dim light he reminded Toreth of the pictures at Cele's. He looked younger and very peaceful, oblivious to the strain of the last few days. Not wanting to wake him, Toreth grabbed his dressing gown and slipped out into the corridor. He had assumed it was work or Sara. No one else he knew called him in the middle of the night. However, it was Cele, looking exhausted. "Toreth, can you come over? I've got something to show you." "Can it wait until tomorrow? Tomorrow evening would be better." There was a limit to how much time he could take off work. "I think you should come." Her agitation finally registered, and some of the haze of sleep lifted. "I might have a name for the man in the picture." Fuck. This could be difficult, especially if she wanted to tell Warrick. "I'll be there." While he dressed, keeping as quiet as he could, he noticed the pain in his left hand a deep ache that meant a bruise. When he was back out in the light of the corridor, he found a rough oval marked in the fleshy part of his palm, below his little finger. At some point Warrick must have bitten him, and damned hard, but he was fucked if he could remember it happening. ~~~ When Cele opened the door to her studio flat at quarter past twelve, she was wearing an eyewatering screened-silk dressing gown which seemed designed to prove that the human eye really could distinguish sixteen million colours. "Come in," she said. "I just made some more coffee." Inside the flat was more paper than Toreth had seen since the systems failures at I&I after the revolt. Single sheets covered every flat surface and made piles of varying heights on the floor. Portfolios took up the remaining space. The windows were clear and the blinds raised. At night the flat seemed higher than in the daytime, and Toreth was acutely aware of how exposed he and Cele were, standing in plain view and backlit. "You look like shit," Toreth said as he dropped his coat on a chair. "And that's the flattering version." She waved round the room. "I was up almost all last night, like a good little detective. I knew I'd seen the face somewhere, and I decided in the end I'd drawn it." "Had you?" "No. Or at least I don't think so. I don't know who he is, but I know who he looks like." He tried to hide his irritation at the wild goose chase. "Really? Who?" She led him over to the window, to the only clear space in the room, and picked up a closed portfolio from a crowded sketching table and handed it to him. It was labelled in Cele's writing, 'LW for K. Prelims. Pnc/Pho.' Inside he found a copy of the drawing she'd done for him at Kate's house, and three older

sketches in pencil. In the old sketches, a smiling young man sat in a chair, with a baby in his arms and another slightly older infant on his knee. Toreth recognised him at once, with a rock-solid certainty that refused to supply a name or a context. "Who is he?" Toreth asked. "Keir's father, Leo, with Keir and Dilly. I did it for Kate from a photograph, a long time after he died. She'll have the finished picture at her house somewhere she loves it." He stared at the sketches, old and new. God, she was right. He'd only ever seen Leo Warrick once, in an old picture from a long-closed security file, but she was right. Add thirty-five years and this would be pretty damn close. And if that was true, it opened up all kinds of nasty possibilities. For one thing, he'd left the sketch of the suspect at Kate's house. Warrick, Dillian, Jen any one of them might suddenly see the resemblance. So might any old family friends who turned up at the house to lend support in a crisis. The first thing any of them would do was what Cele had done show the picture to someone else and ask if they saw the resemblance too. If Warrick found out he would never let it go. 'I did it for Kate, from a photograph, a long time after he died. She'll have the finished picture at her house somewhere she loves it.' At her house somewhere. In the house with Warrick, who could notice it any moment. With luck, everyone would still be tucked up safely in bed, and he could get back to the house and find the damn thing before it precipitated a disaster. Coming back to the present, he realised his heart was beating double time and Cele was watching him intently. "It can't be him, of course," she said, "and he didn't have any close family that I know about. So it's just one of those Strange-But-True freaky coincidences, isn't it?" He tilted the pictures towards the light and frowned. "Do you really think they look alike?" Now she looked surprised. "Don't you?" "Do you do a lot of age enhancement?" "Well . . . no." Thank fuck. "I do. Or a reasonable amount. Aged-up files for wanted suspects and missing corporates, that sort of thing. This doesn't grab me right away." "Oh?" She didn't sound as if she entirely believed him. "Don't get me wrong I really appreciate the effort." He gestured round the chaos in the studio with the portfolio. "Look, I'll take the old pictures into I&I and get them properly aged up, and we can compare them with the sketch, how about that?" He tried to put as much 'I'm just humouring you' into his voice as he could, and from her disappointed expression she seemed to buy it. "Sorry to drag you out of your nice warm bed and haul you all the way out here for nothing," she said. "No problem. It's not your fault. Look at enough pictures, you see what you want to see." He grinned at her, trying to hide his desperation to get out of there. "It was worth it just for the dressing gown." ~~~ Back at Kate's house, all was quiet and still. The living room light was on, and as Toreth closed

the main door, the SimTech guard stepped out into the hall, hand on his gun. Toreth greeted him in his best faux-corporate dismissive manner. He must be getting good at it, because the man nodded and disappeared back into the room at once. A quick, quiet tour of the darkened downstairs rooms revealed no picture of Leo Warrick. Toreth had expected that he was fairly sure he'd remember the picture if he'd seen it previously, and he'd been in all the ground floor rooms except Kate's study. That was locked, so he'd have to hope the picture wasn't in there. On the top floor, where Warrick was hopefully still fast asleep, there was a junk room and three guest rooms: one with Dillian, one with Warrick, one empty. None of them were likely to contain a prized picture. That left Kate's bedroom as the most likely target. On the first floor landing, he set the lights low and considered options. On this floor, one room was where he'd found Warrick looking out of the window. Toreth had assumed that was Tarin's room, and he didn't remember any pictures in there. He knew that one door was the bathroom. Valeria's name was on the door to the right of that, which left two other rooms, of which one would be Jen's. But unlike Valeria, the older members of the household didn't helpfully label their doors. He opened a door, waited for a minute, then stepped inside, only to hear low breathing. He eased the door open wide enough to illuminate the room and found Jen asleep in the centre of a double bed. Cosy, and he was struck once more by the thought that for her age she was still a looker. A resemblance to Warrick always helped, he thought as he closed the door. The last room looked promising. It was feminine without being fluffy, and it had the cool, slightly dusty smell of somewhere unoccupied for weeks. He closed the door, switched on the light, and looked round. Plenty of pictures hung on the walls, including at least two of Cele's, but not the one he was looking for. Where the hell was it? He was about to leave and try Tarin's room when he spotted a picture on the wall opposite the door. That was the one a man, two small children and unmistakably in Cele's style. It was half obscured by the wardrobe; an odd choice of location, he thought, until he realised it was perfectly placed to be visible from the bed. He took the picture down and placed it on the neatly made bed, then pulled out the sketch of the Cit Surveillance agent and laid it beside the frame. Seeing the finished picture, he couldn't imagine how Cele had ever bought his doubts that they could be the same man. Warrick must have been the older of the two children. Despite his distaste for the idea of Warrick as a child, Toreth couldn't help looking for a resemblance, and finding it. Dark eyes and hair, of course, but also a serious intelligence in his face as he looked up at his father. If he simply took the picture and destroyed it, would that raise too many questions? It might be less risky to replace it with another picture. He knew from experience that witnesses could remark on the absence of a picture even when they had no clue as to its subject. The human eye worked on shape and colour, with details often lost. Perhaps he could find something upstairs that wouldn't be missed. In any case, he could start by taking the damn thing away and putting it somewhere safe, like in a fire. The frame was only clipped together, and he had just prised the backing sheet away from the glass when he heard Warrick's voice. "Toreth, what the hell are you doing in here?" Warrick stood in the doorway, wearing his dressing gown. Toreth turned the dismantled frame quickly away from Warrick. "Nothing. Go back to bed. I'll be there in a minute."

Even to himself, he sounded guilty. Warrick's gaze swept the room and Toreth cursed silently. Of all the people in the house, it would have to be the one person who would be bound to spot that Warrick crossed to the bed. "You've got my father's picture there. Cele's picture." He looked down to the sketch on the bed, and Toreth saw the suspicion dawning. "Toreth, give it to me." "Listen, trust me, you don't want to look. Just let me " "Give it to me." It wasn't quite a shout, but the next one would be. Toreth laid the picture flat on the bed beside the sketch, then turned both of them round to face Warrick. Warrick looked between them for a long time, and Toreth listened, wondering if they had woken anyone. The rest of the house was silent. Kate's room was silent. No cars passed in the street outside. Somewhere, distantly, an alarm was ringing, the noise so faint he could be imagining it. Toreth set the frame on the floor, then studied the upside-down pictures, wondering if there was a chance in hell that Warrick wouldn't see it. When he looked up, Warrick was watching him. "When did you find out?" Warrick asked. He didn't sound angry. He didn't sound anything other than mildly curious, which was not a good sign. "Tonight. Cele called me she spotted it. I think I managed to persuade her she was seeing things. I wanted to have a look at the finished picture, see what I thought. And then " He shrugged. "I didn't really have a plan." Warrick shook his head slightly. "No. You intended to destroy it, didn't you?" "Yes," Toreth said, and waited for the explosion. Instead, Warrick nodded slowly. "I wish that you'd told me, but I do appreciate the very sound reasons why you wouldn't want to." Toreth blinked at the unexpected reprieve. Warrick leaned down and pulled the pictures across the bed, lining the edges up carefully. "It's funny, but seeing him in person it's not half so obvious as it is with these. I've looked at this picture all my life. There are others, of course, Kate had some photographs, but this is special. Cele really highlights the important features, doesn't she? Goes to the heart of the subject." He touched the sketch gently. "Remarkable, if you think that this was from a description." "Yeah, she's very good." Warrick's thoughtful tone was starting to disturb him. "Warrick, if it's him, then there's no reason any more to suspect Tarin's accident wasn't an accident, is there? I know he isn't Tarin's father, but Jen told me he was fond of Tarin, right? Treated him like a son?" Warrick was still looking at the pictures, stroking his palms over each other. "There could be half a dozen innocent reasons he was there," Toreth said with all the conviction he could muster. "So there's no need to take this any further, is there?" Warrick looked up. "And if he was responsible?" "Even if he was, he got Kate out. If he arranged the accident, he must be trying to cut the family off from an association with resisters. Tarin's the only one who's a risk. You, Dilly, Jen none of the rest of you have ever had any dangerous connections except for Tarin. Philly says she's been out of touch with the resisters for years. It's over now. Let it go." Finally, the calm broke. "Let it go? Do you you have no idea how Tar felt about him. He loved him he worshipped him." Toreth couldn't help comparing Warrick's pale fury now with his desperate need earlier that night and his absolute surrender to the game. If only Warrick would occasionally bring his submission

outside the bedroom. "That was thirty-odd years ago," Toreth said. "Right now, Tarin's a liability to everyone." Toreth tried to keep his focus, to remember what was important to Warrick. "What about everyone else? What good will it do them if you keep going at this until you blow the whole fucking thing wide open? That's the only way it ends. That, or Leo looks at you and the rest of the family and decides he can't keep all of you alive." Warrick's expression hardened. "So you do think he was behind the accident." Shit. "It doesn't matter what I think. We don't have any evidence, and it's too dangerous to look for more." From Warrick's expression, Toreth might as well have been speaking Japanese. "I have to find him." "And do what? Kill him?" "No, of course not. I " Warrick frowned, as if he hadn't actually got that far with the plan. "I don't expect you to understand." No, of course not. No doubt Toreth's psych file said he wouldn't. "Warrick, however pissed off you are about Tarin, is that any reason to commit suicide?" "There's nothing suicidal about it." Warrick was using the 'I'm being perfectly reasonable' voice that made Toreth's fists clench. "All I have to do is find his name. It should be easy enough. The history of the operation will be in the Citizen Surveillance files I'll get it from there." He really wished Warrick wouldn't tell him things like that. "It's far too bloody dangerous. Warrick, ordinary citizens aren't even officially supposed to know that Cit Surveillance exists. It's a closed Int-Sec division. No contact numbers, no public records. What if you get caught?" "I won't be," he said with absolute confidence. "Do you have any idea how to get into the Cit Surveillance systems?" "Not yet. But I'm sure I can find a way in." "Yeah. And I'm sure you can get yourself arrested and get me in shit with you up to both our fucking necks." There was another silence, during which Toreth began to hope that Warrick was finally seeing sense. Then Warrick shook his head decisively. "I'm sorry, Toreth, but I have to try the files." "No. Warrick, if you do anything, I'll " He stopped. He had to stop. What could he threaten to do? Leave? Maybe Warrick wouldn't even care, and it was pointless anyway, when they both knew what an empty threat it was. He'd tried that already and he hadn't even managed to stay away for a month before he'd crawled back the moment Warrick snapped his fingers. For a moment, Toreth felt tempted to tell Warrick about his own lead from the school. But that would only encourage Warrick to look harder, and the last thing Toreth wanted was the stubborn bastard pursuing the trail into a school where the staff's files were being flagged by unknown agencies. Toreth took a deep breath. "If you do this, you do it on your own." "I didn't expect you to help." "Too fucking right. But not just that if you get yourself into shit over this, don't expect me to

try to pull you out. I'll be walking away from the whole fucking mess just as fast as I can. Forget flats and registered fucking partners. You can try your corporate connections and expensive lawyers and see how far it gets you with Cit Surveillance." Faced with fire, Warrick had performed his usual retreat into ice. "I know what I'm doing." "Bollocks. You have no clue what those people are like." Warrick's eyebrows rose. "I lived with Kate for my whole childhood. I think I know exactly what they're like, and exactly what they're capable of." Don't do it, please. Jesus, please Christ don't do it. Toreth wondered if begging would help. He suspected this time it wouldn't, and he wasn't humiliating himself on the off chance that it might. "Fine. Search the files, do whatever the hell you like." As usual. "But don't expect me to risk my neck pulling you out of your messes." "Warrick?" They both looked round. Dillian stood in the doorway, wrapped in a dressing gown that Toreth couldn't help noticing flattered her figure very nicely. While Warrick crossed to her, Toreth swept the pictures from the bed and rolled them up, with the portrait inside Cele's sketch. He pushed the dismantled frame under the bed with his foot. "What's going on?" Dillian asked. She stepped sideways, trying to see past Warrick, who moved to block her view. "Nothing," Warrick said. "An overly loud discussion, which is now closed."

Chapter Ten
Warrick returned from the kitchen to his office, carrying a tray of bacon sandwiches and tea. The aftermath of the revolt was still disrupting deliveries, and there had been no bananas available on the residential ordering system this morning. He hadn't wanted to take the time out to try one of the Saturday markets. He settled down at his desk again, where the screens still reported no progress. It looked like being another late night. Weekends weren't the best time for exploring illicit entrances into new systems. During the week, the higher flow of traffic concealed attempts at breaking in. On the other hand, out of working hours breaches of security might not be chased up quite so quickly, giving him a chance to recover from otherwise fatal mistakes. If he'd simply been lifting records from the normal citizens' security files database, it would have taken minutes at the most. That was something he'd done dozens of times maybe hundreds. Even the Int-Sec files, courtesy of Toreth, were accessible. However, operational files at Citizen Surveillance were an entirely different question. After a solid day of work, he wasn't even certain that he was working on the right division. Semisecret government organisations didn't helpfully label their systems. Between waiting for the results of his attempts to get into the database and thinking of new strategies as each one failed, he had plenty of time think about other things. He poured a cup and leaned over it, breathing in the steam and letting it soothe his aching eyes. The caffeine was probably a bad idea, but he needed it, so he'd compromised on tea rather than coffee. He had a headache that had refused to yield to painkillers. He could feel the tension in his neck and shoulders. Nothing to do with the computer work he could spend far longer than this in front of a screen with no ill effects. Anger at Citizen Surveillance and at Toreth caused a fair portion of the stress. He didn't blame Toreth for being afraid of the consequences of attracting Citizen Surveillance's attention. It was something he understood very well, and it made its own contribution to the tight band of pain around his temples: fear of what might happen to Tar if he didn't succeed, and of what might happen to himself and others if he got caught. He hadn't seen Toreth since the night of the argument. Toreth had taken a taxi back into the city first thing in the morning. When Warrick arrived at his own flat on Friday evening, Toreth wasn't there. Neither were about a suitcase's-worth of his clothes. No doubt he was staying at Sara's, or at a hotel. That was Toreth's traditional second-choice solution to any argument between them: if sex wasn't an option, walk out. Hardly a surprise after all this time, but infuriating given the seriousness of the situation. Of course, from Toreth's point of view, the solution was easy let Tarin die and the rest of them would be safer. No surprise either. A message on the screen distracted him. Another failure, hopefully unnoticed. Even if his attempt was spotted, he'd covered the tracks as thoroughly as he could. He ate a sandwich while he considered the next most viable approach. Then he wiped his hands scrupulously and worked for a concentrated twenty minutes.

Then it was back to waiting. How long should he keep this up? Despite his front of confidence to Toreth, Warrick knew damn well that the longer he kept at it, the lower the probability that he would succeed in any given hour and the greater the chance of being caught. Eventually, detection would become inevitable. He needed to set himself a limit and then have the discipline to stick to it. On Monday morning, the removal firm would arrive. That made a good end point. The remainder of Saturday evening and the whole of Sunday was long enough to either break through or be sure that he couldn't. This morning, the hospital had reported Tarin as stabilising. Even so, he'd discussed with Dillian whether to cancel next weekend's house-warming party in case Tarin's condition worsened. In case, really, that he died. In the end, Warrick had decided not to; it simply wasn't practical to arrange the next few weeks around the possibility that Tarin might die at any time. And if that death wasn't natural . . . He'd stick to his time limit, but if the systems search failed, he'd have to think of something else. ~~~ Shopping had been Sara's idea of something to do on a Saturday, but Toreth had put up only the token resistance required to preserve his reputation. He needed more clothes all he had were the things Warrick had bought for him during the revolt, plus the handful of survivors from his flat, and the new I&I uniforms. His suspicions should have been aroused when Sara had been so vague about where they were going. She'd kept him occupied in conversation during the whole taxi trip, so Toreth hadn't paid too much attention to their route. When the car pulled up, he realised why she'd been so keen to distract him. The shopping complex, in a residential zone where the flats were astronomically far out of SimTech's price range, was filled with shops that didn't display prices. If you shopped there, whether it was for clothes, food, furniture or private cars, you shouldn't need to know 'how much'. "I thought I said I needed clothes?" he asked. She nodded earnestly. "Right. And in there are clothes shops. I thought your compensation finally came through? From the flat?" "Half of what I put in for, and no explanation why they cut it." "Are you going to appeal?" Sara pushed the door open and stepped out. "Maybe. Probably not." He followed her out. "It'll be just as tedious as fucking with accounts at I&I, except with I&I accounts they know that I work in the same building and I can find out where they live." She laughed. "It wouldn't matter, anyway. You can't scare Central Housing Division staff they aren't even human." The taxi system requested additional confirmation of payment, and he leaned back in through the door. Satisfied with his I&I ID, the taxi finally pulled away. At least that perk hadn't yet been cancelled by the new Administration. The shopping complex guard armed, Toreth noted also accepted their IDs, although with less grace than the taxi. Toreth didn't bother to say anything, simply resting his arm over Sara's shoulders as he watched the guard silently weigh up the conflict between their no-doubt inadequate

credit ratings and his senior para status. Inside the complex, the floor was so spotless even Warrick would have eaten his dinner off it. Cunning as ever, Sara broke him in gently with a detour into a toiletries shop called, originally enough, 'Skin Deep'. The assistants looked icily perfect and aloof, but they thawed out after a few minutes of Sara's determined enthusiasm. While she searched for the perfect shades of this lipstick, that foundation and the other eyeliner, Toreth taste-tested hand creams. His skin was getting rough from too much time wearing gloves down in interrogation. As they left the shop, he eyed her improbably large carrier bag. "How much of that are you ever going to wear?" "Most of it. I got a lot of free bits and bobs. Buy one of these and get one of those." She peered into the bag and smiled with satisfaction. "Anyway, it's all still coming out of my comp money." "Still?" "Down to the dregs, but I did save on the furniture." She stopped outside a menswear shop. "Here we are." This place didn't actually have a name, as far as he'd ever discovered, just a screen above the shop front where swirls of tasteful shades slowly chased each other around. Not a single artfullydisplayed item in the window carried a hint of a price label. "I can't " "Just for underwear," Sara said innocently. "You know you have to." He sighed and opened the door. She was right about the underwear. The nameless shop sold the only make of briefs that was absolutely, perfectly comfortable. That he knew that in the first place was entirely Sara's fault, because she'd once bought him the original pack for one New Year. Since then he'd tried buying underwear from elsewhere and it had just annoyed him by not being quite right. His bank account survived on his coming here alone and making a quick dash in and out. On that basis, he made a brief, futile attempt to head straight for the underwear section, then gave up. Sara sidetracked him onto a trail of other items, ending up, twenty minutes later, in the middle of a display of sweaters that Toreth was fairly confident the customers weren't encouraged to handle. "It's blue," Toreth said doubtfully. "Yes, it is." Sara unfolded the sweater and held it up, turning it around for a thorough critical inspection. "Duck-egg. It's a good colour this year." "But what about next year?" "You'll still be able to wear it," she said with absolute confidence, "because it goes perfectly with your eyes. Which makes people think you get your cashmere sweaters dyed to order and you must be incredibly rich." "I certainly won't be if we don't get out of here soon." "No, really. You know people notice that kind of thing. I do. You could pick me up if you were wearing it." She offered the sweater and grinned. "If I didn't know you already, that is. Go on." In theory, he reminded himself, clothes were one thing over which he didn't mind making an effort or spending money. A good wardrobe was essential for good hunting. Toreth stripped off his own sweater and pulled on the blue one. It felt silky against his recently-

moisturised fingertips, almost waxy. He stroked it smooth, then found a mirror nearby. His hair was mussed, so he straightened it, checking out the look of the soft wool sleeves as he did so. The thick knit managed to hang and cling at the same time. He imagined putting it on Warrick just the jumper, nothing else then rubbing his face against it, against Warrick's hard, muscled shoulders while he fucked him slowly and Warrick swore and pushed back against him and begged for it harder and faster. Smelling sweat and sex over the warm new-wool scent of the . . . Sara coughed. With a start, he focused back on the image in the mirror. He looked distracted and slightly flushed. Sex. He definitely needed more sex, very soon. A pinch-faced assistant in a tight black dress lurked nearby, looking disapproving. Toreth took the jumper off and handed it back to Sara. "Yeah. It fits okay. Add it to the pile." He was about to suggest moving on somewhere more sanely priced when he changed his mind. What the fuck. If he was going to pretend to be a corporate in Warrick's their new flat, he might as well look the part. "I need some shirts. Let's see what they've got." "How's Warrick's brother?" Sara asked as they browsed, with a determinedly casual edge to her voice that made him pay closer attention. "Still very, very fucked." "Does anyone know what happened yet?" "No." "Are you . . . " She fingered a plastic-wrapped pink shirt that there was no way in hell she could seriously be suggesting he buy. "Toreth, is there something going on?" "It's nothing," Toreth said. "Absolutely nothing that you need to worry about." Sara looked at him closely, then nodded and turned away, dropping the shirt back onto the display. "Okay." The quiet voice again, and something he couldn't immediately identify that set his teeth on edge. Resignation, he realised after a moment, or at least an unhappy acceptance that she had no right to expect him to tell her anything, not any more. If he ever met Carnac again, Toreth was going to add a whole new chapter to the P&P especially for him. More immediately, he decided he had a goal with Sara, just as with I&I, to put things back to normal. That meant finding some way to reprogram the reaction. Telling her to knock it off wouldn't drive the message deep enough to matter. If he said he didn't care that she'd told Carnac things that no other living person knew, then he'd be lying and she'd know it. Until he hit on a better plan, he could do nothing except ignore the sting of anger and carry on. "Come on. Let's pay and get out of here before I bankrupt myself," he said. "I'll buy you a coffee."

Chapter Eleven
On Monday, Toreth worked hard all day and spent two hours in the gym, and he didn't think about Warrick at all. After work he went back to Sara's flat, ate curry, and watched a truly appalling romantic comedy that she claimed Kel had recommended. It involved a mistaken identity setup that could have been sorted out fifteen minutes into the plot by any moron with a DNA scanner. He pointed this out a few times, until Sara threatened to throw him out of the flat if he didn't shut up. It was only as he went to bed that he realised the house move was tomorrow. After that, if he wanted to collect any more clothes he would have to go to the new flat. Not a big deal, but Toreth hoped his own clothes would manage the trip safely, especially since they were all new. On Tuesday, he almost caused a permanent and irreparable rift with Sara by waking up at six and going in to work. She seemed to feel obliged to go with him, which was fine by him except that she also felt obliged to whinge about it the whole way. At lunchtime, their corporate kidnapping victim turned up partially as four separate pieces scattered across marshland on the edge of the river estuary. By the end of the day, the rising tally of body parts left him short of several bits, but however he phrased it in the IIP the woman was still dead. That knocked the priority of the investigation down and, as Toreth had expected, Tillotson promptly reassigned all their pool investigators. By the time he and Sara left for the night, Toreth still hadn't heard anything from Warrick. He wondered whether he should check in, just to make sure Warrick had put him on the security system of the new flat. A couple of times Toreth started to call, then cancelled the connection. He wouldn't be able to resist asking how other things were going, and it was probably better not to know. On Wednesday morning, as they were eating breakfast in Sara's flat, she suddenly dropped her spoon and said, "Shit. You hadn't forgotten that it's Warrick's birthday tomorrow, had you?" Of course he had. At work, he fucked sixteen things up before lunch, yelled at Sara, B-C and Mistry over the lack of progress in the corporate kidnapping, then went to the gym. He ended up swimming lengths fast enough to leave a significant wake. His shoulders ached, his legs ached because he hadn't been spending enough time exercising lately but now he couldn't stop thinking about Warrick. Warrick wouldn't give up, that was the problem. And that left the possibility that either he'd find Leo Warrick or whoever the Citizen Surveillance agent had been or he'd get caught, and neither of those options were good for Toreth's life expectancy. Toreth turned at the shallow end of the pool, took a breath, and kicked off, diving down underwater. He kept swimming, lungs burning, feeling the rising panic and the water flowing over his face. His body screamed breathe and his brain screamed drowning, until finally he touched smooth tiles at the far end of the pool with his fingertips and broke up for air, gasping, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the pool He hung on to the side, treading water as his heart slowed. There was, realistically, only one way to prevent disaster, and that was to find the man who'd been at Valeria's school before Warrick did. In the afternoon he abandoned official work to call Officer Lee at the Justice Department. As he waited for the call to connect, he felt the now-familiar twinge of doubt. Did she still work there? Had

she died in the revolt? Admittedly, at Justice the odds of her survival were good but, as always, the few seconds' wait brought back the disorienting uncertainty. Not to mention a desire to hunt down every resister in the Administration and nail them to a wall as punishment for fucking up Toreth's life like this. "Para-investigator?" Lee smiled on the screen, looking rather more pleased to hear from him than she ever had in the past. "You're alive and well, then." "Never better. I need a favour, Officer. Can I call in and see you after I finish here?" "Sure. Call me again before you arrive and I'll meet you at the main entrance." Paranoia twinged. "Can we make it a side door?" She didn't looked surprised, but she did shake her head. "Impossible, I'm afraid. You'll see why when you get here." ~~~ He did indeed. The Justice Department was turning into a fortress, with a new double perimeter fence being erected. At the locked main doors, the armed officers on guard checked his ID twice, even with Lee standing there beside him. Before the pair of them could move into the main building, his ID and Lee's were checked at a second reinforced door. "Jesus," Toreth said as they walked down the corridor. "We don't have this much security now. I thought you didn't get hit so badly?" Lee shrugged. "We all saw the pictures from I&I. And we're the ones who are actually out on the street. The revolt blew off some steam, but it also made people realise what was possible. There's a lot of anger out there, Para-investigator. If the new Administration doesn't meet the expectations raised, there'll be more trouble. Maybe worse trouble." She looked at him sidelong. "Unless it's still treason to say that the Administration might be fallible?" Toreth shrugged. "No one's told me otherwise. But I'm afraid I'm too busy to arrest you. You're not the only ones who're short-staffed." "I heard you lost a lot of people," she said, her voice suddenly sympathetic. "Yeah. And they were a lot of the best people." He gave her an appraising glance. "Want a job? I can guarantee a good starting grade." She smiled wryly. "I don't think so. I'd rather keep a few names above me in the lynching list." In her office, the other desk was occupied by a harassed-looking young man who was staring at a comm screen. Judging by his tapping fingers and clenched jaw, the soothing hold picture of a flickering shoal of fish wasn't doing its job. Toreth tilted his head towards the man, and Lee nodded. "Palano, can you give me ten minutes?" The man looked up, startled. The dark rings around his eyes complemented his heavy fiveo'clock shadow, and Toreth wondered if he'd been there all the previous night. "What?" Palano asked. "Can I have the office for ten minutes?" For a moment Palano looked as though he'd protest. Then he slammed the comm connection closed and stood. "Sure, why the hell not?" He groaned softly as he bent down to pick his coat up from the floor, and straightened slowly with his hand to the small of his back. "Have it all evening. All night, for all I care. See you sometime." "Vin, your shift doesn't finish "

"Why don't you tell the Inspector? They can sodding well sack me." Palano banged the door shut hard enough to rattle a shelfful of commendation certificates, which had even tackier plastic frames than the I&I variety. "Maybe I should offer him a job," Toreth said. "If you catch him before he gets a good night's sleep, he might even say yes." Lee sat down at her desk and pointed to a chair. "Now, what can I do for you? I hope it won't take too long, because my shift finishes in half an hour." "I'd like a copy of a final case report," Toreth said as he sat down. "And I'd like to make sure there's no official link to your passing it to me." Her eyebrows rose. "That sounds interesting." "You don't want to know how interesting. But I can promise that no one will care about you pulling the file." "Just if you pull it?" "I'd rather not have people know I was looking. It'd put some noses out of joint. Besides, it's one of your files I'd have to put in an official departmental request. These days it might take weeks, or it might never turn up at all." She looked at him narrowly. "Okay," she said eventually. "But remember " "I owe you a favour. A big favour. I'll remember." She took the case number and turned to her screen. "And I'll try to make sure I collect on it before someone strings you up. Right . . . here you are." Peering over her shoulder, he scanned down the file. "Twenty suspect names?" he said in dismay. "That's right." She flicked through the file unfamiliar with the Justice format, Toreth couldn't follow her. "Very bad picture, apparently. Whoever it was knew enough to keep his face away from the school surveillance systems, or maybe he was just lucky. The best they sent us was a ten percent profile. These names are the twenty best fits who came up as resident in New London." She glanced over her shoulder. "At least, they were resident here before the revolt. Now movement notification is gone, your guess is as good as mine." "They told the school they'd identified the man and he wasn't a threat." "I'm sure they did. That isn't in the file, but " She looked round again. "What would you have done with a case like that?" "Called the school to get them off my back and then not put it in the file in case the guy turned out to be a psycho. Did whoever ran the case check them out?" "I shouldn't think so. No one's going to devote much time to a vague report like that. Let me see . . . no, just automated basics: a check for family links to pupils, basic c&ps looking for suspicious movement patterns or signs of kidnap preps like travel tickets or drugs. A search of the pupil roll in case there were any high-target parents listed, which there weren't. That was pretty much it." Twenty names to choose from, and only the twenty best-fit names at that. Annoyingly but not surprisingly the criminal record files didn't contain the full biographies or the historical image files. That meant no current photographs to compare to Cele's sketch, or pictures to compare with the young Leo Warrick, unless Toreth risked pulling their security files himself. Or unless . . . "Can you pull the security files for me?" Toreth asked. Lee raised her eyebrows. "Got a Justice case code and security authorisation?"

"Of course not. Can't you do it anyway?" "Nu-uh. Not unless you tell me what it's about, why you want them and why you can't do it at I&I. A favour is one thing, but that . . . " She paused. "Well?" No plausible lies came to mind and the truth was out of the question. "'Fraid I can't." "Well, then, there we are. Do you still want the case files?" "Yeah, might as well. Thanks." As she walked him out, past the tight security, he pondered the differences between Justice and I&I. For a senior at I&I, pulling a basic security file didn't need a case number, a special authorisation or, in fact, anything more than a desire to see the file. He'd used and abused the privilege on many occasions. Toreth had always liked the feeling of being higher up the food chain than Justice. Now he had the feeling of shadows circling, bigger fish who had slipped into the I&I pond and who might take an unhealthy interest in him and his unofficial investigations. Lee had told him once that she preferred the anonymity of politically unimportant crime, and right now he understood the feeling thoroughly. ~~~ He checked the files out in the taxi on the way to Sara's. He didn't want to do it at her flat in case she asked what he was working on. As far as occupation went, none of the twenty men in the file were helpfully listed as a Cit Surveillance undercover operatives. A third of the men worked for the Administration; one of them sixty-five-year-old John Sable, unmarried, parents deceased was a senior administrator at the internal audit section of the Data Division. Sable's job rang faint alarm bells because the Data Division name masked a multitude of sins from public scrutiny. The Administration knew well that knowledge was power. The DD was the only major cross-departmental division, working under the direct control of the Bureau of Administrative Departments. In its respectable guises, the DD gathered and organised the vast quantities of data on every citizen and corporation that was necessary to keep the Administration running smoothly. All the other departments fed information into it and took information out. On the shady side, a collection of Administration organisations whose main function was to keep a clandestine watch on citizens claimed the Data Division as home, or at least used it as a postal address. However, there were plenty of perfectly legitimate administrators at DD. If he'd pulled this file up himself in the course of an ordinary investigation, he wouldn't have assumed Citizen Surveillance maybe wouldn't even have thought of it. The huge amounts of data collected and controlled by the division required an equally huge staff. Nothing in the file looked out of place or remarkable in any way. Given that the man at Valeria's school was probably an undercover operative, he could just as easily be one of the other nineteen and listed as an accountant. Still, it was something. He closed the file and decided to call Warrick. Warrick would probably make a fuss about Toreth hiding the Justice lead from him, but with luck Toreth could find out what Warrick was doing and maybe use this new lead to stop him. He called Warrick's personal comm, which was switched off. Better not to leave a message. Toreth called Warrick's flat with a similar result. Shit. The inability to contact him made Toreth edgy. What the hell was the man up to? Eventually, he called the flat again and left an utterly neutral 'call

me when you've got time' message. It was only as he finished leaving the message that he realised it must be the system at the new flat. Weird to think that Warrick would be there when he heard the message. The movers had been booked for yesterday and Warrick would've left some kind of message if things had gone disastrously wrong. So everything would be there, Toreth's own belongings included. Toreth hadn't seen the place since the decorators had finished, and as he closed the school suspect files, he thought he really ought to go take a look. Maybe not today, if Warrick wasn't there. Tomorrow for sure, since, as Sara had reminded him again before she left, it was Warrick's birthday tomorrow. The taxi was still three streets from Sara's house when Toreth told it to stop. He didn't fancy the idea of another evening of romantic comedies, not even in pursuit of his plan to end Sara's irritating nerviness around him. She wouldn't be surprised if he came in late, and the kind of fucking he was in the mood for wouldn't take too long, anyway. Abandoning all thoughts of Warrick and Sara for the night, he ordered the taxi to turn around, and directed it to the nearest bar.

Chapter Twelve
On Monday the move began as smoothly as could be expected, which was to say that Warrick loathed every second of it. He'd planned to stay in the flat all day, watching the removal company staff packing. However, although they were quick and efficient, seeing strangers handling his possessions all his possessions proved to be impossible, so in the end he went in to SimTech, despite having officially taken the day off. Once there, the temptation of taking another crack at the unyielding Citizen Surveillance computers nagged at him. Using SimTech's systems for something so dangerous would be utterly unforgivable. In an attempt to distract himself, he decided to take full advantage of a day free of planned meetings to impose himself on various sim trials and room tests. It didn't noticeably improve his mood. Everyone he spoke to probed him, more or less discreetly, about whether there would be budget cuts. The less optimistic were really fishing for news of staff cuts. In all honesty, he could say nothing to reassure them. On Tuesday, the trauma of packing transmuted into the trauma of the cross-city transportation of his belongings and unpacking at the other end. At least he trusted the SimTech engineers who arrived to move the contents of his office, which had been deemed too sensitive even for corporate-screened removal agents. Now he was in the new building, the SimTech security guards had been withdrawn just when he could have used an extra few pairs of hands. However, when the movers had, thankfully, gone, Dillian and Cele arrived to help. He couldn't turn Dillian down without offending her hurting her wouldn't be too strong a word for it but neither was he in the mood for confrontations and peacekeeping. Consequently, he was both relieved and disappointed when Toreth failed to appear. By midafternoon he'd unpacked enough of the kitchen contents to make tea. The kettle had just boiled when Cele stuck her head round the door. She looked fetchingly hot and mussed, with an artistic smudge of dust on one cheek. "Did you put that there deliberately?" he asked, pointing to his own cheek. She grinned. "Of course. Basic rule of anything dirty you only ever get one big smudge, so put it on yourself and you know it looks good." She scrubbed her face with the back of her hand, which rather made the situation worse. "I got it moving the boxes with 'Toreth' written on them. Where are they going?" "Ah . . . the smaller bedroom which isn't the one opposite the bathroom." "Right. Knowing you, I'm surprised you haven't got a floor map and codes." Instead of leaving, she sat down on one of the new kitchen chairs. "Classy furniture in here. Not cheap, either. I thought you were on an economy drive." "I am. Dillian bought it for me." "Mmh, of course. Perfect for her, a bit " she sketched unmistakable feminine curves in the air, " for you. Fits the flat, though." "Beautifully. I'm sure I'll learn to love them." "And Seven Inches?" Warrick smiled and turned back to the teapot. "Furniture isn't one of Toreth's major interests."

"As long as it's strong enough, right?" She bounced on the chair, which failed to creak under the assault. He laughed. "That's about the size of it." "So . . . should I unpack his things?" she asked. "I'm guessing not, but I thought I'd check. Don't want the poor boy feeling left out." "I think leaving it all packed is a good guess." At the moment he frankly doubted Toreth would ever stay long enough to unpack. "How do you want the tea?" "No milk for me, thanks," Cele said. "Squeeze of lemon, if you've got any fresh. I couldn't find any last week." He opened the fridge. "You're in luck. I managed to hunt a couple down in the complex opposite." While he sliced the lemon he listened. The sounds of unpacking thumps and occasional swearing came from the upstairs landing. He ought to call Dilly down for tea too, but there was something he needed to do first. When he'd sat down and poured them both mugfuls, he said, "Cele, may I ask you something?" She set her mug down without taking a sip. "Uh-oh. Sounds serious." "Are you and Dillian . . . ?" She rocked her hand from side to side. "Occasionally. When the mood takes her. Which " she held her hand up, " I do not have a problem with. All is hunky-dory in Cele-land." "And at the moment? I mean, in the last week?" Her expression cleared. "Right. Tarin. No, I haven't had a visit, but I'm expecting one. Don't worry. I'll make sure she's all right. Zinfandel and sympathy and girl stuff." "Good. I've been well, busy. I haven't spent as much time with her as I ought to. I don't really know how she's coping." "I think she'll be okay. But since we're prying, how are you?" If anyone would understand and be able to handle the recent events it was Cele. But he had no right to use her for sympathy, especially not with this. "I'm fine." Of course, wanting to shield her and managing to lie to her successfully were different things. Cele looked at him for a long moment while he struggled to keep his expression neutral, then she shook her head firmly. "B-u-l-l-s-h-i-t. There's all this " She waved to indicate the flat. "There's Tarin. I know SimTech's having problems because Ash and Dilly both told me, even though it somehow slipped your mind. And there's something not right with Toreth. Dilly said you were fighting at Kate's." "We fight everywhere." "Okay. If you don't want to tell me, I'm not going to strap you down and stick needles under your oh, shit." She shook her head. "My bad. I'm sorry." He brushed the apology aside impatiently. "There's no need to tiptoe round it. I'm perfectly well aware of what Toreth does for a living." He tried to lighten his tone. "Sometimes I think I should get a badge made up." He drew a circle on his chest with his finger. "'Yes, I know he does'. It would answer so many questions." Cele rubbed vaguely at her smudged cheek again, then sighed. "This is so fucked up."

"I'm sorry?" "Everything. There are too many secrets. Listen, there's something I have to tell you. Even though maybe I shouldn't." She leaned forwards and lowered her voice. "I found a picture, something I did for Kate years ago. And the other guy I drew the picture of the man at Val's school? There's probably nothing to it, but it looked a bit like " "I know," he interrupted quickly. "That was what we were fighting about. Toreth found the picture in Kate's room." "Shit. Keir . . . " He waited, listening to Dilly dragging something across the uncarpeted landing, and he prayed Cele wouldn't ask. "Is it him?" Cele finished finally. "Yes." She sat back, mouth open, for once genuinely speechless. With things gone this far, he might as well finish it. At least that way she would understand how important it was to keep quiet. "He and Kate both work for Citizen Surveillance they have all their lives, as far as I know. That's why Kate had to leave the Administration, and it's why Leo left her when Dilly and I were children. His cover was compromised. Now you can see why it's very, very important that this doesn't get any further." "Toreth said it wasn't him," she said faintly. "He's trying to keep it quiet, and I agree with him about that much." "Jesus." She picked up her mug and took a distracted gulp, wincing at the heat. "You hear about it happening. Stories about undercover agents and secret departments and agent provocateurs. I heard some from my parents, hints about how the Service got its information. But . . . Jesus. Kate? I mean, our Kate?" "I know." Horrendously inappropriate as it was, he couldn't help smiling at her expression of disbelief. "It is hard to believe, I'll grant you that." "All that time . . . why did they get married? Because Citizen Surveillance told them to?" "Presumably. But she loved him a great deal, I know that much." "Everything she did, though. She was always so kind to us. To me and Ash, I mean. And, fuck, my parents are Service. God, what if I'd ever said anything?" She frowned, rubbing at her cheek again. "Maybe I did say something. I'd never remember if I had." "Was there ever anything to say?" "I suppose not. Not really. If you cut 'em in half they'd both have Administration stamped right through them. But everybody says things sometimes, don't they? They used to complain about the system, about bad postings and mad budget cuts, and the idiotic things Senior Command did. And . . . God. Do you remember when Dad was caught up in that enquiry? After the Unification Day protest shootings? He had plenty to say about that. When I was just a kid I could've repeated any of it." Now she was getting too close to things he didn't want her to think about. "I'm sure she kept her work and her family separate." Cele didn't seem to be listening. "Kate's house was I mean, people always talked there. It was liberal. Not like idealist, criminal liberal, at least not if you don't count Tarin, I suppose, but everyone knew it was okay "

"Cele," he said desperately. Then he could do nothing but watch comprehension dawning. "All Tar's friends," she whispered. "She knew who they all were. They all came round, they all talked there. Tarin talked to her. He must've told her . . . he had no idea, did he?" "None." "You did, though." The confidence in her voice was absolute. "Before now, I mean. How long?" "More than twenty years," he said harshly, and waited for the condemnation. "You knew all that time and you never told him?" She sounded surprised more than anything. "That's right." He didn't let himself look away from her. "I never told him, because I was too afraid of the consequences." "Oh, shit. Oh, Keir, I'm sorry." She reached out and took his hand. He grasped it, squeezing far too hard because he heard her gasp. Before he could apologise, she was crouching by his chair with her arms round him. He returned the embrace, grateful for the comforting contact. He pressed his face into her hair and, dimly, thought how good it was that Toreth wasn't around to walk in on the scene. "I'm sorry," Cele said. "I didn't mean to say I should just learn to do my thinking with my mouth closed." "It's okay," he said, trying to breathe past the tightness in his throat. "No, it's not. I'm a moron. I spend way too much time alone in my studio and I talk to myself which is an incredibly bad habit to get into because it means that I do this stupid shit all the time. Okay, not usually quite this serious but I did once think that this guy in a gallery was the most boring human being that I'd ever had the misfortune to meet and somehow I managed to say it out loud. Which was more than a bit embarrassing because he owned the damn gallery and . . . and there I go again." He laughed and hugged her tight. "You're forgiven." "Thanks." She lifted her head and kissed his cheek. "Poor Keir." The sympathy made him acutely uncomfortable. "Tar's the one who's been hard done by." "Yeah, but ignorance is bliss. It must've been hell all those years, knowing and not being able to tell anyone." "I got used to it." He hadn't realised until that moment how odd it was that the secret was a secret no longer. "In the end, I just didn't think about it. There was always a chance I was wrong about the whole thing. I used to hang on to the doubts." "What about Dilly? How did she take it? I can't believe she's been so calm. All she said was that you and Toreth had a blazing row and you wouldn't say what it was about." "She doesn't know what it was about, and it's going to stay that way." She released him abruptly and sat back on her heels. "Keir, you can't you can't not tell her. He's her father too. She's got a right to know." "It would be better for Dilly if she doesn't know. And I don't have the first idea of what or how to tell her. I still have no idea why he was at the school, Cele. Do you understand? What on Earth could I say to her?" "That . . . well, I guess, that her long-lost, allegedly dead father isn't dead at all, but possibly he did try to murder her half-brother." Cele nodded slowly. "Right. I mean, I can see it's hard. But . . . there must be some way." Her tone changed to determination. "We can do it together. We can think of

something." "No," he said, and her eyebrows rose. "Please, Cele. I don't want to see Dilly get hurt any more than she already has been, and that's all it could do to her. Kate and Leo are out of her life for good they can't do any more harm and all she has left is the memories of them. And there's Jen. Should I tell Dilly but not her? How the hell could I tell Jen that her sister lied to her for her whole adult life?" First Tar, now Dilly, a voice whispered. Sound reasons or not, he'd never felt like such a coward in his life. Cele was deep in thought, biting her lower lip. Finally she looked up at him. "Okay, maybe you're right, at least for now." He didn't try to hide his relief. "I know I am. Look, if anything happens to me, then you can tell her, if you think it's necessary." "If . . . ?" Cele held her hands up. "Whoa right there. No. This shit cannot be real. If something happens to you?" "It's possible. Unlikely, I hope, but possible. This is dangerous knowledge, Cele, and believe me, you have no idea how sorry I am that you were dragged into it. But I promise you that when Toreth asked you to draw the picture, he had no idea who the man was." She snorted quietly. "And worrying about me would've stopped him, of course. No, I'm sorry." The shock had dissipated and she was beginning to fidget on the spot, her usual energy bouncing back. "I hate just . . . gah. Not being able to do something to fix it for you." He had to smile. "I know. If you want to help, look after Dilly." "Oh, I'll do that." She smiled. "Hardship city. Okay. I'll do what I'm told, this once keep my mouth shut and my hands all over Dilly. Don't make me regret it." "I'll do my very best." "Just so I can keep this straight, no one else knows about Leo and Kate? I'm not going to get strangers coming up to me and making cryptic remarks?" "I sincerely hope not. Outside of Citizen Surveillance, the only people who know are myself, Toreth, and now you." And someone he'd somehow forgotten. Carnac. The one alternative source for Leo Warrick's real name now that he'd abandoned the files. Toreth had asked him to stay away from Carnac, but if Toreth was withholding his help, he wasn't leaving Warrick with many options. "Keir?" Cele asked. "Nothing. I think it would be better if we don't talk about this again, all right?" When she nodded, if reluctantly, he touched her cheek briefly. "Good. Shall we take some tea up to Dilly? She sounds like she could use some."

Chapter Thirteen
Hotel owners were one group who would regret the abolition of movement notification. It was the first trip away Warrick had taken since the revolt. He'd booked a hotel out of habit. In the pre-revolt days it had been automatic. Unless he had been a hundred percent sure the trip would only take a day, it had always been better to book a place in advance and waste the price than to go through the complications of reregistering the stay if he couldn't complete his business in one day. It wasn't until he arrived in Strasbourg that he realised he needn't have bothered. Perhaps the change was largely illusory a credit and purchase check would still reveal everywhere he had spent money, and the Data Division would doubtless still log every use of his ID. However, the open, obvious face of Administration surveillance no longer watched over the airport. It felt odd to pass through without the usual questions: purpose of visit, planned length of stay, temporary residence address. The ID scanners stood silent; many of the people filing beneath them glanced around before they walked through, occasionally breaking stride or pausing for a moment. Warrick understood their hesitation. As he passed through, he half expected alarms to ring and guards to be summoned. It was harder still to believe that he could change his plans, move on from Strasbourg to anywhere within the Administration that his fancy took him, and no one would care or question him. The unaccustomed freedom felt peculiar, even unsettling, and he wondered how long it would last, or whether the frank unfamiliarity would drive the citizens of the Administration to demand a return to what they knew. A few resister attacks against the new regime would be enough. Warrick's personal freedom was limited by the presence of Rob McLean. When Emma Queen, head of SimTech's security section, had found out about Warrick's plans for unescorted air travel, she'd arrived in his office unannounced and reminded him about the post-revolt travel policies. She'd been as polite as ever, but also clearly annoyed at being forced into the position of having to lecture her employer. Warrick had argued against a bodyguard. As he'd told Queen, it wasn't as if Strasbourg was a foreign country it was as much a part of the Administration as New London, and probably more secure, given that the Judicial departments had their headquarters there. He had surrendered when the head of security threatened to involve Asher and Lew. The less close scrutiny of his movements by friends and family there was, the better. ~~~ As the taxi drew up, McLean opened the door. "You'll have to wait down here," Warrick said. McLean shook his head firmly. "I've got my instructions from Emma." He sighed and waited for McLean to check the street was clear before Warrick followed him out. Warrick had confirmed the address three times with the taxi system. The slightly tatty office block was on the edge of the corporate district, and seemed to have suffered some damage in the revolt. As they walked through the doors, Warrick noticed the likely impetus for the resisters' attack on the building: above brand-new and very heavy security shutters, a screen announced the presence of a Service recruitment centre. The smell of smoke lingered faintly in the air; he remembered how long it had taken to eliminate it from the SimTech production facility after the fire there.

Carnac's office, on the tenth floor, had no sign outside, not even Carnac's name. The screen by the door was switched off and dark. The small room visible through the glass-panelled door wasn't at all what sprang to mind when thinking of a socioanalyst. The walls had an obviously fresh and hastily applied coat of plain white paint, with spots of it on the worn brown carpet and matching low, padded plastic-covered chairs. He could see only one door out of the room besides the exit to the corridor. A vaguely familiar blonde woman sat behind a desk. Her lips were moving rapidly dictating at speed onto the screen in front of her, he guessed. She looked up as McLean opened the door, and Warrick noticed her hand slide under the edge of the desk. "Can I help you?" she asked. Warrick followed McLean into the room and crossed to her desk. "I've come to see Carnac." Her expression changed from a wary welcome to dismay. "Oh, dear. Do you have an appointment?" She peered at the screen. "I don't think I have any appointments listed for this morning. Hang on a mo, cherie, and I'll look again." "No need," he said quickly as she started to page down the screen. "I won't be there." "Oh!" She transferred the accusatory frown from the screen to him. "The Socioanalyst is very busy." "I've come " As he started to explain, the second door to the room was flung open, and Carnac appeared like a tall, blond genie. "Keir! How positively charming and delightful, and absolutely the last person I expected to find on my doorstep." On the plane over, he'd imagined various openings to the conversation. Plainly, Carnac had decided to eliminate their last meeting from their mutual history. Fine by Warrick, as long as he got the information he wanted. Carnac had crossed to the desk, still smiling. "Keir, this is my youngest sister, Colette, who has most graciously offered to help me out during some professional difficulties. Colette, this is Doctor Keir Warrick, who " Carnac paused delicately, and Warrick waited to see what relationship would be claimed. "Who is someone I met for the first time a number of years ago," Carnac finished. She didn't even blink at the odd phrasing. "Pleased to meet you, Doctor. Shall I cancel your appointments, Jean?" "Do I have any?" "A few." She glanced at Warrick and McLean, and Carnac gestured for her to proceed. This time the screen surrendered the information after only a few seconds. "General Thacker is due at twelve, with four guests he didn't give me names for." "Ah, of course. The dear general. Keir?" "I don't plan to be here that long." Carnac nodded. "Then please come this way." The room Carnac had emerged from was packed with the contents of an office that must have been at least ten times larger. Tiny paths squeezed between furniture and locked filing cabinets. Half a dozen conference chairs were crammed round a magnificent walnut table, leaving barely enough room to sit in them. Warrick hoped General Thacker and his unnamed guests weren't heavily built.

He heard one of the chairs in the reception area creak as McLean sat down to wait. Then Carnac closed the door. "Temporary accommodation, I'm afraid," Carnac said as he worked his way over to a coffee machine that perched precariously atop a stack of boxes. "Socioanalysis and I have had a difference of opinion." "Oh?" "Yes. They are under the impression that they have unceremoniously tossed me out of their little club. I believe I resigned. We are still working through the legal ramifications of our mutually exclusive versions of events. As you can imagine, lawyers are positively slavering with glee. However, the practical consequence is that I no longer have access to their premises. This was the best I could do on short notice, and the landlords were amenable to the idea of a short lease. I may be leaving Strasbourg soon. Please, sit, if you can." Warrick squeezed his way into a chair. "The coffee at least should be good." Carnac placed the cups on the table and then sat. "My own machine which came with me from my old office. As did everything else in here I begrudged the idea of leaving any of it for Socioanalysis. On reflection, it would have been more practical to have put some of it into storage, but I think it has a certain je ne sais quois. A touch of the renegade, perhaps." "A renegade being visited by generals?" Carnac shrugged. "There is no doubt someone out there who would describe me as such. At the very best, my position is somewhat anomalous." He took a sip of the coffee and nodded. "Excellent. And I'd be grateful if you kept news of the general's visit between ourselves." "You're the one who went out of your way to make sure I knew he was coming." Carnac's obviously manufactured expression of indignation was as familiar as it was annoying. "I " Warrick held his hand up, and Carnac subsided, looking surprised. "I doubt you've genuinely forgotten an appointment in your entire life, which means that you wanted me to know. I'm not interested in discussing it. I didn't come here to play games." "I see." The room was silent for a moment, then Carnac said, "So, in a spirit of both polite social enquiry and reconciliation, how is Toreth?" Warrick counted to five. "Toreth is fine. He's moving into a new flat with me." Carnac choked on his coffee, to Warrick's immense satisfaction. "So I'm afraid to say that your plan didn't work," Warrick added when Carnac had stopped coughing. "Plan?" His eyebrows arched again. "I had no plan. I merely spoke the truth." Warrick considered the options pursue it, which was what Carnac plainly wanted, or drop it. Word fencing with a socioanalyst was, to borrow a phrase from Cele, like getting into an arse-kicking contest with a centipede. "I came here to ask you a question," Warrick said. "My time is at your disposal." He gestured expansively, poise restored. "No charge." "Is this office secure?" Carnac's face didn't flicker. Since Warrick had come all the way out here unannounced, it must

be obvious the conversation was something that couldn't be carried out over a comm. "To the best of my knowledge, which is the result of some time and expense." "Toreth told me that you had a copy of Kate's security file. Is that true?" "Yes." "Did it have the real name of the man who married her? Leo Warrick." "Your father." "I know who he is." "Of course you do. Yes, it did." "Do you remember the name?" Carnac smiled. "I still have the file. The whole history of the operation, if you would like to see it. Her reports about Tarin, her comments on the rest of her family and friends." And the temptation was so strong that he almost gave way. All that stopped him was the image of Tar in the flotation tank, so helpless, so hideously burned that it was impossible to believe that it could be the man he knew. Reading Kate's file would tell him far too much about her double life, and that was also knowledge that could never be erased. Carnac was watching him intently, and Warrick knew that if he asked for the whole file Carnac would hand it over, even though he had to be aware of the consequences. For the first time, he wondered why someone so apparently cruel and concienceless would risk his life to engineer a revolt for the sole benefit of the masses he despised. "I want the name," Warrick said. "Nothing more." "Why do you want to know?" Carnac asked. Warrick hesitated. He wondered if Carnac knew about Tarin. There was no reason why he should, and equally none why he shouldn't. "I want to know who my father is." Carnac smiled slightly. "Perhaps the question should have been 'why now?' You've known for some time that Leo Warrick was alive. This sudden interest concerns me. In this delicate time and with my current precarious political position you're asking for a dangerous piece of information, as you well know." "The only reason I knew he was alive was because I snooped in the computer of a Citizen Surveillance agent. Do you think I'd ever have wanted to risk my neck or Kate's by letting them know that? Now it doesn't matter. They already know I told them I knew." Carnac stared past him, lips pursed. "Acceptable." His gaze snapped back. "If doubtless not the whole truth. There is a price for the information, though. Dinner." The anger he'd been keeping back rose. "I have an appointment at the Science and Technology Division of the Legislature, and then I'm returning to New London as soon as I can. I have a flight booked this afternoon." Carnac shrugged elegantly. "If the information means that little to you, why should I put myself at risk to give it to you?" "Very well. My hotel, seven o'clock?" ~~~ No doubt the standards at the hotel restaurant would occasion some sarcasm from Carnac, Warrick thought as he waited in the bar. It wasn't a slum, but it was as far below the socioanalyst's

gourmet standards as his current office was below his professional ones. Warrick found the idea oddly satisfying. Carnac might be blackmailing him into a meal, but it didn't have to be an occasion. Serviceable food, a brief conversation, and that would be all. At least that had better be all. Exactly how much was he willing to give Carnac for the name? Warrick liked to think that he'd draw a line at the bedroom door if not for his self-respect, then out of consideration for Toreth. In honesty, he didn't know. He did know that Carnac sometimes coerced his partners into bed. Would he do the same to someone for whom he professed or pretended to have some feelings? Seven o'clock passed with no sign of Carnac. It wasn't until almost eight that it occurred to Warrick that something unpleasant might have happened to Carnac. Even with his dangerous political dabbling obviously still continuing his renegade office and the possibility that Int-Sec was pursuing him, the socioanalyst had seemed as untouchable as ever. In reality, if Socioanalysis had disowned him he was probably more vulnerable than most corporates. If his enemies had coincidentally chosen today to move, it would be annoying, but it would also be risky. By visiting Carnac's office, Warrick might have made himself a target of those same enemies. However, McLean, no doubt, had already thought of that. If he hadn't raised it as an issue, then he presumably thought the risk was acceptable. In fact, McLean had said nothing during the wait. He was never talkative when on duty, but even by his standards he was currently unusually silent. "Is being here a risk?" Warrick asked. "Yes. But I can't give you an accurate assessment of the risk, because I don't know how dangerous he is or what the risk is from associating with him." "I don't think anyone has come up with a metric to quantify it." McLean winced. "I wish you'd told me who you were planning to see. Queen will have my hide for letting you walk in there." "Lucky for you that you aren't going to tell her." McLean stiffened in his seat. "That's against security procedures." "I know. But nevertheless. This is nothing to do with SimTech I would've come alone if I could, but SimTech's involvement stops with your presence here. Carnac was at my flat the day before he left New London. As you know." McLean nodded. "What I spoke to him about today was related to that. So you won't tell Queen, or any of the directors. You can tell them all about the Legislature, but no more." Another nod. "Well?" Warrick asked McLean looked up from his mineral water and smiled wryly. "Well?" "Was there anything you wanted to ask?" "Not really. There's something I ought to ask, however. Does Toreth know that you're here?" He'd been expecting a question about Carnac which in a way it was, but not one he had a ready answer for. "I'm not sure. He may well have guessed. It's none of your concern, in any case." McLean shook his head. "Your safety is my concern, and as you've already reminded me, I was there at your flat. Believe me, I don't like asking the question any more than you like hearing it."

"I'm sorry," Warrick said, meaning it quite genuinely. McLean shrugged. "All part of the job. SimTech pays me more than well enough." He topped up his glass of water, then smiled. "At least I'll be there tonight to keep an eye on you." "I should apologise for that, too. I wasn't expecting to actually use the hotel when I told Gerry to book it, so I was thinking more about saving SimTech the cost of a second room. I could ask again if there's another one free." "I don't think so. Queen would prefer me in there with you, just in case." Warrick had a mouthful of his orange and soda, and wished he dared have something stronger. McLean returned to his slow scrutiny of the room, his gaze moving back and forth, omitting no one, staff or guests. At half past eight, when Carnac had still not appeared, Warrick decided he and McLean might as well eat. If Carnac arrived later, he would have to hand over whatever information he had without garnish of any kind. ~~~ The knock on the hotel door came at half past eleven. Warrick's first disoriented thought was that it was Toreth, and that snapped him awake. Or could it be a visit from Citizen Surveillance, or some other part of Int-Sec? He was out of bed and halfway across the room before he even remembered McLean. The security man intercepted him and waved him back. Then McLean checked the screen by the door, standing well to the side of the door. Warrick picked up a dressing gown to add to his underwear; McLean must have been sleeping fully clothed. "It's Carnac," McLean said after a moment. "Alone, as far as I can tell." "Let me see." The security screen revealed Carnac standing outside, his eyes glazed, swaying very slightly. He lifted his hand with careful precision and knocked again, three times. Warrick opened the door and Carnac blinked at him, hand still raised. However, when he spoke his voice was crystal clear, with not a hint of slurring. "I need to speak to you." Warrick debated with himself for a moment, then moved aside. "Come in." Carnac stepped unsteadily into the room, then stopped. "Good evening, Mr McLean." McLean returned the greeting with a nod, his attention divided between their visitor and the stillopen door. Warrick turned to McLean. "Wait outside, please." This time McLean didn't protest. "How long?" "Fifteen minutes at the most." "I'll knock after ten," McLean said as he closed the door. "I'm drunk," Carnac said, then stopped speaking as he navigated his way across the empty floor and dropped into a chair. "As I'm sure you have noticed, being a very perceptive man in most if not quite all areas." "Carnac . . . " "Believe me, it gives me no more pleasure to turn up in this condition than it does for you to find

me on your doorstep." He paused, frowning. "Or the equivalent term for the area outside a hotel door. Step seems inappropriate, somehow." He shook his head sharply. "Anyway, I'm drunk because it was the only way I could get myself here. In all probability, we won't meet again I won't impose myself on you in the future uninvited, and I can't imagine anything else I have that you might want. As this is my last chance, I came to apologise." Warrick couldn't think of anything in his life which had been simultaneously so funny and so very not amusing. "To apologise," Carnac said again as Warrick sat opposite him. "Although not for what I intended to do to Toreth. Not even for Kate. We both know what she is and what she did." "That doesn't leave very much scope," Warrick said. "If you would let me finish. I apologise for the injury I tried to do to you. I had my justifications it was necessary for the Administration, it was better for you in the long run but that is what they were. Justifications for something ultimately indefensible. You had never been anything other than generous and open-hearted towards me, and as repayment . . . in repayment . . . " He stopped, frowning, then took a deep breath. "What I mean is, to say my behaviour was inexcusable would be an understatement of epic proportions. So, I won't try to make any excuses. I'm sorry, and that's all I have to say." Warrick couldn't help himself. "How long have you been rehearsing that?" Carnac didn't flinch. "I worked out the substance a few days after I returned to Strasbourg. I polished it up in the last few hours, between glasses. I decided that I couldn't bear to do it over dinner and I apologise for not calling to cancel. I was it occurred to me that you might well return to New London if I did so." Warrick would have sworn that he heard a catch in Carnac's voice. Manufactured or not, for a moment he had to pity him. He allowed himself to really look at Carnac, as he hadn't at the office, seeing the deepened lines and the change in his eyes an awareness and acceptance of the possibility of defeat. Or perhaps it was that intoxication had stripped away the shield Carnac usually kept up and blunted his energy and the force of his personality. Or perhaps Carnac was being his usual manipulative self, and this approach was as calculated as his flawless verbal attack on Toreth. "And an apology is supposed to change what you did?" Warrick said. "I didn't think that breaking a dinner appointment was so serious a breach of etiquette." It was easy not to return his smile, and after a moment Carnac's mouth relaxed back into bitterness. "Please, give me a little credit for knowing that some things cannot be undone. But I deeply regret what happened, and I thought you had the right to know that. In a way, I'm glad that it failed. Not the destruction of I&I, which I think we both wanted, but the part concerning you. If I'd succeeded, we " he gestured between them, " would have been doomed. I would always have known what I'd done and been too afraid of the consequences to tell you. The pressure of dishonesty would have destroyed any fledgling relationship. Either that, or honesty would have compelled me to confess." Warrick sighed. "Carnac, there is no possibility of a 'we'. There never was, there never can be. I wish you would accept that." For everyone's sake. "I do, now. The only surprise is how long I managed to delude myself that the possibility was there. And that self-deception disgusts me more than it ever could you."

Warrick didn't entirely believe him, but neither did he want to pursue it. "Did you bring the name?" Carnac nodded, then fumbled in a pocket. He produced a folded piece of paper. "The name from the security file. I assume it is his real name, but I can't promise that." He set it down on the table between them, misjudging the distance hopelessly, so that his fingertips rapped sharply on the table. "Ow," Carnac said, sounding startled. He sucked his fingers, then flexed his hand. "Surprisingly painful," he murmured to himself. "Interesting. I thought alcohol inhibited pain. Perhaps it does." He really did sound thoroughly intoxicated. Warrick picked up the paper, then hesitated briefly before politeness won out. "Are you sure you're in a fit condition to get home? Perhaps you should leave it for an hour or two." "A very kind offer, under the circumstances." Carnac rubbed his fingertips thoughtfully. "But you do have a flight to catch in the morning and I wouldn't want to keep you awake." "I meant that you could wait downstairs in the bar. I'm sure they're still open." "Ah, I see. I should have guessed. But I think I'll be on my way, for both our sakes. What would Toreth say if I spent two or three hours in the same hotel as you? More to the point, what would he do?" The sudden change of topic caught him off guard. "Nothing." "Nonsense, as you well know. He's capable of killing, in anger or in cold blood, and we would both be in danger. All it would take for him to find me here is a credit and purchase check, and I'm certain he has no qualms about abusing his discretionary powers to keep a watch over his property. You don't " Drunk or not, Carnac hadn't lost his power to pick targets. "What did I say that sounded as if I wanted your advice on my personal life?" "Actually, some years ago, you asked for it. I declined to give it, if you recall, because you would have ignored it. Of course you'll ignore it now, too, but still. Warrick, he is dangerous. More dangerous than you allow yourself to see. You should leave him." "And find someone safer?" "No," Carnac said sharply. "Not that. Please believe this has nothing to do with . . . with my regard for you. And I concede that I'm impressed by the hold you have over him, but " "I have nothing of the kind," Warrick said icily. Carnac inclined his head. "An unfortunate choice of words. I should say, rather, that the depth of his feelings for you is a source of perpetual astonishment to me. But that only makes him more lethal. He is terrified by what he feels, and the thought of losing you terrifies him even more." The urge to argue was almost irresistible, but anything he could say would only supply Carnac with more ammunition for the future. This had to be the end. "I came here to ask you for a favour and you have my gratitude for the information," Warrick said. "Don't presume on it." The socioanalyst's gaze didn't waver. "The advice is still free. The choice as to whether or not to take it is, as ever, yours." Carnac stood, making it upright on the third try. Once there, he stood in silence for a few seconds before he nodded. "Then it seems there is nothing more for us to say." Warrick shadowed him to the door and opened it. McLean stood opposite, apparently relaxed, his hands by his sides.

Carnac lingered in the doorway, seemingly unwilling to take his own assessment at face value. "It is your birthday tomorrow, is it not?" he asked. "I yes." He wondered why on Earth Carnac would remember that. Carnac straightened, and suddenly looked nothing but sober. "If you pursue this matter," he said softly, "however sound you believe your reasons for doing so to be, then you stand a good chance of not living to see another one. If you will take my advice on nothing else, then at least let Leo Warrick stay dead. You have done quite magnificently well without him so far take that as a sign that you do not need to find him now." "I have no choice," Warrick said. Carnac smiled slightly. "We all have choices. Ask yourself this what will it take to salve your conscience? At least consider the damage you will do others by the time you have punished yourself sufficiently for your sins of omission." The sudden leap in the conversation left Warrick utterly unable to think of a reply. After a moment, Carnac shook his head. He started to offer his hand, then apparently thought better of it. "Be careful, please, Keir. The Administration would be a far poorer place without you." "And you." The answer was almost reflexive and it wasn't until the door closed that Warrick realised the ambiguity in it. He'd meant to tell Carnac to be careful even that impulse wasn't entirely explicable, given the trouble he had caused for all of them. Would the Administration be poorer without Carnac? It would certainly be safer.

Chapter Fourteen
The early-morning rush in the corporate section of the New London airport terminal had begun to ease by the time Warrick's flight landed. As the walkways carried them through the high, cool corridors, Warrick tried to decide what the hell he was going to do with Carnac's gift. He'd worried at the problem last night until he'd finally fallen asleep to the sound of McLean's quiet snoring. No easy answers had presented themselves. Carnac's warning had given him pause, but he no longer had any idea how far, if at all, he could trust the man. His motives were utterly impenetrable and in the past his ideas of what was best for others had proved to be idiosyncratic, to say the least. The immigration hall opened up before them, its sounds reflected and blunted by the marble. Warrick barely registered the group of black uniforms by the immigration point. I&I uniforms were nothing out of the ordinary here. As he passed by, one of them stepped forward. "Doctor Warrick?" The man was unfamiliar short and stocky, with sour lines on his face suggesting perpetual indigestion. "Yes?" Warrick asked. "My name is Senior Para-investigator Avis, of the Computer Crimes section of the Investigation and Interrogation Division." He pulled out a hand screen. "I have a warrant for your arrest." I&I? Oddly, his first thought was that it had to be Toreth, calling in a favour to try to scare him into dropping the investigation. "I want to speak to Senior Para-investigator Valantin Toreth," Warrick said. Avis's eyebrows rose questioningly, the incomprehension looking quite genuine. "Why?" When Warrick didn't answer his question, Avis repeated, "I have a warrant for your arrest." Warrick took the screen, still half convinced that Toreth was behind it. On the other hand, Avis wasn't a name Toreth had ever mentioned, nor did Warrick recall meeting the man at Sara's party. Avis was fiddling with the handcuffs on his belt. Out of the corner of his eye, Warrick saw McLean step forward and two of the I&I guards move to intercept him. Warrick held up his hand to stop McLean. Avis looked between them. "Who are you?" he asked McLean. "He works for me," Warrick said. "His name is Robert McLean, of the SimTech security department." McLean lowered his hands and the I&I guards released him and backed away slightly. "Then unless he wants to get arrested for obstruction, he should go back there," Avis said. The demand to speak to Toreth had been an irresistible impulse, but Warrick knew his arrest training better than to follow it up. He turned to McLean. "Go," he said firmly. "Call Queen, Linton and Marcus, then go back to the main office. You can't do any good here." "I want to see ID and warrants before I let you leave with anyone," McLean said. Avis sighed and offered his ID. Warrick turned his attention to the screen in his hand. The details on the warrant were infuriatingly vague 'pursuit of an investigation into activities falling within the

remit of the Computer Crimes Section of I&I' but that was enough to shock him badly. 'Computer crimes' could mean practically anything. Most likely was his abortive forays into the security files on Tarin's behalf, but there were many older incidents. He'd also made forays into other, corporate systems on behalf of SimTech, and while those wouldn't automatically be I&I business, the recent political upheavals made anything possible. Exposure of any of it could mean financial disaster for SimTech. Beside him, McLean was working his way steadily through the group's IDs, to Avis's obvious and mounting impatience. "McLean," Warrick said. "Leave it." He turned to Avis. "I'm ready." Warrick had never been arrested before. He'd considered the possibility during the investigation into the murders at SimTech, especially toward the end, but it had stayed hypothetical. For most of his adult life, he had suffered from the low-grade fear that permeated all levels of the European Administration. Even further up the social scale, everyone with a gram of common sense feared the knock on the door that might herald arrest. Since its foundation, I&I had become the core of that fear for most citizens. The years with Toreth had dulled the edge for Warrick until he had begun to think of the black uniform as normal, no longer a cause for comment or worry. Now, as the group formed around him and escorted him through the building, the fear was back manyfold. McLean was shadowing them, which Avis seemed prepared to tolerate as long as the security man kept his distance. He had his comm out and he was talking urgently. Warrick tried to keep his breathing regular. Once SimTech knew what was going on, the legal wheels would be put in motion. The main exit hall had even more marble white, red, black and green and high windows that poured sunshine into the open expanse. The front doors of the airport were in Warrick's sight, but not as accessible as they looked. Two-thirds of the way down the room, a thick, clear barrier ran seven or eight metres up towards the distant ceiling; it was marked only by two reflective strips at hip and shoulder height. Guarded openings pierced the barrier at intervals, with clear doors ready to be slammed down in case of trouble. It provided bulletproof security without spoiling the look of the corporate exit. As they approached the barrier, Avis pointed him left, towards a side exit. Halfway there, Warrick spotted a familiar dark-haired figure hurrying towards them on the far side of the plastic. Hell. He'd forgotten all about Dilly. "McLean," he called over his shoulder. "Ms Aven is over there. Get her somewhere safe. Take her to SimTech if she'll go." At the possibility of trouble, the I&I guards took hold of his arms and started walking him quickly towards the exit. Warrick wondered vaguely why they hadn't cuffed him yet. They were almost at the doorway thankfully there were no more open gaps in the barrier. "Keir?" Dillian was keeping pace, her voice muffled by the barrier. "What's happening?" McLean had doubled back to find a way through the barrier and Warrick felt suddenly isolated. "Don't worry, Dilly. Everything will be fine. Go with McLean." "No!" She had her hand on the barrier as she jogged to keep pace. Her bag slipped from her shoulder, bumping down to her elbow. "I'm not leaving you. What's going on?" Then they had reached the door, going into a darker corridor, no marble or high windows. Dillian's voice faded from the sounds of it, McLean had caught up with her. As the guards escorted him out to the waiting car, he thought not about Toreth but about Marian,

leaving her office flanked by investigators, head held high. She'd gone through the same gates he'd soon be driven through, and emerged only in a coffin. ~~~ An anonymous note would do the job quite adequately, and be safer. Making the call in person would be spite, Carnac acknowledged, pure and simple. Or possibly spite mixed with pique and the remains of the second-worst hangover of his life. Or possibly he was lying to himself about all of it, and the real reason was more distasteful still. When had he become so mendacious? Last night might not have been his most eloquent performance, but he thought it had deserved a better reception that it had received. He'd hoped and it had been hope, not expectation to find a crack in Keir's defenses. And yet . . . and yet, he couldn't blame Keir for his coldness. Not 'didn't want to', but couldn't. What was it about the man that had brought a trained socioanalyst to this pass? As a purely intellectual observation, it was fascinating. As a state of being, it was becoming intolerable. However, given the devastation wrought on the Psychoprogramming Division during the revolt, he had no option but to tolerate it. Carnac checked his watch. Keir's plane had now landed, meaning that he would be safely on his way to SimTech, where he would be surrounded by well-trained security. That left the perfect opportunity to spread a little misery, as well as actually do some good. Much as it galled him, he had to admit that the one person best suited to saving Keir from his own determined efforts at symbolic self-immolation was also the last person in the world Carnac would dream of asking for a favour. That didn't matter the information could be conveyed in less direct ways, and Toreth's unerring selfishness would make sure he tried to stop Keir. Toreth answered his office comm looking slightly distracted. He still had his gaze fixed on something to the left of the screen as he said, "Senior Para T " Then he caught sight of his caller and the word stopped midsyllable, frozen on his parted lips. "Wait, please," Carnac said before he could cut the connection. "This is important." "It had better be the end of the fucking world, because if it's not, I'm going to " "Please. I called to discuss our mutual acquaintance. I shall be brief: he is doing something dangerous, which is not entirely unheard of for him, and foolish, which is far rarer." "How the fuck do you know what he's doing?" "Well, I will leave that up to you to work out, Para-investigator. Although since the abolition of movement notification, I suppose that aspect of your job has become far harder." "Don't try that crap. I know he's here in New London. He's . . . " Carnac relished the dawning uncertainly. Really, it was too easy. However, he did have a serious purpose. "Did you know that he has developed a potentially unhealthy interest in genealogy?" Toreth said nothing, which was as good as a yes. "I hope you are not encouraging it," Carnac continued. The direct goad worked better. "Encouraging? Do I look suicidal? Or stupid?" Sometimes it was such an effort to leave the easy ones alone. "If he pursues this, he will be in danger, or rather in even more danger. And so will others whose identities I'm sure I have no need to spell out. He must stop it, and soon." "No shit. I can see why people pay you so much."

"It's a serious warning, honestly meant." "This is all your fault," Toreth said with a hard-edged certainly that was actually rather unnerving. "If you hadn't come up with that fucking file in the first place, none of this would be happening. Was this in the plan? Did you work out a probability for getting him killed?" "I, ah." Annoying as it was to admit, he had to say "No. There is a limit to the outcomes I can consider. I work best with organisations, not individuals." "An excuse. Big fucking surprise. If anything happens to if this all fucks up because of you, you know what? I'll find you and I will tear your throat out." He smiled nastily. "Or maybe I'll do that anyway." Distance, that was most definitely key to baiting Toreth. "This is rather straying outside the scope of my call. I don't wish to spend all day on the comm." "Fine. So did you give it to him?" And that went beyond easy. This time he couldn't resist. He arched an eyebrow. "Did I what?" It took a moment for the innuendo to sink in before Toreth went absolutely white with fury and Carnac had to suppress a chuckle. "Did you give him the fucking file?" Toreth gritted out. He didn't feel like sharing his inability to refuse Keir's requests. "He didn't ask to see it." Toreth relaxed slightly, and Carnac wondered why it was so significant. Worry about the price Keir might have paid for it? Well, he had delivered his warning, so he could wrap up with a little selfindulgence. "Keir mentioned that he was moving into a new flat. With you." On-screen, all the tension returned to Toreth in a rush. "That must be a frightening thought. Placing yourself into a domestic situation with a dominant presence over whom you have no control. It must . . . resonate for you." Toreth simply stared for a moment. It took an obvious effort for him to unclench his jaw enough to speak. "You know what? Fuck you." Oddly less satisfactory that he had hoped, Carnac mused as he stared at the abruptly blank screen. Petty revenge almost always was. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, which had little effect on the dull pain behind his eyes. After a moment, he opened the comm again. "Coll? I don't suppose you have anything to mend a broken heart?" "A . . . I'm sorry, Jean? A what?" He smiled bleakly. "Do you have any painkillers? I have a perfectly appalling headache." ~~~ Toreth leaned back in his chair and gripped the edge of the desk, because his hands were shaking with rage. "Bastard," he said out loud. Unbelievable, arrogant "Lying fucking bastard." Even that much coherence was costing all his concentration. It took a full minute before he could calm himself enough to start wondering where Warrick was. Not in Strasbourg, that was obvious. Carnac had been baiting him. Somewhere in New London, then. Somewhere he would call Carnac from, which probably meant the flat and not SimTech. Somewhere Toreth could find him and The comm chimed an internal call, not that prick back for the parting shot he'd no doubt had ready.

"What?" Toreth snapped as the screen brightened. He recognised the woman as one of the receptionists downstairs. "Para?" she said uncertainly. Toreth frowned, reaching for a name. "Madeleine? Is there a problem?" In the background, he could hear raised voices, and Madeleine glanced quickly sideways. "Yes, Para. There's a woman in reception demanding to speak to you. She says that her name is Dillian Aven. She's rather agitated." Toreth's heart sank. "I'll come down for her right away." ~~~ In reception, Dillian was waiting by the reception desk, apparently still arguing with Madeleine. A security officer stood nearby, on alert, his eyes fixed on her. Toreth wondered if she'd actually hit anyone, and whether he'd be able to smooth things over if she had. "Dillian?" She turned quickly. "Did you have anything to do with this? What were you two arguing about?" Oh, Jesus. Whatever had happened, he needed to get her out of here. He crossed the space quickly, caught her by the wrist and led her to the side of the room. The guard looked at Toreth questioningly as they walked away, but he seemed happy to let them go. Of course, if Dillian took a swing at anyone now it was likely to be Toreth. "What the hell's going on?" Toreth asked in an undertone. At least Dillian had the presence of mind to lower her voice too. "Keir's been arrested." The words weren't the shock they ought to have been. He'd known, somehow, as soon as he'd seen her. "I was at the airport when it happened," Dillian was saying. "There was a group of men in I&I uniforms. I followed here as quickly as I could, but they won't let me see him." "Of course they won't," Toreth said absently while his mind raced. "There's twenty-four hours before there's any external contact at all except with Justice reps." Or was that under the old system? He thought it still applied. "What are you going to do?" Dillian demanded. 'Don't expect me to risk my neck pulling you out of your messes'. That's what he'd told Warrick. The temptation to stick to the resolution lasted only a few seconds. "Whatever I can. I'll need to find out some details first." Something she'd said suddenly registered. "Why was he at the airport anyway?" "I don't know. He was on a flight back from Strasbourg, I think. He was supposed to be back yesterday, then he called to say he had to stay overnight. I went to collect him because we had to be at the hospital this morning to speak to the consultant . . . " He lost the rest of the sentence in the resurgence of anger. Strasbourg. Carnac had been telling the truth for once in his miserable life. More than that, Warrick had spent the night in Strasbourg and although every rational fibre in Toreth's body told him nothing could have happened between them, it couldn't stop the twisting in his guts. He held up his hand, and Dillian halted in the middle of whatever the fuck she'd been saying. "You get out of here," Toreth said. "I'll find him." Oh, yes, he thought as he turned back to the lifts. I'll find him.

~~~ He'd kill them, Toreth decided on the way down the corridor to General Criminal. Warrick first, then Carnac. Or maybe Carnac first, because if he was caught between murders, he'd prefer to be sure of Carnac. Sara was absent from her desk when he arrived. He soon discovered why she was in his office, using his comm. When she saw him, she said goodbye and closed the connection. "Warrick's been arrested!" she burst out as soon as he closed the door. "I know." He did at least get the satisfaction of being able to say that and of seeing her surprise. "Dillian was here. How did you know?" "I got a call from one of the admins in Computer Crimes. She recognised his name from my tenth anniversary party. She remembered talking to him about the sim." The name of Computer Crimes was both welcome and unwelcome news; Political Crimes would have been worse. "Did she have any clue why they pulled him in?" "A security breach, that's all she knew. Something high level, because she said Avis was looking pleased he hasn't had a big case for a long while, even before the " She hesitated, as she still always did when mentioning the revolt. "The trouble. It was a quiet arrest, though, and they haven't applied for a waiver yet." Probably because they'd be waiting for reports from the systems specialists. "Fuck." Sara was watching him narrowly. "What are you going to do?" "I have no fucking clue. Jesus. Fucking idiot!" He slammed his palms flat on the desk. Sara jumped up out of the chair at the explosion, but it released some tension. No waiver meant there were probably a few hours' grace to try and sort something out of the mess. "Right. Get back onto the network, find out whatever you can." After she'd gone, Toreth sat down and tried a deep breath, which didn't seem to help because every time he managed to tamp the anger down a little Carnac's smiling image appeared in his mind's eye. Toreth had turned Warrick down once, once in all the fucking time they'd been together and the first thing Warrick had done was run to Carnac. Well, okay, maybe the second thing, right after whatever fucking stupid stunt he'd pulled to get himself arrested by CC. It was tempting to leave Warrick to stew in his own juice, at least for a while. Why the hell should he make the effort to rescue him after that? On the other hand, superficially attractive as it was to make Warrick sweat, if Computer Crimes could prove Warrick had been in the Citizen Surveillance systems they wouldn't stop asking questions until they'd found out everything. And 'everything' went a long way back for both of them. Focus, he told himself. A few weeks ago, he'd had a socioanalyst bent to coin a phrase on killing him and everyone else in the division. So Toreth ought to be able to cope with Computer Crimes, even with Warrick acting like someone had been slipping him stupidity tablets. Carnac had been right about something else, too Warrick wasn't the only one in trouble. One way or another, Toreth's own surreptitious investigations into Tarin's accident were likely to be blown open if Warrick was interrogated, so he might as well not fuck around. Quick action, starting with his best shot. On that basis, he called SimTech and bullied the receptionist into connecting him through to Asher Linton. She didn't look surprised to see him. She did look pale, and as worried as he'd ever seen her.

"Rob McLean called from the airport when it happened," Asher said. "What's going on? Why have they arrested him?" "I'm not sure." "Is it something to do with Tarin?" Jesus, over an open comm into I&I. The stupidity tablets must be on special offer in the SimTech canteen. "Can you do me a favour?" he asked, hoping she'd drop the question. "Of course. What?" "Tell the SimTech legal department to hold off. I think the arrest is a mistake, and the fewer people who get invested in making it stick the better. I don't want Computer Crimes involved in a pissing contest with your lawyers." "They're already involved. We've submitted an application for an outside representative." "Okay. If CC are calling this political, it'll get turned down. If it does, just sit tight." Her eyes narrowed, and he was wondering if she was thinking about Marian Tanit's death in custody. "Why?" "I can't tell you. You'll just have to trust me." The silence stretched out. "I'm not happy about this," she said finally. "You're not alone." Toreth tried not to let the relief show. "Give me until the end of today, at least. You won't get anywhere before then anyway." "Very well. But no longer. I won't leave him in that place." It wasn't until that moment that it really hit him. Warrick was here. Downstairs on the detention level, in a holding cell or maybe an interview room. The shock drove any thought of Carnac from his mind. Fuck. He only had Sara's word that there wasn't an interrogation in progress right this second, that Warrick wasn't in an interrogation chair, that there wasn't an overworked and bad-tempered interrogator being careless with an injector right now. "Toreth?" He blinked at the screen, where Asher Linton was looking suddenly concerned. "Everything's going to be fine, Asher. I'll let you know the second I have any news." As soon as Asher had gone, he called through to Sara. It took her a minute to answer the comm. "Any news?" he asked "Just give me a bit longer. I'll come in when I'm done." He sat and fretted, unable to shake the images. Sara had said CC didn't have a waiver, but for level one the prisoner need only to have been processed into custody. Even with the revised P&P there was no requirement to wait for independent legal representation. Avis could start interviewing whenever the hell he liked. Warrick wasn't stupid, at least not under normal circumstances, but even the most intelligent people could trip themselves up if they were arrogant enough to start playing word games with trained interrogators. Toreth weighed up Warrick's intelligence and arrogance, and hoped like hell the former would keep a check on the latter. In the long run, though, it didn't matter. High-level waivers might be a thing of the past, but Toreth had taken care to ensure that the bowdlerised Procedures and Protocols still had bite. The urge to go downstairs and find Warrick grew with every second. Could he possibly get away

with just walking Warrick out of custody? Maybe, but what then? Warrick would have to get out of the Administration, like Kate, and Toreth would have to go with him. And that meant that he couldn't leave Sara behind to take the heat. Warrick wouldn't want to abandon Dillian and the rest of his family. Then there were friends, SimTech partners . . . spreading ripples. It was an impossible idea, bordering on suicidal. Fuck it. It might be the only way. Impulsively, he stood up, but at that moment the door opened. Sara paused, staring, and he wondered what his face must look like. Then she came in and closed the door. "I couldn't get much more," she said. "The security violation is inside Int-Sec somewhere. There's an upper-third-level waiver ready to send to Justice, so they must think they have something. But as he's a corporate director, Computer Crimes are sitting on it until they get more evidence." Pretty much as he'd thought. Unfortunate, because unauthorised access to Administration security records was one thing that corporate status couldn't buy off. Corporates who wanted secure files were far safer sticking to the traditional route of bribery. "Shall I go down to systems?" Sara asked. "Huh? Why?" "I could ask the specialists not to find anything. They might do it, for you." One option he hadn't considered, and it only took him a few seconds to discard it now. "No. Or not yet. I don't want to owe them that kind of favour they'd own my soul for the rest of my life. We'll have to try something else." Warrick had never been handcuffed in anger before. As he paced the cell, the difference it made surprised him. The sick fear caused by being here cancelled any erotic charge from the cuffs. They were simply a reminder of where he was, and of the absolute power I&I had over those who fell into its grasp. Leaning against the wall, he studied the cuffs. They were so familiar Toreth had filched more than one pair. A freshly stolen set lay in Warrick's bedside cabinet, a replacement for those looted from Toreth's flat. Avis hadn't cuffed him at the airport or in the car, only in the lift on the way down to this cell. Did that mean they weren't confident of their evidence, or just that in the new climate they were trying not to offend corporates unnecessarily? The holding cell had no chair or bed the choices were to sit on the floor or to stand. He stood. Sitting would make it too awkward to stand again when the para-investigator who'd arrested him returned. Prisoner depersonalisation theory. He'd heard Toreth mention it occasionally. The cell's grey wall merged into the grey floor. The corridors outside had been the same. When the lift door had opened, the unpleasant disinfectant tang had nauseated him. He didn't recall smelling it the last time he'd been here perhaps it didn't permeate the upper levels. Now his awareness of it had faded, although if he took a deep breath he could still taste it in the air. He was underground, he knew that, but how far down was a different question. The heavy door let no sound in, and the absence of any evidence of other people was disconcerting; the air cycling system sounded loud. Toreth must have been somewhere like this, during his few days' imprisonment during the coup. The idea of this same cell in pitch blackness chilled him. 'I knew you'd get us out', Toreth had said. Warrick appreciated for the first time how much of a comfort that hope must have been. At least he himself had a whole legal department who were at this

moment gearing up to rescue him. They could have him out faster than he had managed to rescue Toreth. The main problem with that theory was that Warrick was, in all probability, guilty of the charges, whatever they were. No doubt he would find that out when he finally made it to an interrogation room. He hadn't been so much as interviewed yet, or even told in detail why he was here beyond the vague arrest warrant he'd read at the airport. Warrick knew he'd been stupid at the arrest. Mentioning Toreth's name to Avis had been as good as implicating him. At the very least it would draw Avis's attention towards Toreth. He only hoped Toreth wouldn't do anything to make it worse. If Toreth did anything at all. The thought shocked him. It wasn't that he'd casually dismissed Toreth's angry words in Kate's bedroom, but he somehow hadn't felt that they applied here. However, this was exactly the kind of danger Toreth had been thinking about arrest, interrogation, secrets spilled in a widening pool. Maybe Toreth would abandon him. Warrick was well aware that the main reason their relationship had lasted so long was that he didn't demand more than Toreth was capable of giving. Self-sacrifice was not part of Toreth's makeup, and he'd have the justification of the warning given well in advance. He was still debating the possibility that he really was alone here when the door opened. The endless, identical corridors were another feature of the place that had to be designed for intimidation value. Two impassive guards escorted him along, barely looking at him as they opened and closed security doors. They displayed no curiosity about him at all, and he wondered whether they didn't know he was the lover of a para-investigator, or if they knew and didn't care. When the guards opened the door to an interview room, Warrick recognised Avis at once. There was a tall, blond man behind him, and for a moment Warrick thought it was Toreth. Then he realised his mistake and the disappointment almost choked him. The blond man seemed familiar, however. He wore an investigator's uniform rather than a parainvestigator's, and Warrick wondered if he had met him at one of the rare I&I functions he'd attended. "Sit," Avis snapped. The room held a single table and two chairs. Warrick sat in one, and Avis threw himself into the chair opposite. He looked furious. Without explanation, he thrust a hand screen across the table. Behind Avis, the blond man coughed. When he had his hand cupping his mouth, Warrick thought he saw him mouth something over Avis's head. Had it been 'from Toreth'? Warrick read, keeping his expression as neutral as he could. The first thing his eye picked out was a number he recognised at once: his security clearance code from his long-ago days in the Data Division. The heading of the document said it was an authorisation to use an outside agency to gather information. He scanned the rest: Toreth's name, a financial approval for expenses only, no consultancy fees, with a maximum of one hundred euros, and an impossible starting date the day after Tarin's accident. Reading too much more would make it look as if he wasn't expecting the miraculous rescue. He dropped the screen on the table and called up his best corporate arrogance, remembering to keep his hands still so as to minimise the effect of the cuffs. "Well? Isn't it in order?" Avis's shoulders relaxed a fraction. "Why didn't you tell me about this before?"

"You didn't give me a chance. You arrested me, processed me and put me in a cell." Behind Avis, the blond man closed his eyes briefly. Relief, Warrick hoped. "If you'd told me at the airport, you wouldn't be here at all!" Avis said. "Our lawyers are very strict about it: if arrested, say nothing until you've spoken to them in person." "Then why the hell didn't they say something? We've heard enough from them." "This is a private consultancy contract between myself and Para-investigator Toreth. Nothing to do with SimTech, so naturally they knew nothing about it. When I got to speak to a representative, I would have explained everything." He hesitated, then added, "I did ask to speak to Para-investigator Toreth, if you recall." Avis jerked the screen back across the table and stood. He turned to the blond man. "Okay, I'll believe you. Thousands wouldn't. You can tell the sainted bloody saviour of I&I that I don't appreciate sloppy IIPs. I've wasted my best people for days on this." "Yes, Para." The aggressive tone didn't seem to faze the investigator. "But, to be fair, it's not the Para's fault if the system failed to register the outside agency authorisation. It was all properly processed, but they're still dealing with systems disruption from the revolt." "If you wanted internal systems security testing, you should have gone to the systems section. Or come to us." Avis's voice now held more grumbling than anger. "I can't speak for the Para, but everyone's under pressure to save time and resources. Given the staffing problems and so on . . . " The investigator gestured vaguely. "Huh. And don't I know it. CC is right down at the bottom of the pile for new kit, new people, you name it. I'm working with half a team, and most of those are junk from the pool." "Yes, Para, I heard that. General Criminal is right down there with you. Political and Corporate Fraud are taking the cream, as usual." There was a moment of almost tangible shared resentment against the other sections, then the blond man coughed again. "If I could . . . " "Oh, right. Of course." Avis removed Warrick's handcuffs and slipped them onto a loop on his belt. When Warrick stood, the para-investigator faced him squarely. "I'm sorry about all this, Doctor. But I'm afraid that I couldn't do anything else, given that you refused " Warrick waved the apology aside. "I understand completely. I, of all people, ought to appreciate the importance of system security. I'm just glad that the Administration is so vigilant." "Thanks for being understanding." Avis turned to the investigator and made a shooing gesture towards the door. "Well, go on, then. Take him, take him. Some of us have real work to get on with." Outside the room, Warrick paused. "I'm sorry, I don't recall your name." "Investigator Ainsley Barret-Connor, sir." He glanced up and down the corridor. "If you could, um, come this way." "Is Toreth in his office?" Warrick asked as they headed, presumably, for the lift. "Yes. He asked me to take you up there." After a moment, Barret-Connor added, "But if I were you, I'd consider going straight home. I can tell him you insisted, if you like." "Oh?" "He's not a happy man. I mean, really not a happy man." "No doubt." The idea was tempting but, of course, impossible. "I'd be grateful if you could show

me the way." "When I heard him talking to Sara, he was saying something about the socioanalyst." BarretConnor glanced at him. "Carnac." "Ah." ~~~ It was fortunate that I&I's designers had fitted the offices with indestructible if ugly carpets. They had survived the revolt better than the building's occupants, and now the carpet in Toreth's office had no problem standing up to his frantic pacing as he worked through and rejected increasingly desperate plans for retrieving Warrick from detention. The rescue plans alternated with more detailed and more enjoyable plans for exactly what he was going to do to Warrick once he did have him back. Warrick, he vowed, was going to regret his trip to Strasbourg. The deceitful, treacherous fuck would never The door opened, and B-C appeared for exactly long enough to say, "He's here, Para," let Warrick go through the door, and rapidly close it again. A question from Sara was cut off midsentence. Before Warrick could speak, Toreth grabbed his shirt front in both hands and slammed him against the office wall. "You stupid fucking bastard!" Screw what the office could hear. "I told you!" Warrick didn't even have the grace to look surprised. "Toreth, I'm sorry. I " "I don't fucking care. Idiot fucking " He struggled to keep his voice down. "I told you you'd get caught. For once in your life, couldn't you have fucking listened? You were this close to screwing both of us." He shook Warrick again, the sweet rush of violence feeding the underlying turmoil of fear and anger. "This fucking close. And you still might." "Perhaps you could take your own advice," Warrick said breathlessly. "What did you say?" Toreth tightened his grip, twisting his fists and pressing Warrick back against the wall. Warrick's hands closed over his wrists, fingers digging in painful, but nowhere near breaking his hold. Futile, and somehow infuriating. "Why don't you do it like you fucking mean it?" Toreth said. "That's not what they taught you in corporate safety school." Warrick released his hold. "No. Not at all. They taught me how to break someone's arm. But I'd rather not have to." His hands flexed again, almost involuntarily, and Warrick gasped. "Toreth, if you would listen for a moment and let me explain . . . " Toreth considered the idea. If he was going to kill Warrick, right here in Toreth's own office wasn't the place to do it. Better to wait until they got home, where he could do it with proper care and attention to detail and the right amount of screaming. "All right," Toreth said. "Make it good." Warrick took a deep breath, then glanced down at Toreth's hands. He took hold of Toreth's wrists again, lightly this time. "Do you think you could possibly let go? It really isn't helping my concentration." Deja vu. Almost the same position, in the same office, as after Marian's death. Back here, after

all this time. He pressed closer to Warrick, hips against his, and, unbelievably, the bastard was hard. He was actually fucking getting off on the fact that Toreth was one breath away from breaking his ungrateful neck. Anger flared again, then suddenly evaporated, and he started to laugh. Warrick looked at him warily, hands still loosely clasping his. After a few seconds, Toreth managed to regain enough control to gasp, "You are sick, do you know that? Completely fucking sick." "Oh, yes." Warrick's mouth twitched. "Yes, I know. If it's any consolation, the cell was no fun at all." "Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ." If Toreth didn't shut up, the rest of the office really would wonder what the hell was going on. Releasing Warrick, he leaned on the wall beside him, swallowing down the noise. He looked sideways at Warrick, who also seemed to be fighting laughter, and the hysteria threatened to break through again. Thinking about the danger helped. "Fucking idiot," he said. Warrick closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. "I am sorry." "So what's the excuse?" "No excuse." Warrick stood away from the wall and faced him. "You were absolutely correct. I couldn't get into the systems and I had to give up. I thought I'd cleared up all traces, but obviously I was wrong. Avis didn't tell me what they'd found, but whatever it was, it is entirely my fault. I'm sorriest of all that you had to take the risk to help me and I'm more grateful than I can tell you." And that was it. Apparently that was supposed to be enough. He should kill Warrick for that alone, for expecting Toreth to just accept that pathetic apology as recompense for scaring the living fuck out of him. But somehow, with Warrick in front of him alive, touchable, safe, not down on level C, not in an interrogation room the anger stubbornly refused to reappear. Maybe he could get it back, because if he let himself start to think about where Warrick had been before he was arrested, and who he'd seen there, he felt the muscles in his shoulders start to tighten. But he suddenly discovered that he didn't want to think about Carnac. Not now. He pushed away from the wall and strode over to the door. When he jerked it open, Sara scooted her chair away from right outside. B-C was by her desk she must have been relaying the news to him. Beyond him, at desks and in groups, admins, investigators and paras stood frozen. There was a moment of silence, then the rest of the office busied themselves with screens and conversations. Behind him, Warrick started forward, but Toreth glanced round and pointed to a chair by his desk. "You. Sit." Turning back, Toreth leaned on the doorframe. "B-C?" B-C cleared his throat. "Para?" "Good job, well done. Thanks. Now the show's over, so fuck off." "Yes, Para." B-C almost tripped over his feet in his haste to comply. "Sara?" Toreth asked. She turned round from her desk, just as innocent as if she hadn't been eavesdropping. "Yes?" "I want a couple of " "Coffees?" She picked up two self-heating mugs from the table and handed them to him, far too smug for someone caught with her ear against the door. "Anything else?" she asked.

"No. No need for a mop and bucket." She grinned and turned away. "For the blood?" Warrick asked after Toreth had closed the door. "Yeah." Toreth sat down heavily. "For some reason, there seems to be a widespread conviction these days that I'm some kind of fucking psychopath. Which is funny, because I used to have a pretty stress-free life. Wonder what changed?" Warrick sensibly left that one alone. He prised the lid off his coffee and took a sip. "Ah. That is very welcome. Even " He had another mouthful. "Even if the flavour leaves something to be desired. Now. Exactly how much trouble are we in?" "I don't know." Toreth opened his coffee and breathed in the comforting smell. "Sara made out the most innocuous outside agency form she could under the circumstances, and I asked Jenny to sign it and backdate it." "Who's Jenny?" "Tillotson's admin. There's been a lot of backdating and form-fiddling going on since the revolt. Systems keep going down, half the time people aren't quite sure who to report to anyway. Plus I'm running a bit of a reputation surplus right now, which I might as well use while it lasts. As long as Computer Crimes don't make a fuss, it'll all get buried in the rest of the paperwork." Warrick smiled. "Thank you." "It's my fucking neck as well as yours. Did you read the form?" "I didn't want to make it look as if I didn't know what was in it. Fortunately, Para-investigator Avis was too annoyed to ask many questions." He frowned. "B-C should've been backing you up. Wasn't he?" Warrick nodded quickly. "Very efficiently. He spirited me up here before Avis knew what was happening." Always worried about treating the bloody staff well, even when they weren't his. "Good. Right. Well, if anyone asks, you were testing systems security because I thought someone might be pulling corporate security assessments out of the Int-Sec database to use in corporate kidnappings. Exploiting the trouble caused by the revolt." Warrick frowned. "Those files have nothing to do with Citizen Surveillance." "Then if anyone asks, you'll have to tell them that you fucked it up, won't you?" "I would've had to be spectacularly inept." He sounded mortally offended by the suggestion. "Good." Toreth grinned. "Trust me, that's what you want Computer Crimes to think. Or do you want to be on their lists as a shit-hot systems cracker?" "Mm. Perhaps a reputation for crass incompetence is more appealing than I thought." He looked at his watch, then drained half his coffee. "If there's nothing else, I should go. McLean must have told SimTech what was happening, and they'll need to be reassured. They'll need to see me in person to be quite sure." They had a great deal more to talk about starting with Carnac but Toreth was always willing to put off an unpleasant conversation. "Okay. See you later." Glancing down, Toreth caught sight of a note on the screen. A memo from Sara. "Warrick?"

Almost at the door, Warrick stopped and turned. "Yes?" Toreth leaned back in his chair and smiled. "Happy birthday." ~~~ Building security had let him in downstairs without a murmur, but Toreth paused in the entrance to ring the comm up to the new flat, not really knowing why. When Warrick answered he looked briefly surprised before his expression changed to a smile. "Come on up." The flat door stood slightly ajar when he reached it, but Warrick wasn't there. Toreth pushed it open and stood on the threshold, looking at the hallway. Much as he remembered it from the visit with the agent, except that the chequerboard black-and-white floor had been thoroughly cleaned and polished, the walls redecorated. Once inside he paused, wondering where to hang his coat. Hadn't there been a cloakroom? Yes he found it again, just inside the door. He might as well get off to a good start. No doubt he'd be throwing his coat down on a chair before long, and watching Warrick grit his teeth keeping quiet about it. He'd stopped off at Sara's to pick up his things, and carrying his suitcase down the hall made him feel like a visitor. "Warrick?" "In the living room," Warrick called. Warrick was waiting near the doorway, holding a stack of small framed pictures. He set them down on a table Toreth didn't recognise. Toreth dropped his case and looked around. There was plenty in the room that he did recognise, mostly ornaments and pictures, including Cele's nude portrait of himself seated on a windowsill. However, the rug from Warrick's old flat, the blue one that they'd fucked on plenty of times, hadn't made it here. In its place were three new, smaller rugs in shades of grey. The suite was new, too. Everything looked different, even the familiar things, and he wondered if it bothered Warrick. Toreth put his hands on the back of the sofa and leaned on it. Nice and strong. "The room looks smaller," he said, as Warrick was obviously expecting a comment. "Yes. Places always do with the furniture in." "The carpet's blue." "Quite so." "Reminds me of something." Warrick laughed and moved up beside him, standing half behind him, not quite touching. "I'm sure it does, since you spend so much time in front of the mirror it's rather close to your eye colour." He thought about Sara, and the blue jumper packed in his bag. My flat, Toreth said to himself. My home. The words sounded wrong, because nowhere he'd ever lived had looked like this. At least nowhere recent, and certainly not anywhere he wanted to remember now. 'It must resonate for you'. He should've come here earlier, when it was still a mess. "It all looks good," Toreth said with an effort.

Warrick touched his elbow. "So now you've finally made it here, we should celebrate." "Celebrate?" Toreth looked sharply over his shoulder. "After what happened at I&I?" "Yes. Close your eyes." Obediently, Toreth closed them, and the strangeness of the new flat went away, or at least part of it. The background noises were new too, he noticed now. The flat management system hummed quietly at a subtly different pitch, and somewhere in the building water tapped through distant pipes for a few seconds before stopping. Warrick put his hands on Toreth's hips and turned him so that his back was to the sofa, then moved even closer, right up against him. His hair brushed Toreth's cheek as he leaned in. "We should celebrate," Warrick murmured against the side of his neck. "Because I could still be there, but I'm not. I'm here and so are you. That seems like an excellent reason for celebration. And a practical demonstration of gratitude." "What " He stopped as Warrick dealt effortlessly with the fastenings on his trousers, sliding down the zip and spreading back the fabric. Unfair distraction. "Mm." Now Warrick was touching bare skin, exploring. "Well, this is very interesting." "I ran out of clean underwear at Sara's. I meant to come here tonight anyway to pick up some more fuck." He tried desperately to ignore the hand slipping down between his legs. "Warrick, I talked to Dillian. You were arrested at the airport." Warrick withdrew his hand. A joint popped as he lowered himself to his knees, steadying himself with his hands on Toreth's thighs. "Ouch. All that unpacking did me no good at all. You need to get me back in the gym regularly." Toreth took a deep breath, but he couldn't seem to open his eyes. "Did you see him in Strasbourg?" "Shh." Warrick licked his cock once, slow and wet. "Later." He was hard already. Of course he was, because it was Warrick touching him Warrick, who knew exactly what he wanted and how he liked it. But he had to know how much of the truth Carnac had told. "Did you talk to him?" "Yes, I did. It doesn't matter. He's not important." And just for the moment Toreth was willing to believe him. He gripped the soft upholstery of the sofa and let his head fall back, and gave up thinking about anything. ~~~ Toreth sprawled on the sofa, waiting for Warrick to bring him a drink. If anything, the new furniture was even more comfortable than the old. Amazing how much more homey the place felt after a stellar blowjob. A mug appeared above him and he reached up for it. "Whisky and water," Warrick said. "Sorry about the service, but I haven't unwrapped any of the crystal yet. The dining room furniture won't be here until tomorrow, and it didn't make sense to put everything away only to move it again." Toreth took a mouthful. "Tastes the same whatever you drink it out of." "Technically untrue." Warrick sat beside him. "The shape of the vessel affects the concentrations of organic volatiles over the surface. That alters the smell, which in turn changes the flavour."

Toreth stretched his arm out along the back of the sofa behind Warrick. "The sim?" "Indeed. Modelling scent is technically challenging, to put it mildly. And very important, since it's one of the most evocative senses." Warrick leaned in and pressed his nose into the hollow of Toreth's collarbone, inhaling deeply. I wanted to kill him, Toreth reminded himself. His arm slipped down off the smooth new fabric and ended up over Warrick's shoulders. "We'll have to eat in the kitchen, I'm afraid," Warrick said, his voice muffled but his breath hot through Toreth's shirt. "As the dining room is out of commission." "Let's order a takeaway Chinese and eat it in bed." Warrick looked up at him, smiling quizzically. "In bed?" Before Toreth could reply, his smile broadened. "Why not?" ~~~ There was something incredibly comforting about sitting naked on a bed, with a naked Warrick, and opening takeaway cartons. True, there was a double-folded tablecloth on the bed, and a tray to hold the bowls and chopsticks, and coasters on the bedside table for drinks they hadn't even brought up yet. Even so, eating in bed was something they had done far more in his old flat than in Warrick's. "Do you still want to hear about Strasbourg?" Warrick asked as he carefully folded back the last flaps. "I don't know. Do I?" "Carnac's new office might provide you with a certain amount of schadenfreude." "Small?" Toreth asked hopefully. "Tiny and incredibly cramped. He looked like a corporate refugee. His entire staff consists of his sister Socioanalysis have thrown him out." Toreth couldn't help grinning. "Serves the bastard right." "I imagine they don't want to get a reputation for bringing up traitors." "Yeah. You'd think brainwashing him from the age of five they'd do a better job of it. Cunt." He picked out a sticky tangle of deep-fried meat, chewed it thoroughly, and swallowed. "Did you get anything from him?" Warrick seemed to be concentrating on his chopsticks, holding them together as if checking the lengths matched. "A lot of warnings, once he worked out what I wanted and what I was planning to do." "Nothing else?" Thank God for that. "Not that you could trust anything the bastard did tell you." "He's not unreliable, within his limits. Like all of us." Some more limited than others. Was he imagining the suggestion of that in Warrick's voice? Hard as he tried, Toreth couldn't avoid the memory of Carnac's farewell speech. 'I know the details of the diagnosis in your psych file'. Toreth honestly tried to keep his voice light. "So, did you two have fun?" "I went there to ask him about Tarin," he said carefully. "Nothing more. I'd far rather never see Carnac again." "But you did go to see him, didn't you? You went. You talked to the bastard."

"Talked, yes. And that was all. After what he did, and tried to do, I would have to be drugged unconscious before he could lay a finger on me." As if a bastard like Carnac would balk at that. "So you say." "If you want to check with Rob McLean, he was there with us almost all the time." Pathetic, stupid . . . then his control was gone. "And McLean'll say what? Whatever the fuck you tell him to say. Why don't you just show me the script?" "Do I make a habit of lying to you? Or asking my employees to do so?" Somehow he had the nerve to sound shirty about that. "Perhaps McLean isn't quite as reliable as independent professional surveillance " Not that, not now. "I promised " "But I think he makes a more convincing witness than, say, Sara." Every syllable rang clear. "Remind me, how many times have you called on her services to provide a cover story? If you can remember." "It's " It's not the same, because Carnac mattered. 'Not that I imagine that makes you feel any less insecure or afraid of the idea of my being alone with Keir'. At the remembered words, his stomach tightened with still-fresh humiliation. Fuck it, he could feel his cheeks getting hot. McLean had been with them 'almost all the time'. Which meant not all the time, and it was so easy to imagine them together. He could tell himself a thousand fucking times that Warrick would never willingly touch Carnac, but if Warrick had wanted the information badly enough ... Oh, Jesus, yes. The P&P at work might have been cut down, but this could turn into a level eight argument. "Do you want a drink?" Toreth asked. Without waiting for an answer, he slid off the bed, almost upsetting a couple of cartons. "I'll get beer. Something." The longer trip down the stairs and the unfamiliarity of the kitchen gave him an excuse to take his time. He kept his mind blank as blank as he could manage because there was no way of thinking about Carnac that didn't leave him homicidal. There was beer in the fridge, and he took one bottle to roll over his neck and face. He stood in front of the open door, ignoring the warnings from the system, feeling the slide of cool air over his skin until the last of the flush had gone and he started to shiver. He put the warmed beer back, picked up two cold ones and closed the door. Find the glasses, open the bottles, pour. Nothing to worry about. Nothing. He kept the mantra up all the way back upstairs. Warrick was waiting on the bed. He didn't look to have moved at all, or eaten anything, although he was still holding the chopsticks loosely in one hand. He was staring at the stained glass window, expression distant and thoughtful. He looked round, though, and raised an eyebrow. "Here you are." Toreth handed over the beers and climbed back onto the bed more carefully than he'd left. "Thanks." Warrick didn't say any more. He simply sat and watched Toreth warily. Nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. "How did things go at SimTech?" Warrick looked relieved to drop the topic of Strasbourg. "Lew and Asher were somewhere

between delighted to see me and furious. I couldn't explain quite why I'd been arrested, but when we're feeling the financial squeeze it's the last thing SimTech needs." "And news will be spreading." "Of course. The corporate gossip network is terrifyingly efficient. The speed of my release will help." "You are going to leave it alone now, aren't you?" Warrick hunted through a carton and produced a straw mushroom, delicately pincered in the chopsticks. "I certainly won't risk the Cit Surveillance systems again." "Another arrest would really fuck up SimTech." His eyes narrowed. "I know perfectly well what's at stake. Not just SimTech there's the rest of the family. You." Me. Too fucking right, me. But Warrick's reply hadn't been a no. "But?" "Everything I said before is still true. I owe it to Tar. I cannot let anything else happen to him." "Why, for God's sake?" "I've thought about that a lot lately. And . . . there are a number of reasons." He looked at the mushroom for a moment, then ate it. Toreth waited, but that was apparently it. "Well, do I get to hear any of them?" "Of course. The main reason . . . I knew for years, Toreth." Warrick shook his head. "I knew what Kate was, I knew what she was doing to him, and I let it go on because I was afraid. Oh, not just for myself I did it for Jen and Dillian. For Philly, later, and then for Valeria. There were always plenty of justifications and excuses." What the hell was he talking about? "What could you have done?" Toreth asked. "How old were you when you found out? Seventeen? She'd been running him for years, even then." "I never tried." His voice was harsh with self-recrimination. "I never let myself even start to wonder if there was something I could do. Sins of omission." "Sorry?" "Something someone said to me. I'm sorry, Toreth, but I can't let this go." "Carnac called me this morning." Warrick frowned sharply. "He what?" "Called me at the office. Mostly because he's a prick, and he wanted to let me know where you'd been. Which, yeah, I have to hand it to him, that was a surprise, since you didn't fucking tell me where you were." "Toreth, nothing " "But also because he wanted to know if I knew you were fucking about with Cit." Toreth took a deep breath. "Warrick, I think it's a bad idea, Carnac thinks it's a bad idea why are you the only one who won't see that you're being suicidally stupid?" "I made a mistake. It won't happen again. You have my word that I'll be more circumspect." His voice had an icy determination that made Toreth's heart sink. It also left Toreth with only one option, unpleasant as it was. "I think I have a lead on him." "Really?" Warrick sounded surprised. "How long have you had it?"

"Not long. That's what the message I left yesterday was about, except that I couldn't leave anything explicit. I've got some names still nothing certain, but a start." "I don't expect any help," Warrick said. "This has nothing to do with you, I appreciate that. If you give me the names, I'll take it from there." "No. You'll just go right back to fucking around with systems you don't understand and if you get into hot water, I'll end up boiling right in there with you. Give me a few days. And while I look, you won't touch any fucking systems. Not Cit Surveillance, not the Data Division. Nothing. Okay?" Warrick set down the carton and leaned back on his hands, examining Toreth assessingly. "Where did you obtain this new information?" Justice's computer security wouldn't be as good as Cit Surveillance's, but Toreth didn't feel like taking chances offering them as a target. Being caught once didn't seem to have dented Warrick's selfconfidence. "There was a witness at the school, and out of that I got hold of a couple of dozen names to check out. Can't tell you any more." There was a brief pause. "You didn't say anything about a witness before." "Yeah, well." He didn't have a justification beyond the obvious, so he didn't bother. "Look, I promise it's real information, and I promise it's a real chance to find him. But I need more time." Now Warrick looked outright sceptical. "And if it gets nowhere, you'll tell me, of course. Just as you told me about the picture." Fuck. "Of course. This time I'll tell you as soon as I know anything." Maybe. This time the silence was longer, leaving the room quiet enough for Toreth to hear his beer fizzing quietly when he swirled the glass. Finally, Warrick grimaced. "I can't." As Toreth started to protest, he held up his chopsticks. "I promise that I have no plans to make any more attempts on Cit Surveillance, but I won't make any promises I can't guarantee to keep. If an opportunity presents itself, then I'll take it. I'm sorry." So that was it. Impasse. Walk out, that was the traditional next step, and Warrick seemed to be expecting it his gaze flicked over to Toreth's bag, lying against the chest of drawers, and Toreth could almost read his mind. You didn't even manage to stay long enough to unpack. Well, fuck him if he thought Toreth was that predictable. Toreth shrugged and drained his glass. "Well, okay. It's your funeral, among others. I just hope I get a chance to say 'I told you so' while they're cuffing me." He held out his hand. "Pass me the noodles." For once he had the satisfaction of seeing Warrick utterly nonplussed. Warrick stared at his outstretched hand, then up to Toreth's face, as though he were speaking a foreign language. After several seconds, he picked the carton up and handed it over carefully, obviously waiting for the argument to start up. "Thanks. Now let's eat before the food gets cold and the beer gets warm. And then . . . " Warrick raised an eyebrow. "Yes?" Toreth smiled. This not-having-a-blazing-row was easier than it looked. "Then I still have to think of something to give you for your birthday."

Chapter Fifteen
In the taxi on the way in to work the next morning, Toreth did consider doing exactly what Warrick had so obviously suspected he would nothing. If Warrick was pressing on anyway, Toreth might as well pretend to investigate for a few days before announcing that he'd found nothing. In the meantime, he'd try his damndest to stop Warrick causing more trouble. Maybe Cele could talk sense into Warrick if Toreth couldn't. However, the best chance of stopping Warrick's lethal plans was to find Leo before him. More than that, the existence of the list nagged at him. A genuine, unpursued lead in an unsolved case, and one that he could even look into in reasonable safety. As he studied the file again, he wondered if he would ever learn to leave well enough alone. Very probably not. Somehow, over the years, the job had got inside him. He had twenty names to check. The most logical way was to start with the most suspicious one and work down. Done with reasonable caution, that would fill a few days. It didn't take Toreth long to find what he wanted in the credit and purchase check attached to the Justice file. A bar a regular drinking place for John Sable. As the taxi drove into I&I, Toreth made a note of the address, put his screen away, and called Warrick. "Toreth?" Given that he'd seen Toreth only an hour before, Warrick looked predictably surprised. "Is there, ah, any news?" "No. I'm just checking that you'll be busy at work today." Warrick half smiled. "Very busy. There's a directors' meeting this morning, during which we'll no doubt decide to delay making unpleasant decisions for another few days. That should keep me out of mischief." "Good. I'll see you this evening. I " He hesitated, but the last thing he wanted was Warrick getting interested in where he was. "I might be late back tonight. It's work," he added. "Nothing to get alarmed about." Warrick nodded, no trace of undue curiosity in his eyes. "I'll probably be working late too. I'll see you when I see you." ~~~ By the time Toreth reached his stakeout for that evening, the weather had closed in, and a light drizzle dampened everything, blowing under awnings and into doorways. Santiago's Bar was on the opposite side of the Int-Sec complex to I&I, conveniently close to the extensive buildings of the Data Division's Int-Sec branch. It was also packed with a Friday crowd buoyed by the start of the weekend. It looked like a respectable place, serving what smelled like good food. No doubt the main business came from lunchtimes and early evenings. From his c&p records, Sable followed that pattern. The bar ranged along one wall, so Toreth bought a drink and took a seat at the end, which gave a view of virtually the whole place. The crowd was welcome. If the man was here tonight, there was that much more chance that Toreth would be able to take a first look at him without being spotted in return. And if Sable was Leo Warrick, what then? Toreth wasn't sure. He sure as hell had no intention of walking up to a Citizen Surveillance agent and announcing that he knew who and what the man was. That was suicidal, even without considering the part where he asked Sable if he'd tried to murder his

stepson. He'd been there for an hour before he caught sight of his target. He'd missed Sable's entrance the grey-haired, soberly-suited man was already seated, alone, in a booth across the far side of the bar. Cele's drawing had been astonishingly good, considering that she'd been working from a description given by a child witness who had seen the suspect only at a distance. Then Toreth saw Warrick. He stood inside the doorway, the light dusting of water on his shoulders already evaporating in the heat from the unit above the door. Must have come here in a taxi, Toreth noted automatically, because his shoes and the rest of his coat were dry. Weirdly, the next thought that went through Toreth's mind was that he was dreaming. His brain had taken Leo's sudden reappearance, combined it with the memory of the post-Carnac evening that Warrick had dragged Toreth home from a bar and fucked some sense back into him, and twisted it all together into this nightmare. The helpless paralysis certainly felt like a nightmare. Warrick looked around the bar, his gaze moving over Toreth without giving any sign that he'd seen him, but as soon as he caught sight of Sable he stiffened. Toreth watched Warrick cross the bar, his gaze fixed intently on Leo. It wasn't a dream. How the fucking hell had Warrick got here? Followed Toreth? Somehow found the address himself? Not, please God, been back in the fucking Cit files? It didn't matter right now. Warrick was already sitting down opposite Sable, who half rose, surprise plain on his face. Warrick was already speaking, and given his recent record he was no doubt saying something stupendously stupid that would get them both killed. What should he do? What could he do? He divided his attention between his watch and the faces of the two men. They both sat in profile. Warrick was unreadably neutral; after the initial reaction, Sable looked perfectly calm too. Probably planning how to have Warrick killed. Good job or not that the mob had dealt with most of Psychoprogramming during the revolt. It took another two minutes before Toreth could force himself to stand. As casually as he could, he worked his way across the bar, keeping his face away from the pair at the table, until he could slot into the fortunately empty booth behind Warrick. "You're saying that you have no idea what happened?" Warrick said. "No, I know the case very well. I've been watching the progress of the transport investigation. The conclusion at the moment seems to be that there was a malfunction of the taxi guidance system, due to outdated software which is partially incompatible with the current Central Transport Division's traffic control systems. The rest of the company's vehicles are being examined. They seem to share the same fault, making sabotage unlikely. There may be a prosecution, if the corporation is found to be negligent." "And then I suppose there'll be compensation for Valeria?" Warrick asked bitterly. "I don't make the rules. I don't run transport investigations, either. I'm just telling you what I know." There was a brief silence. "I'm grateful for what you did for Kate, but there are limits to what I can do and what I can tell you about " "No." Emotion cracked through Warrick's voice. "I'm a corporate. I live with risk every day. I understand it. But I need to know that the others are safe. I have an obligation towards all of them, including Tarin. Especially Tarin. If they're in danger if he's in danger then there has to be

something, some compromise, some way to avoid " "Keir," Sable broke in. "Please, listen to me. The Administration protects its loyal citizens. If . . . if Citizen Surveillance were involved, then I very much doubt that anyone's life but Tarin's would be in danger. I understand your concern for your family and friends, but in this case it's badly misplaced." "Citizen Surveillance isn't involved?" "Officially, Citizen Surveillance doesn't even exist. But if it did, then I have no knowledge of any such involvement. And, believe me, I have been watching the files." "And that's all you have to say?" "Yes." "I see." There was a long pause. "Then I don't think we have anything more to say to each other." The booth creaked, and Toreth looked hastily away, grabbing a menu to scrutinise. Much too late, he realised he should have sat behind Sable, who was furthest from the main door of the bar. Sitting here, they would both have to pass him on the way out. "Goodbye, Keir," Sable said. Warrick didn't respond. A faint shadow crossed Toreth as Warrick passed him, and he prayed Warrick wouldn't glance down. The footsteps didn't falter, and after giving it five seconds, Toreth lifted his head cautiously, keeping the menu high. He spotted Warrick at once, walking away across the bar. He didn't look back. Then Toreth caught movement beside him, and glanced up quickly. Sable had left the booth too, and Toreth wondered if he was going to follow Warrick. What the hell should Toreth do if he did? Follow both of them? However, after a couple of steps Sable halted, within an arm's reach of Toreth. He stood perfectly still, watching his son stroll calmly out of the bar. Toreth studied him, trying desperately to read his expression. He stared a fraction too long, because the man looked down and caught his eye. Before Toreth could think of what he ought to do, Sable had taken a seat opposite him. "I'm sorry. Is this place taken?" "No." "Good." He turned away, surveying the bar with leisurely thoroughness before he added, "Do you know who I am?" Toreth nodded mutely and wondered if he had time to get another drink before he died. "Good. That simplifies things immeasurably. Is there somewhere we could go to talk? I have colleagues who may be along shortly, and it would be better for both of us not to be seen together." Every instinct screamed 'stay here!', but the protection would be largely illusory. Perhaps if he cooperated there might be a safe way out of this. They walked down the street in silence, and then down a quieter side alley until they reached another bar Gegi's. Toreth stopped outside and nodded to the door. "That okay?" "Not somewhere I frequent," Sable said. "However, I had in mind somewhere more private." "This is perfect, trust me." Inside, Toreth turned to the nearest staff member and waved an attention-getting credit card. "Half an hour, please." The sale went through unremarked and Toreth took the room number. As they headed for the

stairs, Toreth wondered how many times he had done this. He always, previously, expected to survive it. In the room, he sat on the bed while Sable locked the door, checking it twice, then looked at his watch. "Half an hour?" Toreth pointed to the comm by the bed. "If that's not long enough, they'll usually extend it, unless they're busy. Should be okay this early, even on Friday." "I think that half an hour should be adequate." His cool voice sounded suddenly, startlingly, familiar. "You said that you knew who I was. Tell me." What was the least he could get away with revealing? "You were outside Valeria Wintergreen's school on the day her father had his accident." "Ah." Suddenly, Toreth had a very strong sense that he'd given the wrong answer. He thought about the other things he knew or suspected, and wondered if any of them would have been better. Disturbingly echoing his thoughts, Sable asked, "Anything else?" "Why don't you just tell me?" Brisk shake of the grey head . "That would be unwise, for both of us. You have some dangerous hobbies, Para-investigator. As you may have heard me say, I've been watching the files." "I thought it would bear some looking into." "You didn't feel the need to request the case be transferred officially?" "I didn't want to attract Cit Surveillance's attention. And . . . I didn't want to draw too much attention towards Warrick." "Good." The approval sounded perfectly genuine. "I would hate to think that my son was involved with someone who didn't give some thought to his safety." Well, that cleared up what Sable was willing to admit, and the tone of voice was perhaps a little less intimidating than it had been. "Believe me, it's been on my mind a lot recently." "I can imagine." Sable smiled briefly. "Yesterday was rather stressful, but I expect that I had the best morning of the three of us. By the time I found out about the arrest, Keir had been released. So is there anything you wish to say to me?" "Tarin's accident wasn't badly done." Toreth noted the brief flicker of surprise at the forthright assessment. "But you shouldn't have been there. It was too much of a coincidence." "I had to make sure Valeria wasn't in the car when the accident happened." His blunt tone matched Toreth's. "Katy would never forgive me if anything happened to her." "Well, it was still a mistake. If there are any more accidents, or Tarin dies and it looks at all unnatural, then Warrick is going to do his damndest to find out who did it and to make sure they don't get away with it. He's looking already, you know that." "If he pressed the matter, it would be unfortunate." With grim amusement, Toreth wondered if a talent for understatement could be genetic. "Too fucking right. I've got no plans to end up on level C because Warrick's developing a taste for vengeance." "How would you act to stop him?" The polite enquiry chilled him. Toreth didn't rush to reply, giving himself plenty of time to try to work out the right answer.

There probably wasn't one. "I'd ask him nicely not to." That drew a wry smile. "And do you think that would help? If he's as much like his mother as he seems . . . " After a brief pause, he added, "In truth, I'm afraid it might not matter. I had hoped Tarin's death would be enough to cut the connection. On its own, given time, it might have been. However, the group Tarin associated with is too large and too well organised to be ignored. There will be arrests. I'm afraid it's become inevitable now that Kailynna is no longer monitoring the group. I've done my best to prevent it, but I'm only one man." "What about the new Administration?" "Tarin's friends have rather more radical ideas than the new Administration is comfortable with. Before they were a highly valuable source of information; now they are a nuisance." "Fuck. What if they name Tarin?" "That is the difficulty." Footsteps sounded outside, a man and woman laughed as they passed the door. Toreth looked down at the floor, at the worn carpet, distracted for a moment by wondering if he'd ever had anyone in this room. Then he forced his attention back to the current problem. If Tarin's friends were arrested and they named him, Warrick would be fucked. A pity that Valeria wasn't old enough to take over her grandmother's role. Had that been Kate's intention? Pity too that Kate hadn't managed to bring Tarin up to spy willingly instead of having to use him as an unwitting Fuck. "How many people know about Tarin?" he asked slowly. "Everything about him is in his file, and her file also. There are records of the operation." "Yeah, but files can be lost. I mean they could've been lost already, couldn't they? During the revolt?" "Possibly. However, that wouldn't prevent Tarin's associates from naming him." "No, but they might not know everything about him. What if he had been an active agent, if he'd been working with Kate? Not as an Int-Sec employee, but an informer. If that were true, then the accident would be a logical reason to bring the rest of the group in, wouldn't it?" Sable's eyes narrowed. "Files would have to be altered . . . it could be done. However, the investigation would very likely raise enough questions that the truth would come to light. The other resisters would certainly name him." "Give me the case. Half my training is how to avoid planting ideas in prisoners by accident. I can do it deliberately. By the time I'm done they'll be convinced they've doubted Tarin for years. No one will know it's not genuine." "Except you." He swallowed, trying to keep his voice level. "I won't tell anyone." "We both know that you cannot give that guarantee." His clipped voice sounded again very like Warrick's. "If asked the right questions, under the right circumstances, promises, however sincerely meant, cannot hold." Toreth had to nod. It was something he'd spent his entire professional life proving. "Still . . . " Sable rubbed the side of his neck thoughtfully. "I do believe you would have a powerful incentive to keep quiet." My career, my freedom, my life. "Too fucking right."

"And besides, I've read " "My psych file." Irritation and relief loosened his tongue. "Yeah, yeah. You and the rest of the fucking planet." Sable stared, then laughed. "Yes, I imagine it must be annoying." Toreth shrugged. "I'm sick, but it pays well. What do you think of the plan?" The faint noise from he bar below did nothing to soften the silence in the room as Sable gazed past him, contemplating the wall with complete concentration. Then he nodded. "I'm willing to take a chance on it, if you think it would be sufficient to stop my son digging any deeper." "Yes, it will." He'd convince Warrick or die trying. "With the right arguments." "How can you be so sure?" "He's not suicidal. And even if he was, there's Valeria there's all the family. He won't put them in danger if Tarin is safe." "And how does he feel about your safety?" Toreth shrugged, uncomfortable with the basic idea and with the faint hint of threat he hoped he was imagining. "I couldn't tell you that." "The last time the only previous time I spoke to him, he seemed concerned for your welfare. Well, if further reassurance is required, I will do my best to provide it. But hopefully he will trust your word that the danger is past." Toreth blinked. "Yeah. I hope so too." On the evidence of tonight, that wasn't a bet he'd want to take. "Very well, then. I shall make arrangements. I may have to move quickly, so be prepared to be called in to take the case at any time. I'll begin the arrests as soon as the files are secure." "I'll be ready." "My influence at I&I is limited. If the case is given to someone else, we will all fall together." "I'll be ready," Toreth repeated. Sable nodded. "Then, if there is nothing more, I think it would be a good idea for us to go our separate ways." Without waiting for answer, Sable opened the door and held it for Toreth. Walking past Sable turning his back on him sent a crawling sensation between Toreth's shoulder blades. The noise from the crowded bar below grew as they walked down the corridor, a reassuring beacon of safety and normality. God, he hoped there weren't too many more half hours like that in his future. As they descended to the bar, Toreth felt a sudden, suicidal regret that he hadn't tried propositioning the man. He shouldn't want to besides being significantly older than Toreth's usual range, he had a staunchly heterosexual air and Toreth didn't honestly think that he would get anywhere. However, the thought had a hypnotic fascination. He glanced sideways at Sable, abruptly absorbed by the idea of how he would look in bed, how he would look coming. The idea of stripping away Sable's poise and control appealed viscerally. An old, familiar urge. Fucking Warrick's father. Probably a good thing he hadn't asked. For one thing, if the man had agreed, Toreth would never have been able to resist telling Sara about it. ~~~

Warrick had seen Toreth as soon as he had stood up from the seat opposite Sable. How he'd kept the shock off his face, he didn't know. Thank God for years of practising control in the sim. He'd waited outside the bar, watching them through the window, and then followed twenty metres behind as they walked to a new bar. 'Gegi's', the sign had read. Somewhere he'd never been. After five minutes outside, he'd risked venturing into the place . The bar was large and noisy, but he'd convinced himself he couldn't find them in there. If they'd left by another door he had no way of finding them. With nothing else to do, he'd got back outside, where watching the door seemed more likely to produce a positive result. Now he'd been waiting for more than fifteen minutes, attracting more attention than was probably safe although most of it was of the easily refused variety. No one had lingered, and for that he was grateful for the miserable night. A recycling point a few metres from the bar's main entrance provided a bare minimum of shelter, but his hair was beginning to feel wet rather than simply damp. The chill wasn't helping his concentration. His mind was . . . well, certainly not a blank. But he couldn't get a grip on his thoughts, couldn't even begin to start setting them in order and making a plan. All he was certain of was that he had no intention of abandoning Toreth in there with Leo. Sable. His father. He couldn't connect the ideas, the people, together in his mind yet, and he wondered if he ever would. Leo, whose name had featured so prominently in his childhood: Kate and Jen's stories, the pictures, the belongings he and Dilly were sometimes allowed to play with. An illusion, but one that felt far more real than this, waiting outside a bar in the rain for a Citizen Surveillance agent to emerge. How long should he give it? What should he do if Sable left alone? In the end, to his relief, they came out of the bar together. Toreth held the door open for Sable, who smiled politely and gestured for him to go first. Toreth closed his eyes for a second as he stepped out of the door, and Warrick wondered if he was expecting a gun or a knife. But there was no drama, nothing to differentiate them from the other couples who had left while he watched. Couples. From his brief foray into the bar, it had been clear what kind of place it was. He couldn't help wondering whether Toreth would contemplate that, then decided he didn't want to know. Much of the trick with Toreth was knowing when it was better not to ask. Warrick moved a little further back behind the recycler as both men looked up and down the street. Sable lifted his hand for a taxi, but Toreth caught his arm. "Can I ask you a question?" Toreth said. Sable nodded. "Did you tell him who you are?" "No. He told me." Sable smiled, warmly this time. It made him look almost like Cele's old portrait. Almost human. "I think, unfortunately, that I'm rather proud of him." "Unfortunately?" "Yes. I'm a servant of the state, Para-investigator. Emotions are an indulgence I can't afford. They complicate situations impossibly." He grimaced, turning away so that Warrick couldn't read the emotion. "They cost too much." The noise from the crowded bar came suddenly loud again as a group of young men left, making their way around Sable and Toreth without paying them any attention. "My life would have been so much simpler if I had never met Kate," Sable continued when they

had gone. "And the traditional qualifier is 'simpler but poorer'. Maybe that's so, but . . . " He paused for a moment, then shrugged and waved at a taxi. It cut through the light traffic and halted by the kerb. "In the end, what's the point of wishing things had been different? We make our choices and have our accidents, and all we can do is live with the consequences. And pay the price. Goodbye." Toreth stood with his hands in his pockets, watching as the taxi drove away. When it turned the corner at the end of the street, he turned and strode off quickly in the opposite direction. The sudden departure took Warrick by surprise. By the time he'd started following again, Toreth had turned a corner, cutting through a short delivery yard into the parallel street. When he reached the street, Toreth was nowhere in sight. The pavements were busier here, people hurrying through the rain. Warrick searched the crowd for a blond head. Nothing. Had he crossed the road? Gone into a bar? Caught a luckily passing taxi? He picked left, as being the direction most towards the flat, and started walking. A few seconds later a voice behind him said, "You're a fantastic programmer, but you make a fucking awful tail." Warrick spun round, then relaxed. Toreth stood with his hands in his pockets, so ostentatiously casual that Warrick almost laughed. "You frightened me to death." "Well, it'll save me from killing you a more traditional way." Despite his stance, Toreth sounded furious. "You should leave this kind of thing to the professionals. What the fuck do you think you were doing?" "What did it look like?" "It looked like when you said last night you'd 'take an opportunity if it showed up', you were lying through your fucking teeth because you already knew exactly where the bastard was." Warrick dropped his gaze to the wet pavement, then looked up at Toreth. "Something like that, yes. I'm sorry." "Which makes all the fucking difference." Toreth ran his hand through his rain-damp hair, slicking it back. Then he shook his head sharply, undoing the effect. "I should have guessed no wonder you didn't give a shit about my lead. How the fuck did you find him?" He'd hoped Toreth wouldn't ask that. "I had a lead too." "You shit." His face twisted with dismay. "You got a name from fucking Carnac?" "Yes." After a frightening moment of silence Toreth put his hands behind his back. Warrick saw his shoulders tense as he clasped his hands together hard. Not a good sign. "So much for fucking trust," Toreth said coldly. "You were the one who said that information from Carnac wasn't reliable. Like you, I wanted to check things out before I did anything rash." Toreth drew a quick breath, but Warrick pressed on. "I did a credit and purchase check on the name and went to see if it was the right man." Toreth groaned. "Jesus. Cit must be watching the files, you do realise that?" "They won't know it was me, I promise. I know those systems. There's no way they can trace " "They don't need to fucking trace anything. You were there, in the bloody bar! You talked to him. Warrick, you shouldn't even have been in the place. It's too fucking dangerous." Warrick smiled wryly. "Are you working for SimTech security these days? If not, you're certainly beginning to sound like them. When I saw him " He paused, trying to keep his voice calm.

"Perhaps it was stupid, yes. But I had to know." "And?" "He denied he had anything to do with it." "Did you believe him?" Toreth asked. "Not for a moment. Whatever differences Tar and I have had in the past . . . " He shrugged one shoulder. "He's my brother, even if that man isn't his father. I refuse to let Tarin be dealt with like vermin because of whose son he happens to be. I've never felt the need to indulge in corporate sabotage before, but something has to be done to stop Sable." "Kill him?" The bald statement made Warrick take a breath before he replied. "Yes, if necessary. Or to find something to hold over him. Perhaps even Kate's escape, if it was unauthorised. It worked for us with Alan Howes. It can work again." Toreth looked away, frowning, his eyes fixed on the lights of the bar across the road. Cars passed, their tyres hissing over the wet road, but Warrick didn't push him. "He spotted me watching after you talked to him," Toreth said at last. He looked back. "We talked about Tarin. We sorted something out a way Tarin can be safe, if he survives. Something to clean up his name, get rid of the association to the resisters. But . . . fuck. But you have to trust me. This once, let me fix it for you." He sounded sincere, but then he usually did. "And I'm supposed to trust his good intentions?" Toreth took a deep breath. "No. You're supposed to trust me." There were so many qualifiers and justifications that he could have added to that, but he didn't. He just waited. Could he trust Toreth? Or, more accurately, did he believe him in this situation? Warrick was surprised by how much he wanted to say yes, to make the gesture, and he distrusted the feeling. However, for all his many, many faults and unreliabilities, had Toreth ever failed him over something this serious? But wanting to trust Toreth was not the same as that trust actually being realistic or sensible. "Tarin will be safe?" Warrick asked. "Absolutely. Now, and for however long it is in the future before he manages to do something else stupid. I can do it." That decided him. 'I promise' he wouldn't have believed for a moment. Toreth could make a hundred promises in a day and forget every one of them without a qualm. But a statement of ability was another question. 'I can do it' made Tarin's death a matter of personal success or failure for Toreth, and more than anything he hated to lose. So it was logic, not emotion, to nod, accepting the offer to nod and see the relief in Toreth's eyes. "I can fix it," Toreth said. "I will fix it. Just stay the fuck away from Sable from now on." "You have my word." "Great. Now let's get out of this bloody drizzle. I'm soaked." It was flattering, Warrick thought as Toreth waved down a taxi, that someone whose own promises meant so little was so willing to believe Warrick's.

Chapter Sixteen
Two days ago, sitting on the bed with Warrick, sharing food out of cartons, Toreth had felt at home. In fact, after they'd done the difficult conversation, they'd spent fifteen minutes discussing decorating before he'd even noticed. True, they'd been talking yet again about the exact best way to arrange the cabinet and curtains, but it was still pretty fucking domesticated as far as Toreth was concerned. Two days ago, that was all. And now, today, it might as well never have happened. Toreth felt like a guest at the delayed house-warming, and a rather uncomfortable guest at that. Part of the problem tonight was that the mixture of other guests was almost disorienting. Their two worlds in collision. SimTech and I&I. A tall, bear-like man who he vaguely recognised as Asher's husband stood talking to Elena. Sara was stalking a young man he had a feeling had arrived with someone from SimTech. He wondered where Cele was, and whether she'd finished the drawing of him yet. The flat didn't feel like home now. Not in the slightest. Would it ever again? There had been no news from Sable, and that hadn't helped. He felt as though he was waiting to catch something fragile, knowing that if he looked away for a moment he could hear the crash as it landed. He felt a hand on his arm, and turned to find Dillian. "Can I have a word with you?" If he'd been in a better mood, he would've managed something civil. As it was, he said, "I can't stop you." "Have you seen Keir?" "Not recently, no. Don't worry I haven't murdered him and stuffed him down the waste disposal." For a moment, she stood quite still, then she nodded. "There's no particular reason I should expect you to be polite, is there?" He kept his voice low and even. "Not really, considering that the last time you wanted a word it was to tell me that you'd rather see me in prison than fucking your brother." "Can we go somewhere quieter?" "No, I don't think so. If you've got something to say to me, say it here." Some things he couldn't handle today, and a row with Dillian was one of them. Too many unforgivable things waited to be said that would put Warrick in a filthy mood if he ever heard about them which he would. To his surprise, Dillian didn't walk away. Instead, she stood, hesitating, then shrugged. "Fine. Here will do." Fuck. Trapped in the open, he waited for whatever shit she wanted to fling this time. "I'm not going to pretend I . . . no." She shook her head. "Bad start. All right I don't know if you remember, but you told me once that as long as Keir wanted you, you'd still be around. I hoped for a long time that you didn't really mean that." He laughed, not bothering to hide it. "For five years?" She didn't answer that. Instead she looked up at him, her gaze steady, and said, "I want to say sorry." Toreth stared, trying to parse the sentence in some way that made sense, then said, "You've got a

funny fucking way of going about it." "Yes, well " She shrugged. "It's got to be a habit, I'm afraid. I do regret the way I've behaved before some of the things I've said. To be perfectly honest, I still can't understand why Keir wants what he wants from you. I didn't still don't understand how you can . . . " She trailed off, so he supplied the options. "Chain him up? Hit him? Fuck around?" She winced slightly. "Yes." "It's easy, really. I just " "Don't . . . I can't understand it. I'm not sure I'll even ever be able to accept it. But at the hospital, when you stopped Keir going in to see Tar that was very kind of you. And everything afterwards, after the arrest. And even if I overreacted a little to what you did with Val, I do understand that you were trying to make sure Keir was safe. And . . . " Dillian frowned, looking briefly so much like Warrick that he almost lost track of what she was saying. However much he disliked her, he still wouldn't say no if she ever offered. "And everything that's happened," she continued, "it's made me realise that life is too damn short to waste it worrying about things I can't change. I spent so many years not liking Tar, and it never occurred to me that he could die and nothing would be put right. Stupid, but true. I can't bear the idea of ending up that way with Keir. Not about anything. Not even " She stopped, but the words didn't need to be spoken. Not even you. "Yeah, well, don't get worked up about it." Wanting the conversation to be over, he reached for standard, professional reassurances. "You'd be surprised how many people feel exactly the same in circumstances like that. More often than not, in fact. Perfectly natural." She nodded. "Thanks. But it's not just the business with Tar. It's " She waved her hand, indicating the flat. "I wasn't happy when he told me. But in a way it does make a difference, knowing that he means this much to you. You're making a commitment to him by moving in." Then she stopped, clearly expecting a response. The one thing that sprang instantly to mind made his hands clench, and this would be a very bad place to hit her. Dillian continued, oblivious. "I can't fool myself any longer that he isn't different as far as you're concerned. That you don't really care about him." Her words, so casually spoken, felt like a slap in the face, like a cruder echo of Carnac's attack. What fucking right did she have to say these things to him? "How I . . . what the hell has it got to do with you?" "I only wanted to tell you that I " He grabbed her arms, squeezing tight, desperate enough to try that. Her eyes widened, her mouth still open on the last word, but at least it was the last. The effort of holding the anger back, of keeping his voice neutral, started a throbbing pain in his temples. "Shut up." He shook her arms, digging his fingers in tighter. "Just shut the fuck up and mind your own fucking business. What he wants has got nothing to do with you. He's " He's mine, but he was fucked if he was giving her that much ammunition. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sara, scrambling down the stairs into the living room as quickly as she could without pushing people bodily aside. He daren't let her get to them he wasn't going to let his anger with Dillian spill out and hurt Sara.

Finger by finger, he forced his hands open, then walked away without another word. Behind him, he heard Sara's voice. "Dillian!" Picking up a bottle of spirits from the table on the way past, he went off and locked himself in the cloakroom. There he sat on a pile of guests' coats, his heart pounding, drinking out of the bottle until he stopped shaking. Once it had been all right. Back when it was just fucking, and how long ago had that been now? Before it turned into flats and families and next of kin and things he simply couldn't cope with. Not with those, and not with Warrick's endless patience. He couldn't do it. He couldn't live here. He'd screw it up, somehow, in the end, like he so nearly had just now with Dillian, and he and Warrick would have a row that couldn't be fixed by fucking. Then Warrick would throw him out. This was enough. This was absolutely enough. Time to put a stop to it before things got completely out of control. ~~~ Toreth found Warrick in the study, sitting at the desk. He didn't look round as Toreth came in. After a moment, Toreth closed the door. "What the hell are you doing in here? Your f Dillian was looking for you." "I won't be long." "What is it?" As Toreth went over to the desk, Warrick pulled a file across it, hiding whatever he'd been looking at. "What is it?" Toreth repeated. "Nothing." "Bollocks is it." Toreth reached over his shoulder and hesitated, his hand on the file, suddenly reluctant to know. Warrick didn't react, neither to stop him nor to encourage him. Long seconds of silence passed, then he lifted the file. He really should have guessed. "It arrived earlier," Warrick said. "Hand courier. There's a note with it. She says to let you know she's sorry she didn't have time to get it framed. She might be able to get here later, but she has a gallery opening she has to attend." "Do you . . . what do you think?" What had Cele said about it? "I think it's very good. But then all her work is. And the choice of subject is impeccable." Toreth finally laid the file aside and stood looking at the finished drawing, his hands resting on Warrick's shoulders. What would Dillian say about it? "Why are you sitting in here?" he asked eventually. Warrick leaned back, resting his head against him, making him think of the night at Kate's house. "I was trying to work out what you're looking at." "And?" "And I think I did." Toreth didn't ask, and Warrick didn't elaborate. After a while, Toreth moved round to sit on the edge of the desk.

"Warrick . . . " Now it came down to it, the words wouldn't come. He shouldn't tell him tonight, because he could foresee the most Godawful row or, more probably and more unpleasantly, an evening of frigid politeness in front of the guests until Toreth lost his temper and stormed out. "What is it?" "I can't live here. It won't work. I know you wanted to try it, but I'll just end up . . . or rather we'll end up " Sentence getting out of hand. He took a deep breath and went for the essentials: excuse, apologise and shut up. "I should have said before, but I thought it would be okay. I'm sorry for . . . for the inconvenience." Christ, that was lame. Warrick shook his head. "No real inconvenience incurred. I was telling the truth when I said I intended to move anyway and this flat is perfect. Thanks for letting me know. And I'm sorry if you feel I pressured you into agreeing in the first place I didn't intend to." And that was it. Toreth watched Warrick slide the drawing back into the sleeve Cele had sent it in and put it carefully away in a drawer. When he stood and turned there was an awkward moment of silence. Then he stroked Toreth's upper arm gently and smiled. "You look very nice. In the flesh as well as on paper." "Thanks." As they left the study, Warrick hesitated in the doorway. "You aren't planning to go now, are you?" "Fuck, no. I'll stay 'til tomorrow." Why hadn't he waited until tomorrow to tell him? Or the day after? Or the week after? Or "Good. Did you say Dillian wanted me?" They returned to the living room and the party. Once there, Toreth helped himself to another drink and waited for the sense of relief that stubbornly failed to arrive. He felt somehow cheated. Not that he'd wanted a huge, stand-up row over the issue of course he hadn't. Even so, some kind of reaction would have been nice. Warrick could at least have asked him to stay, even though he'd have had to say no. The problem was that Warrick would've known he'd say no, which was precisely why he hadn't asked. Infuriating but then Warrick so often was. At least Warrick had taken it okay, or pretended to do so. His bloody patience again, or maybe Warrick had been having doubts too, and he was relieved not to have to be the one to say something. The idea that Warrick might not want it want him made the anger stir again. He found himself clenching his jaw, anger souring the taste of the drink. What irked him most was the fear that he'd really backed out because of Dillian, and even if he hadn't, that she would think he had. God, she'd be happy about that. That on its own was almost enough to make him tell Warrick he'd changed his mind. Except that if he then changed it back, he'd look even more like an idiot. And what if Warrick didn't want him to stay there anyway? What if Forget it. He finished the drink and looked round for Sara, finding her talking to Chevril. Looked as if her earlier prey had made his escape. He worked his way over, summoning up a smile.

Chapter Seventeen
The next evening, Toreth stretched out on Sara's sofa bed, finding the edges with his fingers and heels. Cracks. There were lots of cracks in Sara's living room ceiling, Toreth noted. Cracks and spiderwebs. The cracks were pretty evenly distributed, but the spiderwebs were in the corners. It all looked a very long way away and very close at the same time. If he reached out . . . of course, he couldn't touch anything. Arm raised, he traced a crack along through the air with his index finger. If he moved his hand quickly enough, there was a very slight blurring effect. Fun, possibly, in a very low-key and mellow way. It had been a long time since he'd taken any drugs that didn't make him want to fuck. "Sara, what the hell is this stuff?" Toreth asked aloud. "I don't know." Sara's voice sounded muffled, either because she was in the kitchen or because his ears were as fucked up as his eyes. "Why don't you ask her?" The duvet was piled in a heap on the floor by the bed, and Daedra lay curled on it. She looked rather spidery, come to think of it, with her thin arms wrapped round her knees. Her plaits had slipped forward, covering her face in a faintly disturbing tangle, like thin bleached snakes. Bastard lay stretched out beside her, displaying scruffy folds of belly fur and looking as stoned as Toreth felt. He was purring, his lids almost closed, although Toreth could feel him watching. Daedra snored quietly in counterpoint. "Can't," Toreth said. "She's asleep. But I feel weird." "Weird?" Sara's voice sharpened suddenly. "Good weird, bad weird, sick weird or paramedic weird?" He looked round. She was peering anxiously round the kitchen door. "Good, I think." "Mmm. Me too." Apparently reassured that he wasn't about to go into fits or throw up on any of her new furniture, she vanished again. Toreth blinked, watching her faint ghost fading out. "What are you doing in there?" he asked. "Looking for a drink." "Get me something, would you?" While he waited, he turned his head the other way and studied the vaporiser on the table. The oil in the clear bowl shimmered, currents curling round in it, driven by the heater below. He took a deep breath, trying to catch the smell, but like working on the interrogation levels, exposure had blunted awareness. Nothing sickly, though it was spicy, with a hint of citrus, and he wondered if Daedra had scented the oil. He hadn't forgotten the deal with Sable. On the table beside the burner lay a bag with wrapped injectors holding an antidote that Daedra swore would cancel out the effects in a few minutes. Without that, he wouldn't have agreed to the session, which would have made Sara as suspicious as hell. He couldn't recall the last time he'd turned down one of Daedra's special offers. And it was a huge fucking relief to turn his brain off for a while and destress, even if the relaxation was purely chemical. Sable, Tarin everything was still there, but he didn't give a shit any more. He vaguely remembered when his whole life had felt like that, but even that idea didn't cause

any pain. Good stuff. "I could put another drop in, if you like." Under normal circumstances, he would have been startled by the closeness of Sara's voice. On the other hand, under normal circumstances he would have heard her approach. By the time he'd registered her presence and looked round, she was sitting on the bed beside his head, resting her elbow on the arm of the sofa. On a sudden whim, he wriggled round until he could put his head in her lap. She grinned. "Role reversal. Can I have your salary too?" He took the offered glass and raised his head to sniff cautiously. "What is it?" "Citrus cordial. Lots of vitamin C." "Thanks." He downed half the tart drink. "Ahh. What did you say when you came in?" "I could put another drop in. In the burner. Or a couple." What had Daedra told them? He couldn't remember the details. "She said the dosage was important. Something per cubic whatever per hour. I wouldn't fuck with it if I were you." "Okay." Sara sipped her drink, then took a deep breath. "Nice of her to come up with something relaxing." "Yeah." He waved vaguely. "It's even sorted out that fucking cat. You should keep some in a spray can and dose the bastard every morning." For some reason, that seemed terribly funny. He was still laughing when Sara punched him in the ribs. Unfortunately, she caught him right in the last tender spot from the revolt. "Ow. Jesus, watch what you're doing." "Sorry." She rubbed his ribs gently. "Hey, I forgot to say welcome back. I'm going to have to start charging you rent." "Yeah." That seemed funny too. He grinned up at her, enjoying the novel view of her breasts. "You didn't even fold the bed up." "I didn't get round to it. You've only been gone a couple of days." He grunted agreement. "And, well, okay, I did wonder if you'd be back." "Huh?" "With the house-warming yesterday. That seemed like a good time. I mean, if you were going to . . . well, you know. Bottle it." "Bottle . . . " Even through the cotton wool haze, the suggestion smarted a bit. What the hell was she talking about? "I didn't bottle anything. Couldn't. I never bottle." "Of course not. So, just out of curiosity, why're you here while Warrick's sleeping all on his lonesome?" Sound point. He did have to wonder about that, because while the drug wasn't revving his libido his body liked the idea of another blowjob. Blowjobs always feel good hadn't he said that to someone recently? Maybe Warrick would be awake when Toreth got home. Something touched his hair, and he thought of spiders. However, it was Sara, gazing down at him expectantly. "I don't have to spend every fucking minute of my life with him," Toreth said.

"Sure," she said. "Course not. Never said you did. But your suitcase is in the corner because . . . ?" Shit. He really had walked out that morning, hadn't he? He'd almost forgotten. But when he checked, the suitcase was indisputably there the same one he'd taken from Warrick's months ago. And as he looked at it, everything came back. Warrick had been his usual patient self, which had only made it worse because by the time Toreth had finished packing he'd been back to feeling that if Warrick asked him to stay he would. No. He was better off out of there. Much better. A few days away, then Warrick would be settled in the flat and everything would be back to normal. All the ridiculous 'our flat' rubbish would be ancient history. "I didn't bottle it," he said firmly. "I just decided it was a lousy idea. We'd drive each other mad in a month. If that long. Why wait until he throws me out?" Sara was running strands of his hair through her fingers. "He puts up with an unbelievable amount of shit from you already. What could you possibly do that would be worse?" "Well . . . " He stared at the cracked ceiling. "I could wait until bloody Dillian comes round one day, drug her stupid, then fuck her in front of him." She snorted. "Yeah, okay, that would do it. But, I mean, really. What's going to go wrong?" He didn't know and he didn't want to think about it. "Anything and everything." "I think you should give it more of a try. Living with someone isn't that difficult. I've done it. And, um, okay, none of them lasted, but it was never the living together that screwed things up. I even stayed friends with them after." She frowned thoughtfully. "'Cept for the one who was a total jerk and stole stuff too. Nick. Do you remember him?" "Uh-huh." He certainly remembered holding the creep by the throat and bending him backwards out of Sara's flat window prior to extracting financial compensation from him. "Should never have given him the door code in the first place," Sara continued. "Everyone said that. Everyone. But he was just so incredibly gorgeous that he sort of made my brain go stupid while I was looking at him. And God, he was so good in bed." She sighed. "Screwed like an angel. Hey, do you think that's maybe Warrick's problem?" "What? Screwing like an angel? That's not a problem." She giggled. "No. I mean, his problem with you. You make him go stupid." The idea seemed to please her. "You know, that explains it all, 'cause if I were him " "Sara," he interrupted. "Yeah?" "I appreciate it, really. Whatever the fuck it is you're trying to do. But just shut the fuck up, huh?" "Okay." She smiled and smoothed his hair into place. "You can stay as long as you like."

Chapter Eighteen
Not seeing Warrick for a while turned out to be a good idea on more than one level. On Monday lunchtime, Toreth took his team out for lunch. Andrew Morehen had returned, with only a slight limp to show that his right leg from below his knee had been grown in a lab and grafted on. Everyone had crowded round him that morning, eager to greet him. And not just Toreth's team either, but what seemed like half the General Criminal office. The revolt was still a sharp enough memory that people were grateful for any sign that its legacy was diminishing. Toreth didn't like the idea of leaving the office, but he had no highly active cases and it would've been out of character not to take the excuse for a lunch off the Int-Sec site. He did make sure that his comm was on, and on his way out he asked Kel to call him if anyone came looking for him. As they walked across to the new and more solid security fence surrounding the Int-Sec complex, Toreth couldn't stop himself thinking about the plan. How long would it take Sable to act? More importantly, how long would Warrick be willing to keep his promise? Toreth didn't doubt that Warrick had meant it, but suppose he discovered some new piece of information, or came up with another insane plan to do with Sable? He'd chosen a brilliant time to leave Warrick's flat. Once Tarin's friends started to be arrested, Toreth would be grateful not to be there when Warrick found out. On the other hand, without supervision, Warrick could be doing anything. Right this moment he could be inventing some bullshit corporate-lawyer justification for breaking his promise. If he were arrested again, Toreth might well not be able to help him. And that was still a more optimistic outcome than if Warrick messed with Cit directly. Toreth forced his attention back to the conversations going on around him. Usually, on a celebratory trip, people would still be talking about the completed case. On this occasion, with no case and no one particularly wanting to talk about limb grafts on the way to lunch, conversations had wandered. Behind him, Nagra was talking to B-C and Mistry. "People aren't all idiots. Recruitment for the interrogation courses won't be back up for years, if ever. Who on Earth would even think about joining I&I right now?" Nothing new in that debate. He already knew she was edgy because the juniors were being pushed to take on more interrogation work and she didn't want to end up on the lower levels full-time. Nothing he could do about it, except what he was doing which was fight to keep his team together and functioning as an investigative unit. Not for the first time, he wondered how things would have gone if he'd hung onto the Assistant Directorship after Carnac had gone. Badly, he expected, although it was all relative. Things weren't exactly fabulous right now. He shook his head, and switched his attention to Morehen and Sara, walking a few yards ahead. The snatches of conversation and the body-language proved interesting enough that after thirty seconds he closed the gap between them. "We're going for a drink now." Sara sounded amused and she glanced up at the investigator. "I meant, not with the team. You and me, on our own." "And why would I want to do that?"

"Why ever not?" "Andy, I met your girlfriend at the hospital when I came to see you. Very blonde, very pretty?" "Kira and I broke up last December." Morehen ran his hand through his hair. He'd grown it out while he'd been off sick, and Toreth wondered if the close crop would make a reappearance soon. Did he know that Sara preferred longer hair? "In fact, if we hadn't, I would've been on holiday in Amsterdam with her the day it all happened." "So she was only visiting every day because she felt guilty?" "Probably," he said, then paused. "Anyway, who said anything about girlfriends? I asked you if you wanted to go out for a drink, that's all." "I've been asked out for more drinks than . . . well, let's just say a lot of them. I know what a drink sounds like, and I know what a date sounds like. And you know that I've always said I don't date at work." "Actually, you've only said that occasionally. What you've always said is that you don't screw your b " As he hit that dangerous word he glanced back over his shoulder, too quickly for Toreth to drop back to a subtle distance. Morehen coloured and snapped his gaze away. Without looking round, Sara said, "Which bar shall we go to, Toreth?" "Cafe Seville," Toreth said. "Seems appropriate for today." Morehen's neck followed his face's example by flushing red. Behind him, he heard Nagra laugh. "That's B-C's favourite, too," she said. Despite it's southern name, the bar's trademark was it's tall, extremely blonde and uniformly stunning waiting staff, male and female. Whether they were all natural blondes or whether bleached applicants had a chance, Toreth had never established, although the shortness of the uniform's skirt meant it was nearly possible to check. Toreth grinned and dropped back. Even if Morehen wanted more than a drink with Sara, he was out of luck tonight. He wondered if she'd tell him that Toreth was staying in her flat. Really, it wasn't surprising that rumours about the two of them had made the rounds of the I&I gossip network for so long. Suddenly he thought of Harry Belqola, back in the SimTech investigation, provoking Sara's ire with his tactless assumptions. Had Belqola survived the attack on I&I? Toreth didn't remember seeing his name on any lists; maybe he'd resigned long before the revolt. Behind every random jump in his thought, he could feel the tension drawn tight. When would the call come? Once the arrests started, Toreth knew he'd feel better. Then it would all depend on his own skills, and he didn't believe in false modesty. He could do what was required. But could Sable? And if Sable failed, what the hell could Toreth do next? "Toreth? Hello? Anyone in?" Sara sounded amused. They'd reached the bar, and he had ground to a halt, staring into space. With an effort, he pushed the worries aside. "Sorry. I was looking at the shutters again." The others looked blank, but Sara nodded. He'd mentioned it to her the last time they'd been here. Reasonably priced drinks and decent tapas, combined with its proximity to the I&I exit from the Int-Sec complex, made the Seville a popular drinking place for Int-Sec staff in general and I&I in particular, sufficiently so that it had been targeted in the revolt. The owners had stoically repaired and

refurbished, adding heavy steel security shutters painted to look like sun-bleached wood. They were something which would have been unthinkable this close to Int-Sec before the revolt. Today the shutters were folded back to let in the spring sunshine. Still, they were a constant reminder that short-lived as the revolt had been, its scale and violence had shaken everyone in the Administration, not just the heads of department and the socioanalysts. Inside the bar, the medley of music and voices seemed no different to the time before steel shutters had become a necessity for peace of mind. "I'll buy," Toreth said. He asked for orders from the team, barely listening. He knew what everyone there drank. So did the man behind the bar, who Toreth recognised although he had no idea of his name. There was already a lager under the tap for B-C, and he was making Mistry's invariant vodka and orange her celebration drink, because she didn't like alcohol but she felt she had to fit into the group. We're all creatures of habit, Toreth thought as he watched. We all like a routine. God, he hoped that he'd be able to have one again soon. "Pernod and coke " Nagra's disgusting selection, " and a G&T." Toreth glanced round to where Sara was involved in a comm conversation. "Make it a double. Whiskey and soda for me, and a glass of mineral water that's all." That threw the man very slightly. Toreth grinned. "He's still on the antibiotics." Just as Toreth paid for the drinks, his comm chimed. He listened while Jenny relayed the message, and tried to keep the nervous flutter of anticipation out of his voice when he replied. After he pocketed his ear piece, he eyed the whiskey, thought about downing it, then left it on the bar. "I have to go," he said to Sara. "Tillotson wants to see me about a new case. You carry on without me. Don't be too late." "Okay." With no idea of the significance of the summons, Sara's attention was already wandering back to Morehen. "I'll bring you something back for lunch." ~~~ The head of section looked annoyed, but he still seemed to feel obliged to offer Toreth a coffee. Toreth wondered how long the aura from his temporary assistant directorship would last. "Have you been doing work for another division without my knowledge?" Tillotson asked. For once Toreth didn't have to fake incomprehension. "No, of course not." Tillotson picked up a hand screen and waved it as though there were an especially annoying fly in the office. "Then why did Citizen Surveillance call me and demand that I assign this case to you?" Toreth took the screen warily. He took his time looking through the file, but the information he needed had been helpfully placed near the front. Thank you, Sable. "Oh, right," Toreth said. "I followed up a tip-off, and I accidentally crossed paths with an ongoing Cit Surveillance investigation." He smiled at Tillotson's alarmed expression. "No need to panic. I called someone up and sorted it out quietly. Unofficially. I suppose this is their way of saying thank you." Letting the section head think that Toreth had friends in Cit Surveillance wouldn't hurt. It was possibly even true right now. Tillotson took his time digesting the information. When he spoke again, the edge of irritation

was gone. "Yes, well, from what I saw, it should be simple enough there's a mass of evidence already, so all they want is for you to secure confessions and pass a watertight case to the Justice system. I said that an interrogation team could handle it, but they asked particularly for you to take it." "Like I said, it's a gift. Nice easy case to wrap up it'll be good for the section." "They were quite insistent about the watertight aspect." "I'll do my absolute best, sir." Tillotson had no idea how sincerely he meant that. ~~~ Warrick was fortunately alone in his office when the call came through. He was surprised to see Jen he couldn't remember the last time she'd called him at work, and she looked more panicky than he'd seen her since right after the accident. Then the obvious explanation hit him. "Is it Tar?" "Yes. I mean, no, there's been no change for the worse. But I had a call this morning three calls. People have been arrested. Friends of his. It happened last night, everyone taken at the same time. And they said it's I&I." "Shit." And then, reflexively, he said, "Sorry." "I think even Kate would agree that it rates an expletive. What should I do?" "Hold on. I'll call Toreth." While he waited for the connection, he wondered what the hell he could do if this wasn't part of the plan. Probably nothing. At least, in a way, Tar was safer at the hospital. He tried not to think about Toreth's story of interrogating his burned witness. To his surprise, although he'd called Toreth's office, Sara answered. "He's not in. Can I help?" she asked brightly, so much the admin that she almost looked like a stranger. "I have to speak to Toreth in person. It's urgent." Her expression didn't flicker. "Is this about your brother?" He hesitated. "In a way, yes." "I thought so. He said not to worry, everything's under control, just like he said before." Warrick waited for a moment, but she seemed to have finished. "That's it?" "That's the whole message." She sounded piqued that he'd suggest otherwise, but again the mask stayed in place. He thought of the open plan office, of all the people who might be watching. "Can I speak to him?" "No. He's got a new case. He's down in interrogation right now a big group of resisters were brought in this morning and he's running all the interrogations personally." Oh, God. "Thank you," he said automatically. If she replied, he didn't hear it. He stared at the blank screen. Everything was under control, just like Toreth had said. That could mean only one thing. 'We sorted something out a way Tarin can be safe, if he survives. Something to clean up his name, get rid of the association to the resisters'. This had to be it. When Toreth had said it, he hadn't imagined anything like this. Lost files,

maybe, or bribery or threats. He should have pressed harder, asked for more details. What could he do about it now? It took only a few seconds' thought to supply the answer. He connected back to Jen, swapping the connection to the strongest corporate grade security SimTech possessed. "Well?" she asked. "There's nothing to worry about." "Should I call anyone? Warn any " "No." He interrupted without thinking. "For God's sake, no. Whatever you do, don't get involved. Just . . . let things take their course. Tar's perfectly safe, I promise. Toreth will make sure his name is kept out of it." She searched his face. "You're quite sure?" "Yes. And if he isn't, there's nothing anyone can do about it now." ~~~ Toreth stood in the grey corridor outside the interrogation room, taking slow, calming breaths and ignoring the curious looks from the guards. Hundreds of prisoners over his career, maybe thousands of hours of interrogations, and few of them had been as important as these. The first man he'd selected should be the easiest, but if he didn't get it right then it was one of his best chances gone. When he opened the door, the prisoner at the table didn't look up. When he'd seen the name on the prisoner list, it had been a surprise in one way, and in another so logical he wondered why he'd never considered the connection before. Toreth crossed to the table and dropped his hand screen on it. "My name is Para-investigator Toreth. But you already know that." Now his head snapped up, his eyes widening incredulously. "You?" "Hello, Mr McVade. We have a lot to talk about this time. An awful lot of information for you to go through and confirm for us." He smiled coldly. "Think of it as marking homework." McVade straightened in the chair. "Who was it? Who betrayed us?" God, he could have kissed the man. "Do you remember my little visit? When I said I'd been talking to one of your pupils?" The man nodded. "Well, Valeria Wintergreen was the good citizen then, and she's the daughter of good citizens." He watched the implication sink in, then sat down. "Shall we get started?" ~~~ After lunch, which he ate in his office, Warrick went down to the research suite again. He had a meeting scheduled later that afternoon with Asher and Lew, which meant decisions to make that he'd really rather avoid. He couldn't, of course. He couldn't let his personal problems, however currently impressive, damage SimTech. He could, however, avoid thinking about the meeting until he absolutely had to. The gingerbread house room he'd taken Toreth into had been completed, and he'd accepted Silis

Reddick's offer of a guided tour. She seemed flattered by the attention, and he tried to give her and her work his full attention. The lead programmer was justifiably pleased with the outcome. However, Warrick for once couldn't see the room in technical terms. He couldn't help thinking about what the team on this project would be doing next. The fairy tale series of rooms had paid for itself and coincidentally been a technical challenge, but whatever Asher said, it would upset the programmers to have to close down some of the more experimental research. After he'd walked round the gingerbread house and nibbled furnishings and fabrics, he followed Silis out into the sugary garden. Silis was one of the most average women Warrick had met. He'd once described her as such to Dillian, and then had to spend ten minutes unsuccessfully explaining that he hadn't meant it as an insult. Dillian had insisted it was a perfectly awful thing to say about a woman, so he'd never used the description again. However, she was absolutely and literally average in height, in weight, in her mid-brown hair and undistinguished blue eyes. Warrick wondered if it was one reason she had taken so readily to designing outlandish sim rooms. What would she think of cutting back to focus on industrial simulation and sex industry applications? "Here," Silis said, and whistled. A multicoloured bird flew down from the roof and perched on her hand. Silis stroked it for a moment, then jerked out two tail feathers, one purple, one yellow. The bird cocked its head and squawked. "Off you go," Silis said, and it flew off to perch in a toffee-apple tree. She offered Warrick the feathers. He took the purple one and sucked it experimentally. It didn't dissolve, but it did taste strongly of plum brandy. "Different flavour for each feather?" he guessed. Silis nodded, twirling her own feather. "This one is Advocaat." She looked around the garden. "There are some marshmallow rabbits somewhere too. Kind of shy at the moment, but once you get hold of one it's snuggly as hell and they taste great. Perfect for kids." The idea of taking a bite of a still-moving rabbit, even a virtual one, was mildly disturbing. "I don't remember mammals and birds in the contract." Silis's enthusiasm abated slightly. "Er, no. But we were ahead of schedule and under budget, so I thought a couple of extra touches might go down well. The artificial life suite people loved the idea." "I'm sure they did. And I'm sure the customer will be delighted, assuming they wish to teach their children to eat live vertebrates." "Ah." Silis looked at the yellow feather in her hand. "I didn't . . . well, we just thought it would be cool." Programmers, he thought irritably. "Major object additions have to be cleared by the project manager, you know that." "Okay. Yes, I do know. I'm sorry." She looked up sheepishly. "Um . . . does this mean you don't want to see the sugar mice?" "Sugar . . . ?" Silis reached into her pocket and produced a squirming handful, which untangled itself into three life-sized mice which were, indeed, made of pink sugar. Not the smooth, amorphous mice that could be found in patisseries, though. These were clad in impossibly fine spun-sugar fur and had bright pink eyes and twitching whiskers. They sat up on their hind legs in Silis's palm, curved their tails behind them, and began to warble a three-part harmony arrangement of 'A Mouse Lived in a Windmill' in

high treble voices. "They are . . . " Warrick bent down and examined the creatures more closely. Every detail was flawless. It was a ridiculous waste of design and programming time . . . and exactly the sort of thing he would have done himself at one point, back when the sim was ninety percent inspiration and ten percent perspiration. He straightened up to find Silis watching him anxiously. "They are absolutely perfect," he said, and grinned at her expression of relief. "Try one," she suggested. "They're edible." He gave it serious consideration for a couple of seconds until the mouse he was eyeing clapped its paws together and led the group into a change of key. "I couldn't possibly," he said. "That's what everyone says." "How do they taste?" Silis smiled. "Like pink sugar mice. Or at least they're supposed to I couldn't bring myself to eat one, either." Warrick turned slowly, surveying the room, taking in every detail of the whole appalling, tacky, overly-cute monstrosity. He stepped back, down the path, to look up at the house. Gilded gingerbread walls, lollipop windows, barley-sugar thatching, icing trimmings . . . it was one of the most hideous things he had seen in his entire life. Silis moved up beside him and placed a mouse on his shoulder. It stopped singing and stuck its nose in his ear, whiskers tickling. "It's incredible," Silis said. "Not this room, the whole sim. Isn't it? I do envy you I can't imagine how cool it must be to know you're the person who thought of it in the first place." "Yes." Inexplicably, there was lump in his throat that it took him a moment to think away. "Yes, it is. Thank you. Although it's a team effort. It always has been." In his heart, though, it was still his. He left Silis there with her mice. As he worked his way out the straps, he tried to marshal his arguments to persuade Asher that the development programmes had to stay. ~~~ He found Asher in her office, with Lew Marcus already there waiting for him. When he entered, without knocking, they looked up, then at each other. Lew sighed. "Silis showed you her bloody mice, didn't she?" "I'm sorry?" Warrick said in surprise. "There were rumours going around about budget cuts," Asher said. "I overheard a conversation in the canteen at lunchtime." "Oh?" Warrick asked. "A few of the senior programmers were hatching a plan to persuade you otherwise. Apparently they seemed to think they knew just how to appeal to you." Lew nodded. "I knew we were in trouble when I heard you were in the sim." Warrick started laughing. He simply couldn't help it. The idea that the primary way the programmers hoped to change his mind was by showing him again just how much fun how cool the sim was, made him unfeasibly happy.

"Keir," Lew said irritably. "Be serious." "I'm sorry." He managed to get the laughter under control because he couldn't afford to annoy them. Lew didn't look appeased by the apology. "We've got to make a decision, and one way or another it has to be now. And not on the basis of Silis's bloody mice." "Keir," Asher said sympathetically, "I don't want to give you any extra stress just now, but we have to be sensible." Sensible. The word finally gave him the opening he needed. "Why start now?" Warrick asked. "Was it sensible when we founded SimTech? I turned down a perfectly good and very lucrative corporate contract to do it. Lew did the same with a solid Administration research post. You had an excellent future at the investment bank. We gave them up to work out of Asher's house. We all took risks. So did the people who came to work here from the neural remodelling project. We didn't make them any promises, because the odds were against us making it through the first year, never mind ending up with a saleable product. They trusted us to do our best to make SimTech work." "And we are doing," Asher said. "I'm not suggesting sacking them." "No, you're just taking away every reason that the staff we most need have to stay. The only edge we have are our people the people who don't want to work somewhere like LiveCorp, somewhere with a culture that stifles creativity. People will start to leave, and it won't take that long." She looked genuinely surprised. "I think our staff have more loyalty than you give them credit for. Besides, in the current climate, I think they'll prefer to keep the jobs they have." With that she might have a point, or even two points. But that was a risk he wasn't willing to take. "And if you're wrong? What have we got left if they leave?" "Technology," Asher said firmly. "Patent revenue and proprietary tech licensing that can nurse us through until the unit sales pick up." "And when the sales do pick up and all our best people have gone? Who'll do the work the new customers want?" No one spoke. Warrick stood in the centre of the room, and it suddenly occurred to him that he'd been lecturing, something that both Asher and Lew hated. Asher sat at her desk, straight and immovable. Lew was still leaning on the edge of the desk, rubbing his thumb along the top edge of Asher's screen. Warrick couldn't read his expression he looked to be absorbed in watching his hand move. "We have to make the decision," Asher said. "We can't put it off forever." "You both know what my position is," Warrick said. Lew didn't look up. "Then if we can't agree, we'll have to vote," Asher said. "I say we cut the research programme back, as outlined in my proposals." "I don't object to savings in principle," Warrick said. "Of course not. But we have to keep the long-range, speculative development. It's what keeps the programmers happy and they're SimTech's future. I can't support your plan. I say we hold out for as long as we can, even if we have to eat into the reserves, while you try to find someone to pick up more licensing. Lew?" Lew looked up. "Were the mice really that good?"

"Yes." He smiled thinly. "Maybe I should have a look at them. It's a while since I've been in the sim." "Lew," Asher said. "Vote, please." He straightened up. "I vote with Warrick. Nothing personal, Asher." Asher nodded. "Well, Keir, I hope you're right. Because if we take this risk and it doesn't work out . . . " "I know," he said.

Chapter Nineteen
Sara authorised the transcript of the previous interview, then switched on the screen to watch the progress of the latest one. It should be finished soon, which meant yet another transcript and yet another late night. She wouldn't complain about it. Toreth stood in front of his prisoner, listening to her confession, turning an injector over in his hand. Given that he must have read the terms of the waiver out to the woman, it was amazing how he still managed to give the impression of having available near-limitless unpleasant options. Sara wondered how long it would take for the reputation of I&I to fade to the point that simple fear of the uniform would no longer work as an interrogation tactic. Without noticing, she nibbled the last patch of nail varnish from her thumbnail and moved on to her index finger, worrying at a chip on the edge. What was going on down on the interrogation levels? Kel had asked her about it again at coffee that morning and she'd had to say she couldn't tell him. She couldn't admit that she didn't really know. She knew was that whatever it was had something to do with Warrick's brother. She knew Citizen Surveillance had asked for Toreth specially Jenny had told her that but hadn't known why. And that was all she knew. 'I want every part where Tarin Marriot is accused of being or implied to be an informer. That's the single most important thing. Even if it doesn't have high direct evidential value, it goes in. Got that?' Toreth had given her the orders on the first day, once and once only; he put nothing in writing. She'd nodded, expecting that he'd say something about why. To start with, why he was handling the case at all, given the rules about personal involvement with prisoners. However, that first conversation had also been the last one that hadn't dealt purely with the details of the case. She'd barely even seen him since, despite the fact that he was still sleeping on her sofa on the nights he came home at all. Although she tried not to, although she told herself Toreth knew what he was doing, she worried about not understanding the case. If she wasn't up to speed, how would she spot if she messed up the transcripts? How would she know if something on the admin network was relevant, or if there was danger from somewhere inside the division? Most of all, she wished he'd tell her because she wanted to know that he still could. What had he told her, really, since Carnac had left? He'd come to her flat too stoned to know where he was and she'd fucked that up by trying to give him something he couldn't accept. He'd told her about moving in with Warrick, except that really he'd let that slip by accident, and she'd messed it up in two seconds flat. He was as friendly with her as he'd ever been, but that meant nothing at all because he could socialise flawlessly with people he'd happily see dead. Carnac had been right about one thing: all that made her different was that he trusted her. Had trusted her. He was just her boss, that was all. It seemed a very long time since that had been the mantra she'd lived with. Not a friend just her boss, just a para. Not, supposedly, someone who could care at all, or be hurt. Well, the division psych assessors could take their para profiles and stick them where the sun didn't shine.

On the screen, the guards were helping the woman up from the chair, and Toreth glanced up at the camera. The corner of the screen indicated the feed was no longer an active interrogation, so Sara closed it and got back to work. ~~~ To Warrick's great relief, Cele had offered to come to the hospital with them. She stood close beside Dilly, her hand resting in the small of Dilly's back. She'd provided calm, silent support while Doctor Caillat went through the treatment options for the last time. Warrick had taken charge of Philly. She kept her eyes fixed on the tank, never looking away, rarely even blinking. The last of the sickening mess of burned flesh had been concealed since Warrick's last visit. The synthetic skin matrix covered Tarin, smooth, hairless, wrinkled and folded in odd places. It he looked nothing at all like Tarin. Tarin had had a mole on his thigh, Warrick remembered. He remembered more than he would have guessed from their childhood together, about Tarin as he'd been as a teenager and a young man, when he'd seemed so impossibly much older, so grown-up. All in the distant past, before Warrick had made the mistake of looking on Kate's computer. If it was a mistake. Looking back on it, he didn't know whether or not he wished he'd had the sense to stay away. How would things have gone? He didn't know, and he certainly didn't know that they would be better. Would Kate still be here, or could things have gone worse for all of them? Cele nudged him gently, having obviously noticed his abstraction. When he glanced at her, she raised her eyebrow and he smiled. The medic paused fractionally at the exchange, then carried on. "Right now the tank system is keeping Tarin breathing, or at least helping him to breathe. It's taken over the functions of his brainstem. It's been several days since the last of the oedema subsided and we've finished the matrix layers, which means that now is a good time for us to consider disconnecting the substitute stem system." "Then what happens?" Philly asked. "Hopefully, Tarin will keep breathing on his own. All the scans we've taken indicate that he should. There was some damage to parts of his brain, but the regrowth stimulators seem to have worked very well. We've done everything we can to make sure that he's capable of breathing unsupported. The only thing left is to let him try." Philly nodded. "I need to think about it." "Take all the time you want," Warrick had seen the brain scan results himself. Caillat had been predictably surprised that he knew how to interpret them, so he'd told her about the sim, which shared technology with the ICU tank. They'd talked about the sim for a while, about potential medical implications, while Tarin lay in the tank, unconscious and immobile. If the tank had been as sophisticated as the sim, they would be able to talk to Tarin and ask him what he wanted. If, that was, the damage to his brain had been limited enough to make that possible. "If he can't breathe, what then?" Dillian asked. "This isn't an absolutely irreversible decision," Caillat said. "The autonomic management can be restored, if it's done quickly. But there is a chance that the reactivation will fail at that point. If that happened, we would have to take more drastic measures to directly stimulate the necessary nerves." "No," Philly said.

"I beg you pardon?" Caillat asked. Philly was looking at the tank again. She shook her head minutely, her gaze never leaving Tarin. When she spoke again, her voice was barely audible. "I don't want that." Warrick took a step towards the medic. "She means that if Tarin stops breathing and the brainstem substitution doesn't function again, then it finishes there," he said quietly. "That you'll let him go." Caillat nodded. "If you could speak up, Ms Wintergreen for the recording system." She nodded, then cleared her throat. "Yes. That is what I meant." She nodded again. "I'd like you to do it, please. To switch off the system." "I'll do it now." There was nothing to it a few changes on the screen, with no visible response in the ICU tank, no reaction from Tarin. They waited in silence for long minutes until Caillat turned to them. "It looks like he's handling the switch well, although you know that I can't make any guarantees." She glanced away for a moment to check the screen. "It will take a few hours until we're absolutely sure, but this was a big hurdle, so we can all be pleased he's cleared it." "I'll wait," Philly said. "You're welcome to stay here, of course. I'll have to leave soon, but I'll send in someone to sit with you." Warrick crossed the last distance to the tank and touched the warm plastic with the palm of his hand. He didn't, he realised, feel as relieved as he'd expected he would. Of course this wasn't any kind of resolution, just one more step on the long journey that could still be cut short. Infections, any one of dozens of other medical dangers, and the outside threats from Sable and Citizen Surveillance that were fortunately still unknown to most of those gathered in the ICU. A single sob caught his attention, and he turned. Dilly was crying, hand to her mouth to stifle the noise. "I don't want him to die," she said brokenly. "I don't. He can't. It's not fair if he dies." If only that made any difference. "He won't die," Philly said firmly in what Tarin had always called 'that damned teacher voice', and Warrick realised that he hadn't seen her cry once since the accident. Did she really believe Tarin would live? "I want to tell him I'm sorry," Dillian said. "I've said things to him before and I just want to tell him I love him and it didn't matter, all the rest. I just " She wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. "I'm sorry, Philly." She turned away towards Cele, who gathered her in her arms. "You cry, sweetheart. Nobody minds." "I wanted to tell him I loved him," Dillian repeated, her voice muffled by Cele's shoulder. "I'm sure he knows," Philly said, and Warrick wondered if he was imagining the deliberate stress on the present tense. "And he loves both of you. He always did, even when you disagreed." Philly looked at Cele. "I think she'd be better somewhere else, don't you?" "Come on." Cele urged Dilly towards the door. "We can come back tomorrow. Tar's not going anywhere, is he?" There was a moment of appalled silence, then Dilly started to laugh, still sniffing. "No, he isn't."

Doctor Caillat followed the pair of them out of the room. When the door closed, Philly shook her head, smiling slightly. "She's amazing." "Cele? Yes, she's certainly that." "I have to ask you something, Warrick." The smile vanished and she looked directly into his eyes, then lowered her voice to a bare whisper. "Now that it looks as though there might be a chance, is he safe? I heard about the arrests." "He's safe." Or, at least, I hope to God he is. "Toreth is doing his best to protect him and all of us. Tar won't be named." "Because mud sticks," she murmured. "I'm sorry?" "Nothing." She stood up straighter. "I'll have to thank him, when I have a chance. Which will be strange, don't you think? When I&I will also be responsible for whatever happens to some people I have known for a very long time." He didn't have an answer to that.

Chapter Twenty
After a solid week of interrogations filling insanely long days, coffee breaks were beginning to feel like the only anchors of sanity in Toreth's world. Except that they were coffee breaks down on the interrogation levels, which were no one's idea of fun. The office levels felt like a ghost town, with locked, empty offices on every corridor. The surviving interrogators made for equally depressing company, since the prime topic of conversation was how fucking useless the new Procedures and Protocols was and how much harder it had made their lives. Predictably, everyone had forgotten that the P&P had saved all their ungrateful necks from Carnac. When had resister vermin suddenly developed rights? was the most common question he heard. Toreth felt like asking the same thing as he slogged through interrogation after exhausting interrogation. These days a maximum-level waiver was better than nothing, but not by very much. After he'd sat through one too many interrogator diatribe on how the only hope for I&I was a few good resister attacks to shake up the Administrative Council and give them some backbone, Toreth suggested that the interrogators ought to get together and organise one. He hadn't liked the thoughtful silence that followed. At least if he was arrested for sedition, the interrogation wouldn't hurt too much. For his next break, he abandoned the underground levels and headed upstairs. Seeing daylight seemed strange, and so did the greetings from people he passed. He felt tense and strung out, locked into a working mindset. Or maybe it was just a week of talking to prisoners and interrogators, neither of whom were exactly normal company. Even the General Criminal coffee room seemed wrong. There were too many unfamiliar faces pool staff, juniors and investigators. However, Toreth spotted Chevril and Mike Belkin standing together by the coffee machine, which looked to be broken again. Kel was poking around inside the open side, keeping up a running commentary that the seniors ignored. No fucking coffee. Wonderful. "Afternoon," Chevril said as he approached. "Getting anywhere with your jigsaw girl?" Still occupied by the afternoon's interrogation, Toreth stared at him blankly. "With my what?" Chevril rolled his eyes. "With your corporate kidnapping. Did you find all the pieces? Or are you too good to do any actual work like the rest of us these days?" "I'm slaving my arse off for Cit Surveillance down in interrogation, as you bloody well know. Nagra's running the kidnapping, for what it's worth, and frankly I don't give a toss how it's going." "All right, all right," Chevril said. "Good God. Ask a civil question . . . " Toreth saw Chevril's gaze flick down to Toreth's left hand, then back up again. "You'd think someone who was living in the lap of luxury would " So had Chevril been the source of the engagement ring? The flash of anger caught him by surprise, flaring up out of control almost before he felt it begin. He managed only a moment of resistance before the sounds in the room dimmed and he was moving forward, the surrender to fury feeling so sweet, so right. Then Mike Belkin caught his arm, fingers digging in hard, and the unexpected contact pulled him back from the edge.

Kel had stopped talking. Chevril was staring at Toreth, open-mouthed. Toreth blinked, wondering what the fuck had happened. "Toreth?" Belkin asked, his voice low. He nodded sharply. "I'm fine." Belkin raised his eyebrows. "Yeah? Because much as I'd love to watch you kick the welldeserved shit out of Chev . . . " He nodded across the room. To Toreth's astonishment, Tillotson was seated in the far corner, his admin Jenny beside him. How the hell had Toreth missed him when he came in? Too much on his mind. "Thanks," Toreth said to Belkin. "I owe you." Belkin released him. "I'll remember." Toreth turned to Chevril, knowing what was expected. "Sorry about that." He couldn't risk pissing off his oldest allies. "I've not had much sleep for a couple of days." "Forget it." Chevril still looked a little pale. "I've fixed the infernal machine," Kel announced slightly too loudly. "Coffee's here for anyone who thinks it's a good idea." It sounded like a very, very good idea. Chev and Belkin left him to sit alone. Toreth drank his coffee and brooded for a few minutes until Sara arrived, trotting into the room and looking round anxiously. When Toreth checked, Kel was watching him. The admin gave an apologetic twitch of his shoulders and eyebrows. Interfering fucker. As there was no mayhem currently in progress, Sara went to get a coffee. Toreth wondered what she would have done if she'd walked in to find him plastering Chev across the wall. "Don't ask," Toreth said as she came over. "I was just wondering where you were." She sat beside him and blew on her coffee. "Being as I didn't see you this morning. Or yesterday evening." She glanced at him sideways. "Were you at Warrick's?" His first reflexive response was, what the fucking hell has it got to do with you? However, antagonising Sara wouldn't make the best prelude to asking her for yet more unpaid overtime over the weekend. "No. I slept here." Funny how the chairs that had been so uncomfortable last night felt so good right now. Maybe if he just lay down for . . . he tried to keep in mind the interrogation room bookings he had for the rest of the afternoon and evening. "Probably will tonight, too." "Are you sure?" She was looking at him with open concern. "How much longer is it going to take?" "Three days. Maybe two. No, three sounds more like it." And might just kill him. "How's the Justice submission going?" "I'm processing it as fast as you send the transcripts up." "I want it ready to send the day I finish." "It will be." Not surprisingly she was frowning, as he'd given her the same unnecessary reminder every day since the interrogations started. "You know, it'd be a lot easier if you'd tell me what's going on."

"I just need you to slant the transcripts the way I said and not ask any questions." "Look, I already know it's about Warrick's brother, and Citizen Surveillance is involved." She hesitated for a moment, then said, "Is it something to do with him? Carnac?" Which was just about the last name he needed to hear. "Which part of 'don't ask any questions' didn't you understand?" "Okay. No questions." And there was the same tight tone in her voice that had started to really piss him off lately. "I understand." Judging by her close scrutiny, there seemed to be something utterly fascinating in her coffee. "Sara, it's not Sara, look at me." She lifted her gaze from her mug, already looking guilty. And frightened, shoulders hunching to protect herself from . . . what? Him? And that prodded the rousing anger again, because after all this time, she of all people ought to know better. "I'm sick of this shit," he said. He lowered his voice. "What are you expecting me to do? Smack you into the middle of next week because you shot your mouth off to Carnac about my fucking parents?" After so long downstairs, he couldn't stop himself from cataloging her responses knuckles whitening as she gripped the mug, her eyes wide and horrified because everything she didn't want exposed was being laid out. "Did you think I wouldn't notice the way you've been creeping about? What else do you want me to say? That what happened at Warrick's flat was your fault too? That Carnac couldn't have done it without you?" Choosing the words had an almost sexual charge, the hot pleasure of twisting the knife into someone who had been stupid enough to care. It was so easy, and it felt just like it had with Chev: his control gone fuck-knew-where, leaving him sliding towards something irresistible and dangerous. "That you betrayed me and I'll never forgive you? That I'll never trust you with anything important again? Is that it?" She swallowed, her eyes glistening. "Well? Did I miss anything?" "No," she whispered, hovering so close to the edge of breaking he could taste it. He could finish it her off right now, if he wanted. Another few words would do it, or just leaving her alone to think of them herself. What would she do if he walked out now, he wondered? Go home sick? Spend the afternoon crying on Kel's shoulder? Apply for a transfer? The thought dug in like Mike Belkin's hand on his arm. She wouldn't do it guilt would keep her here with him. But the possibility snapped him back, leaving him sick and scrambling for words. Fortunately, training kicked in: break and rebuild to order, even without drugs or neural induction probes. He softened his voice, reaching out to touch her shoulder. "Well, then listen to this, because you're hearing it just once. Nothing's changed." She frowned at him, bewildered by the switch. "But " "Shut up." He smiled to take the sting out of the order. "Whatever you did, however badly you fucked up, I trust you exactly as much as I always did. Which means I trust you more than . . . fuck. Just more than." Oh, yeah. That level of coherence boded well for later interrogations. "Not one bit

less that I did before, anyway. And if I don't tell you something it's not because I think you can't keep your mouth shut. It's because I'm worried about what you could tell Internal Investigations if they've got you strapped into a chair, because those bastards didn't give up their P&P yet." The desperate relief in her eyes should have had a kick like fucking, but he was too tired to really enjoy it. "So you can stop this bollocks right now, you hear? No more moping around, and that's an order." Sara sniffed quietly. "I'm really sorry." He wished they'd done this somewhere he could do one of the natural follow-ups: hug her, take her out and get her pissed and flirt with her. All he could do here was squeeze her shoulder. "Nothing to be sorry about. Just stop fucking doing it." It seemed to be enough, though, because she smiled slightly. "I'll try." "Thank fuck for that." He downed a third of the coffee and sighed. "If you want to do something useful, you can go up to level seven and tell Daedra I need something that'll wake me up and still leave me legally competent to interrogate." "Of course." She leaned over and pecked him on the cheek. "I'll bring it down to you." After Sara left the room, there was a low wolf-whistle from across the room. Typical of the spineless bastards to wait until she was out of earshot. Came to something when paras were more worried about pissing off your admin than they were about annoying you. Without looking round, Toreth raised his middle finger in the general direction of Chev and Belkin, then finished his coffee. He rinsed his mug clean and left it draining by the sink, ignoring the notice which strictly forbade so doing.

Chapter Twenty-One
Opening the door to the building, Warrick reflected that at least the new flat meant that SimTech no longer required he put up with the continual and continuously irritating presence of a guard. The one who'd accompanied him home had left in the car. He was getting used to the peace and quiet again. Although perhaps things were a little too peaceful. It had been ten days so far, Warrick thought as he stepped into the lift up to the flat a relatively long absence by Toreth's standards, even considering the reason he'd gone. However, the lingering memory of Carnac's last visit made it seem longer, stirring the old fear that sometime, perhaps this time, Toreth wouldn't be back. Ten days since the house-warming. The seven working days had passed pleasantly enough. At SimTech they were still hammering out the details of the corporation's future. Now a decision had been made and announced, the atmosphere had begun to improve. Busy all day at SimTech, and with the relief of a quiet, empty flat to come home to. Most evenings he'd managed to persuade himself he preferred it to Toreth's occasionally overwhelming presence. That was balanced, of course, by the nights sleeping alone, and mornings waking up still alone. 'I'll never leave you'. He had made a commitment to Toreth and in return he had . . . nothing concrete. A brief flirtation with flat-sharing and a few weeks when he'd suspected he might even have enjoyed Toreth's undivided sexual attention. What else had he expected? Something more than Toreth was capable of, that much was clear. Annoyingly, he'd suspected that Toreth had wanted to be asked to stay, but at the same time he'd known that if he had asked, Toreth would have felt bound to refuse. A relationship based on not pushing was sometimes tedious and frustrating in the extreme. There must have been a point when the idea of cohabitation had become so compelling. Warrick wondered whether it was something else he could blame on Carnac. Toreth probably did, if he thought about it that clearly. Carnac's fault or not, the desire was there now and he saw no practical way to eradicate it. So he would tolerate it until it waned of its own accord and things returned to the way they had been. He'd feel better once Toreth finished fucking his way back to stability and returned which, of course, he would, sooner or later. When he opened the door, he imagined he could feel the emptiness of the flat. Toreth had called, in any case, every other day. He claimed to be busy at work, and perhaps he was. Perhaps, given Jen's reports, it was better that they hadn't seen each other, because As Warrick reactivated the security system, the lights went out. He froze in place, mind racing with stories of corporate sabotage and kidnappings, few of which ended well. Footsteps behind him, quick and confident, reached him before he could react. A hand clamped over his mouth, and a cold voice whispered in his ear, "Keep very still." Toreth. Warrick didn't relax, but the flavour of the tension changed. Relief, anticipation and a spicing of anger. "I've been waiting," Toreth continued. "I have something for you." Metal traced a line down his

cheek, then Toreth loosened the hand over his mouth. "Do you know what that is?" Fear thrilled through him, whipping up the adrenaline left by the shock of the darkness. "A knife?" "Yes very good. That's why you're going to do exactly what you're told to do. Because I'd hate to cut you . . . by accident. Now, hold still." Something touched his face a blindfold, bound securely around his eyes. Then Toreth moved away a little, probably for the lights, and Warrick turned and went for the door, or at least for his best guess as to where it was. He made barely three steps before Toreth caught hold of him with expert ease, spinning him back against a wall and pinning him there. "Now that was stupid. Luckily, I have a cure for that." Musical ring of a chain being lifted, and then a collar fastened around his throat. Not the collar, of course that had been looted from Toreth's flat. Only 'a' collar, and he was surprised to find it made a difference. He wondered what it looked like and lifted his hands to touch it. Toreth allowed it, briefly, then a pull on the chain drew Warrick down the hall. At his old flat, or Toreth's, he could navigate in the dark. Here everything was unfamiliar. Dangerous. The stairs left his mouth dry and his stomach fluttering at the feeling of space and danger, and something else. Exposure, uncertainty: a flavour of the Shop, perhaps, the only other place he'd navigated stairs in the dark with Toreth so close. Reaching the landing was almost a disappointment. A door opened the room Toreth had originally chosen as his own, or so Warrick thought. Toreth guided him across the room, then stopped him. The knife stroked his cheek once more and he held himself still against a flinch. Probably not sharp, a distant part of his mind told him. But he didn't listen too closely to that. "Strip." He hesitated, until Toreth took him by the hair, pulling his head back. "Do it." Cold metal whispered against his throat and clinked gently against the collar, and he obeyed. Once naked, he stood waiting, shivering although the room was pleasantly warm. He heard Toreth's breathing, imagined him looking. Defenseless against him. "Good. Now, there's a bed in front of you. Lie down on it. On your back." He felt for the bed, did as he was instructed. A soft, steely click sounded as the chain from the collar locked into place. "Spread out your legs." Another cold touch against his ankles unlined metal cuffs. They'd never had those before, not for the bed, and the idea of Toreth buying them, looking for them especially for him, made his stomach twist. Toreth in the Shop, sorting through heaps of chains. Perhaps trying them on and "Give me your hand." Not the instruction he'd been expecting, so it took him a moment to obey. A hand touched his, pressed a small bottle into his fingers. The flat of the blade slid up his throat, then the knife angled and the edge pressed lightly under

his chin. "Now, listen to me. Are you listening?" Warrick nodded very slightly. "When I've finished doing everything I want to do to you, I'm going to have you. I'm going to fuck you." Dark, cold voice, spiralling down his spine. "So, before we get started, you're going to get ready for me. You're going to do it yourself." Warrick managed to draw enough breath to make a whisper. "No." "And if you don't " "No." The knife stroked across his throat, ending up with the point pressing beneath his chin. Christ, it felt sharp enough. He froze in the chains. He'll be careful, the voice said. Even if it is sharp, he'll be careful. Warrick shut the reassurance away, imagining what the pain would be like, sharp as the knife itself. Something he'd never felt, and he shivered. "Wrong answer," Toreth said calmly. "Try again." He struggled not to let himself nod. "All right. Yes." The knife lifted away. With his hands trembling, it took three tries to open the bottle. Oil spilled over his fingers, cold against his belly, and he gasped. Toreth laughed softly and took back the bottle. "Go on. Do it. Fuck yourself for me." Even though there was some slack in the chains, it wasn't easy to reach. Warrick choked himself on the collar once or twice before he finally found the right angle. Strained as the position was, the touch of his own fingers inside him lifted the arousal to a new level. More oil trickled over him, cooling his burning cock, and his hips lifted. Without conscious guidance, his free hand slid up his thigh, and he whimpered as he touched himself, fingers curling round The blow across his face caught him by surprise, sending a shock through him like a jolt of electricity and leaving his cheek stinging. "No!" Toreth said. Fingers dug into both his wrists, pulling them to his sides and pinning them down onto the bed. He lay back, panting, wondering if Toreth had enjoyed watching. "I didn't tell you to do that." Yes, judging by the roughness of his voice. His wrists were released, and a moment later Toreth's fingers pushed into him, not gentle, making him arch his back, hands tightening on the sheets. God, yes, please, more of that. He groaned with disappointment when they withdrew. "Good enough. Now " A tap of steel against his shoulder for emphasis. "Put your hands above your head." Metal closed around his wrists as his arms were stretched into position and the chains locked in place. Toreth moved away, leaving him alone for a moment. A space for him to become used to this, to refocus, the world shrinking down around him to this isolated, separate place. Their game. So long since the last time. And this time, novel and so more exciting, with the added danger of

the knife. Even if Toreth couldn't do anything more than threaten, imagination could make it real enough to The bed shifted, and he felt Toreth kneel beside him. A brush of bare skin again his side told him that Toreth had stripped too. Then he felt the light touch of the edge of the knife again, sliding across his stomach, and the fear tightened. He won't do it. Not that. Please. Please yes, or please no? "Comfortable?" Toreth asked. The tip of the knife pricked against his sternum. The pressure increased, and then the knife moved and cut. Only a short distance, but the sudden pain shocked him out of stillness, made him jerk against the chains hard enough to bruise his wrists. A cut, not a blow. Probably not much more than a scratch, but it felt so different, made a different shape in his mind, brilliant and frightening. Over it came an image of the wound itself, blood welling. Toreth laughed, twirling the point of the knife against him. "Struggle all you like. It won't help. Shall we try that again?" The knife drew a line of fire, a thin trail of pain from mid-chest to navel. "No. Stop it." His unsteady voice sounded like a stranger's. A third shallow cut, shorter, crossed the second below his ribs. His muscles, taut against the chains, held him absolutely still. No. I want it to stop. Even as he thought that, the knife sliced down his thigh and made it into a lie. "Please, no." He tugged at the chains, and the pain came again, diagonally across his chest, nerves flaring into glorious life. Safe word there was the safe word. Two words, and it would end. The ease of the escape route, his absolute confidence that Toreth would stop at once if the words were spoken, forced him to accept the inevitable. Another two long, deliberate cuts, and he stopped even pretending that he was going to say it. He relaxed in the chains, waiting for the next contact of steel on flesh. His quick, shallow breathing made the wounds on his chest hurt with a vividness that brought tears to his eyes, soaking into the blindfold. Again. Do it again. Instead of another sweep of the knife, Toreth paused. The bed shifted as he leaned down close. His skin felt hot against Warrick's and even where they didn't touch Toreth heated the air between then. "It hurts?" Toreth murmured into his ear. Calm voice, measured and controlled, but without the former coldness. "Yes." "Too much?" "No." "Shall I stop?"

"No!" A soft laugh followed, then Toreth licked a slow path down his chest, following the line of the last cut. So intense, so arousing, that the pain beneath was barely there. Toreth moved again, finally settling into place kneeling astride his left thigh. A hand slid lightly down his chest, waking pain. Over his stomach, warm and slippery with blood. With his own blood. When it touched his cock he arched up, pulling on the chains. "Fuck me." Not meaning to say it yet, but unable to hold it back. "Fuck me, pl " He felt movement on the bed, and then a hard kiss silenced him. "I will. Eventually. But for now I think I prefer this." The knife touched him again, poised. "Next one . . . " A rapidly diminishing part of him knew he shouldn't want this so badly. "No. Please, don't." A pause, then he felt the sharp edge laid lightly against his mouth, and he held steady. "Quiet," Toreth said. "Quiet, or I'll gag you. Shall I do that?" Trying not to move his lips, Warrick whispered, "If you want to." He noted, distantly, that he meant it, although in truth he was having enough trouble breathing as it was. Yes. Yes, to whatever Toreth wanted. Trusting him to know what was right. Giving up control. The knife lifted away without cutting him, but when Warrick licked his lips he tasted a hint of blood from the blade. "Next one . . . here." Short cuts, only an inch or so, were spaced over his whole body. Every slice felt separate and distinct, Toreth waiting in between until the initial pain ebbed away. "Do you know how good you look like that? Can you imagine it? I should have done this a long time before. I thought about putting you in the cabinet. Letting you watch it in the mirror. But this is better." Gradually cutting deeper with each stroke, Toreth teased out the minutes. The pain grew slowly worse, never quite becoming unbearable, until eventually it became unbearable for a different reason. Toreth's hand on his cock was a balancing focus of sensation, rubbing him slowly, keeping him on the edge and never quite doing enough. Caution forgotten, he twisted in the chains, begging Toreth to finish it, and knowing that he wouldn't yet. Nothing he could do to stop it. 'He hurts you. He wants to hurt you. He's dangerous'. Dillian's words from years before echoed through him, blending with the exquisite pain as Toreth flayed a tiny patch of skin from his bicep. 'Keir, listen to me. He could do whatever he wanted to you. When you're like that. He could kill you and you couldn't stop him. You couldn't do anything to stop him'. Sometimes afterwards he wondered what she'd think if she knew he used it like this. He hurts you. He could do whatever he wanted to you. He wants to hurt me. I couldn't do anything to stop him. Whatever he wanted.

He's dangerous. Anything he wanted. Anything. Submerging himself in the words, he sank deeper, drowning. Slipping away, the knife driving the real world further out of reach, until Dillian's voice was a blur, meaning lost along with even the memory of a safe word. Everything finally dissolving into an aching emptiness, bound about with pain that focused every sensation inwards. The chains at his wrists and ankles unfastened, and he felt the blade against his throat, nestling under the collar. "Turn over. On you knees." Warrick had no resistance left, although Toreth had to repeat the order twice before he finally managed to obey. Blood slicked his body, making his thighs slide against each other as he turned and knelt. Open and vulnerable. The chain still held his head down against the mattress and the knife moved away for a few seconds as Toreth locked his wrists to the collar. Warrick moaned helplessly, links biting unnoticed into his hands as he clenched them on the chain, pulling on it. Needing it now, so much. Now. Panting the words out. "Please. Toreth. Please." The knife traced a path down his spine, barely slicing through the skin. Or perhaps it was cutting deeply and he couldn't feel it because now Toreth was in him, filling him, taking him, possessing him, strong hands controlling and directing, and nothing else mattered. Nothing else existed. Will and desire surrendered absolutely. Sense of time lost along with sense of self, the ecstatic submission stretched out forever. Neverending, pure and perfect, he revelled in it until the shock of his orgasm, forgotten and utterly unexpected, tore even that much coherence away from him. Later minutes, hours, days and on the dim edge of consciousness, he felt Toreth unfasten the manacles and collar. Warrick rolled onto his side, still panting. Mess. The sheets would be a hell of a mess. He didn't want to come back to reality, to have to face the aftermath. Hands stroked his face, and a gentle mouth kissed him back to full awareness. Surprisingly, there was almost no pain beyond the usual aches in his wrists and ankles. It didn't make sense, and he couldn't force himself to think clearly enough to work out how it might be possible. His skin tingled in places, tight and hot like sunburn, but nothing worse than that. Analgesic on the blade? Then Toreth kissed him again, and undid the blindfold. He sat up and looked down at himself. No blood, no cuts not a single mark on his skin. Surprise washed away the remaining stupor. I felt it. I felt the knife. He ran his hand down his chest, still half expecting to find sticky blood. Instead, his hand slicked

over oil and semen. It wasn't "I felt it," he said. Looking up again, he found Toreth sitting facing him, hugging his knees to his chest, grinning. He looked so happy, so incredibly pleased with himself, that Warrick nearly said something stupid. What he said in the end was, "How did you do it?" The grin broadened. "Was it good?" "It was incredible. How?" "With this." Toreth offered him a long knife, with a bluish metal blade and a dark blue handle with silver inlay. Warrick wiped his hand on the sheets and took it. It had a thick, blunt blade so blunt that when Warrick pressed it hard against the pad of his thumb, it did nothing more than dent the flesh, not hurting at all. The handle, however, was bulky enough to conceal electronics and a power supply. He found a switch on the base, and a sliding control on the handle. He pressed the switch, moved the control to the lowest setting, and slid the blade across his palm. An awareness of sharpness, nothing more. He increased the setting and tried again. This time he sucked his breath in the cut felt so real that he couldn't believe it when no blood welled along the line. Obvious, once he thought about it with a mind unclouded by desperate arousal. "Nerve induction." "Yeah, spot on." He didn't want to ask. "From work?" To Warrick's intense relief, Toreth shook his head. "We don't have anything that pretty." "From the Shop, then." "Yeah. I asked Fran what she'd recommend for a late birthday present." "Is it legal?" "Technically, no, although I can't imagine even Justice getting excited over something with that sort of output." He shrugged. "I suppose if they really wanted an excuse to hold someone they could stretch it to a charge of possessing specified equipment." "So w " He caught himself, not quite in time. "So I shouldn't put it on display in the living room?" "Probably not." Remembering something, he put his hand to his mouth. "I tasted the blood." Toreth held out his left hand, the index finger extended. There was nothing to see, but the suggestion was obvious; when Warrick looked round he spotted a pin on the bedside table. The bottle of oil stood beside it. Yes. He'd poured the oil on himself, as Toreth must have known he would, and then he'd forgotten all about it. So much careful planning. A gift for him, more so than the knife. Also, in another way, a reminder. This is what I can do to you. This is what you need me for. Toreth's power over him. Frightening, sometimes. It had been so real . . . Warrick turned the knife over in his hands and sighed.

"What?" Toreth asked. "Nothing. Or, actually, I was thinking it's never going to be the same as it was just now." "Why not?" "Because I'll know what it is. I'll know it's nerve induction." Toreth stared at him. After a moment he said, "You didn't think I'd really do that? With a real knife?" "Well, no, I " He shook his head. "Not now, no. But maybe I did when it was happening. To be perfectly honest, I'm not sure." "Fucking hell." Toreth sounded shocked. "I thought you'd guessed it was faked somehow. Why didn't you tell me to stop it?" "I didn't want you to stop." The realisation of that shocked Warrick. "I thought . . . no, I didn't think anything. I just wanted more of it. It was beautiful." Toreth laughed. "Beautiful?" "Yes. No other word for it." "Better than the suspension fucks?" "Hm. I don't know." The act of analysis and comparison, so familiar from work, helped diffuse the unease. "No, probably not. But it's different. Not quite so overwhelming. I was aware of where I was for far longer." Toreth nodded. "The pain isn't continuous. It gives you a chance to keep focused. Plus, there's no actual damage, so the pain isn't genuinely cumulative, either. A lot of it's psychosomatic the nerve induction kicks it off, then your body thinks it's injured so you feel it even after any effect from the kit's worn off." "That's probably it, yes." Toreth had an excellent mechanistic understanding of pain. Not to mention a better understanding of how Warrick's body would react to it than he had himself, which was deeply unsettling if he thought about it for too long. Toreth shook his head. "I can't believe you let me do it if you thought it was real." Nor, now, could Warrick. He examined the idea more carefully, then shrugged. "At the core, I must have known you wouldn't break the rules. I didn't think anything quite that coherent at the time, but that's the reason." "I didn't know we had rules for that." "Perhaps not as such, but I still trust you not to break them." "Yeah, well, if you say so." The sound of Toreth becoming uncomfortable with a conversation. "I just thought you'd get off on it." "And you were spectacularly correct." He set the knife on the table and then lay down, moving across the bed to make space. After a moment, Toreth followed suit, stretching out with a sigh and closing his eyes. He looked tired, Warrick noticed suddenly, now that Toreth's face was still deeply tired, the result of a long-term lack of sleep. Fit, though. He'd got back the last of the muscle definition that he'd lost during the revolt, so whatever he'd been up to over the last ten days involved exercise. Warrick reached out and traced over Toreth's stomach. Toreth smiled without opening his eyes and tensed the muscles.

On reflection, Warrick decided that now didn't seem like a good moment to start delving into Toreth's activities during his absence, and particularly not the fate of Tarin's friends. He could ask later. He reached out and switched off the light, fingers brushing over the cool steel of the knife blade. They dozed for a while, close but not touching. A comfortable distance, after the intensity of the sex. In the end Warrick did rather more than doze, eventually awakening with a start to a crash and Toreth swearing vividly in the darkened bedroom. "Are you all right?" "Yeah, fine. Tripped over something. Shit. Mind your eyes, I'm putting the light on." Warrick shaded his eyes, blinking at the light, then looked round. Most of Toreth's small collection of possessions were still stacked in boxes in one corner, beside Toreth's battered sofa. He made a mental note to ask Toreth whether he wanted to leave everything here for the time being. Toreth leaned on the wall by the door, rubbing his foot, and glaring aggrievedly at a suitcase placed with booby-trap precision on the route between bed and doorway. "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."

Boy's Toys
"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. Not forgetting the infamous evening of pool, of course. "Will you be doing any shooting?" Toreth asked. "No. I'll be needed constantly for the technical parts. It has to go quickly and smoothly. Besides, I've never even fired a gun." Warrick shrugged. "Perhaps I should learn, but I try not to dwell too much on the unsavoury side of corporate life. I pay other people to do that for me." "Okay, then. I'm on." Then, just because of the earlier conversation, he added, "I'll be going to the gym first." "I'm sure you will. There's no need for you to be there first thing in any case. It'll take several hours to set up and calibrate." Warrick smiled again. "Come for lunch. I'm treating everyone to reasonable caterers to compensate for hijacking their weekends. And then afterwards you can show me how well you handle a gun." ~~~ The air in the large underground firing range was cool, and Toreth was glad he'd brought his jacket. Considering that people fired guns in there daily, the place was remarkably clean and well

decorated. No doubt the company ran training courses for corporate higher-ups who didn't share Warrick's aversion to guns. The setup was familiar from the Int-Sec training section: targets and the stopping wall behind them, a row of cubicles across the end of the room. However, he could have guessed its purpose blindfold; the smell of propellant, oil and hot metal was unmistakable. For the moment, there were no weapons in sight, because the SimTech staff were everywhere in the room, placing sensors and running leads for the equipment that would take neural readings from the volunteers. When Toreth had arrived, Warrick had nodded to him, then returned to a conversation with a woman Toreth recognised from his visits to SimTech. He remembered her because she made him think of all the witnesses over the years who had described someone as 'average'. These so-called 'average' people usually turned out to have at least half a dozen features that ought, in Toreth's opinion, to have been obvious to a blind drunk. Whereas this woman really was average, to a degree that was itself noteworthy. Average and not at all Warrick's type, which meant he could spend a few minutes contemplating her spectacular dullness with little more than detached curiosity. Finally, the conversation broke up and he let his gaze move on. Relaxed by the morning at the gym, Toreth didn't mind waiting. He lounged against the wall, watching the technicians scurrying around setting up equipment. It made a nice change to have the leisure to watch other people working. He kept one eye on Warrick as he moved calmly through the chaos, handing out orders and curt praise. Building the place underground had been a clever if expensive idea, bypassing all sorts of regulations to allow the setting up of a full-size range in the heart of the corporate district. As he waited, Toreth wondered idly what they charged for training, and what they'd be gouging SimTech for the hire of the whole place for a day. As the clock on the wall crawled slowly towards noon, he detected a change in the room. The activity wound down slowly, with people forming into small groups, chatting. After another ten minutes or so, Warrick moved to the centre of the room and called for silence. "As some of you have so astutely spotted " he glanced at the first group of technicians to have stopped work, who tried to melt behind each other, " it is lunchtime. We'll break for one hour, to allow the equipment to bed in. Please don't come back before then; I don't want any sensors disturbed." When the last of the technicians had cleared from the room, Warrick was still engrossed in a screen linked to a square, matte black box that Toreth thought was the central neural scanner control. "I thought we were going for lunch," Toreth said. "In a moment. I have one or two things I'd like to check first." Having had previous experience of Warrick's 'moments', Toreth adjusted his expectation of lunch down to a hasty sandwich in about fifty minutes' time, and left Warrick alone in the vague hope that it would speed things up. A cabinet on the side wall held an assortment of weapons-related junk. Toreth poked through it idly, pausing when he found a small plastic bottle. The label read 'gun oil' and the small print below classified it as nontoxic. He knew that without checking, because he recognised the brand from years back. "You can fuck with this stuff," Toreth said, tilting the bottle to watch the thin oil coat the inside.

"I&I sent a bunch of the juniors on a training exercise run by the Service. God only knows why I've been at I&I for fifteen years and I've never needed to know how to light a fire and build a shelter under a sodding bush. It was the middle of winter too. Everything was ankle-deep in mud, and it was fucking freezing, so we had to keep warm somehow. You know what the funny thing was? Every single one of us independently smuggled in booze but no one thought to bring lube. Fun days." 'Buggers can't be choosers', someone had said, which had seemed a lot funnier at midnight when he was out of his skull. "Sounds absolutely delightful," Warrick said with heavy sarcasm. "Doesn't it sting?" "Not really. It's synthetic oil, plus something to stop you going rusty." He was about to drop the bottle back into the box when he changed his mind and put it in his pocket. "Where are the guns?" "Over there." Without looking up, Warrick waved to a metal door set flush in the wall. "It should open to your iris scan." The recess held an extensive and impressive collection, including a couple of semiautomatic rifles that Toreth hoped he wouldn't be expected to fire. His lessons for those had been a long way in the past. The handguns he was more familiar with. He wondered where the ammunition was not in the same place as the weapons, which was sensible. In any case, if Warrick didn't want the sensors disturbed, that probably meant shooting was out until after lunch. "Up to standard?" Warrick asked from right behind him. Toreth managed to control his surprise well enough not to embarrass himself by jumping a foot into the air. "Rule one," he said testily. "Don't sneak up behind armed people." "You aren't armed." Warrick moved him aside and surveyed the cabinet. "Mm. They're beautiful, aren't they?" "That's not the word I'd use. I've seen what the bastards can do." "Well designed, then. Objects designed to perform a function, and to do it well, are always appealing." Warrick glanced at him. "To an engineer, that is. Technology has its own aesthetic." "Try having some fucker pointing one at you in anger and see how aesthetic that feels, that's all I'm saying. They're not toys." Toreth unlocked a catch and picked up an automatic pistol, feeling the weight. It fitted his hand well. He tilted it, watching the dull shine of the light on the black metal. Spotless condition, and top of the range just the sort of thing to appeal to corporates. He tested the action of the slide, then thumbed the button to pop up the small sight screen at the back of the gun. Warrick hadn't said anything more, but Toreth could feel him watching. "I'll show you how it works later, if you like," Toreth said. "Piece of piss. The gun does all the aiming and puts the result up on the screen. I've tried firing something with old-fashioned physical sights and it's bloody hard work." Turning, he scanned slowly around the room, pleased by the steadiness of his aim. On the screen, the virtual sight dot brightened and dimmed to indicate range, shrinking and expanding to show the estimated shot spread pattern. When he reached the firing range and the cutout target, the screen outlined the human shape in white. The gun must have been set up for range practise, because no decent targeting system would mistake a cold, flat figure for a real person. He moved the gun over the torso, watching the sighting dot change from a green 'on target' to a red 'vital hit' indicator. Red is dead, as instructors were usually fond of saying. "This is practically sim stuff," Toreth said. "If you were Service, you'd have an eyepiece attached

to your helmet to generate a retinal heads-up display. Or if you're really serious, you can get an implant chip that'll feed the information straight into your optic nerve. Just your kind of thing." No response. Toreth looked round to find Warrick watching him with an expression Toreth couldn't decipher. "What?" Toreth asked. "It's strange, but it looks different when you're holding it." "Yeah?" Toreth lowered his arms and thumbed the sight back down. "Different how?" "It's . . . " And he was practically glazing over on the spot, the very speed of the reaction setting off a hungry heat in Toreth's groin. With an obvious effort, Warrick gathered himself to reply. "It looks like it's alive. No," he corrected himself. "It's that . . . it is functional now. It's . . . " "Dangerous?" Warrick nodded, a single sharp movement, never looking away from the gun. "Dangerous." "Want to watch me fire it?" He'd expected a quick affirmative, but Warrick tilted his head a fraction, considering carefully. "I don't know," he said at length. "I really don't. In any case, you can't the sensors are . . . " Toreth brought the gun up slowly, Warrick's gaze following it until it was too close and his eyelids dropped closed. With his empty hand, Toreth cupped Warrick's face, steadying it, not letting him pull back as he stroked the gun down his cheek. His lips parted slightly, his eyes flickering behind the closed lids, and Toreth grinned. So pliant and willing, so incredibly fuckable there was nothing left now of the calm, authoritative corporate director who had sent his staff off to lunch. The sheer fucking weirdness of Warrick's sexual kinks never failed to entertain Toreth. Or to turn him on. He moved the gun round, over Warrick's lips, and he jerked his head away slightly. Toreth leaned in and kissed him, the gun cool against the side of his mouth. Warrick was already breathing quick and shallow. He tasted of coffee and a very faint maybe imaginary trace of metal. "You really can fuck with gun oil," Toreth said as he pulled back. After a fraction of a second, Warrick nodded. "I believed you." "Uh-huh." Toreth turned the gun over in his hand. "Will it take you long to finish checking the kit?" "I'm finished now," Warrick said with deadpan seriousness. Warrick watched in silence as Toreth went over and dropped the bar on the door. For once, their semipublic fucking didn't have to run a real risk of discovery, which would make for a leisurely exploration of this new scenario. Toreth returned, catching Warrick by the elbow as he passed him, and guided him over to the nearest firing station. He laid the gun on the bench, which was at a perfect height for fucking over. Toreth wondered how often it had been used for illicit purposes. He knew a few people at I&I who'd said that firing guns turned them on. It had never done much for him, but there was no accounting for taste. "Take your shirt off and unfasten your trousers," Toreth said. The shirt he folded and placed on top of his own jacket in the next station, because he was planning to get plenty of oil around. He pulled Warrick's trousers down to mid-thigh, exposing him and hampering his movement, and the shiver that went through Warrick would be awareness of both

of those. "Bend over there and get yourself comfortable, because we're going to be here for a while." Warrick hesitated. "The technicians will " "Think you're busy double-checking their work, because you're such a fucking perfectionist. They won't think you're in here getting fucked within an inch of your life." Warrick turned away and settled down on the bench, bracing his elbows. "Don't move," Toreth said, "unless I tell you to move. Don't touch yourself." "Yes." And that was it this had to be the record shortest time for persuading Warrick to fuck in public. The cap of the bottle put up more resistance until he finally found the trick to twisting it. He coated his fingers in the cool oil, then leaned on the bench beside Warrick, in the perfect position to watch his face as he felt the first touch of fingers against him. Warrick's mouth tightened, lips pressing together as his jaw clenched. Toreth teased him, just barely popping the tip of his finger in and out of the ring of muscle. This was an old game, familiar except for the surroundings. Toreth worked his finger deeper with torturing slowness, rewarding stillness with a few more millimetres' penetration, punishing movement with a withdrawal. Under any circumstances it drove Warrick mad, and today it seemed to be particularly effective. Finally he was working one finger all the way in, quick and deep, spicing it with a twist that had Warrick panting and shivering with the effort not to move his hips into the thrusts. Toreth waited for the first sign of relaxation, the first hint that Warrick was regaining control, then drove a second finger in hard beside the first. Warrick clenched round his fingers, the muscles in his back writhing as he struggled to keep motionless. "Bastard," he breathed. "Now you know why the gym is a good thing," Toreth said. "Because I can keep this up for much, much longer than you can stand me to." "Bastard." Warrick shook his head, his shoulders tensed. Swearing was good, for two fingers. Very good, and far too early, and Toreth wondered if Warrick was playing it up to get things over quickly. Half test and half punishment, Toreth slid the second finger out again. Warrick gave a protesting whimper and then, caught by surprise, hissed through his teeth as Toreth drove the remaining finger suddenly deeper. "God, please. Fuck me." Toreth laughed quietly and returned the second finger. "Not yet." It was just like work. The first stage was easy. Getting someone to say 'I'll tell you what you want to know' was no different to reaching 'fuck me'. And then after that they would beg for it to stop, or to go on, and that wasn't so difficult to reach either. The real goal lay beyond that. He reached it when whoever he had in his hands knew that begging was hopeless and the only thing that mattered the only thing that existed in their fucking world was what he wanted. When they ceased to exist and their will was his, that was when he'd won. That was interrogation and that was the game. He'd started to explain it to Warrick once or twice. He'd always wondered how much Warrick knew, how much he guessed, how much he wouldn't let himself see. Warrick must know some of it, if only because when Toreth had brought it up in the past

Warrick had slammed the conversational shutters down with incredible speed and whatever means necessary, even using the safe word. They'd talked about it exactly once, in the lift at SimTech before the smell of smoke cut the conversation short before they'd had time to do more than start the topic. You hate interrogations, but you fuck me, he'd asked. How does that work? Warrick's answer had been that he didn't think about it, that the interrogation skills didn't matter, only the physical training and prisoner restraint techniques. Which might all be bollocks, but it obviously helped Warrick sleep at night. Typical prissy fucking corporate, Toreth thought, pushing deep and twisting until Warrick was whimpering aloud. Not wanting to know about the dirty work that went on to keep their shiny little world safe and profitable. Not so fucking prissy that he wouldn't take the results, though. That he wouldn't do this, bending over the scarred surface of the bench, sweat starting to gleam on his skin. Focusing on the sight in front of him wiped the momentary anger away. Toreth leaned in and bit at Warrick's shoulder, saltyclean against his mouth, pressing in deep with his fingers again. "Is this what you want?" Toreth asked. "Yes. God, yes. Don't stop." No, he wouldn't. Definitely not in the plan. Keeping going until the extra finger Warrick was panting for wouldn't be anything like enough that was the plan. Going on long enough that when Toreth finally pushed the third finger in, stretching him open with a brutal thrust, Warrick sobbed on a breath and a heartbeat later demanded, "More." The room was soundproofed well beyond this, but out of habit he brought his hand up over Warrick's mouth more a warning than a serious attempt to silence. Warrick bucked hard, pushing back onto Toreth's hand. "Good?" "Smell it on your fingers," Warrick said. "The oil. It's . . . I can taste the smell." "Jesus, this really fucking turns you on, doesn't it?" He pressed against Warrick's mouth, forcing his lips open, pushing inside to let Warrick taste him. Filling his mouth as his other hand was filling his arse. Warrick's mouth closed eagerly round his fingers, sucking, his breathing a moan deep in his throat, and the wet heat sent a bolt of lightning jarring down Toreth's spine. Fuck him now, fuck him now a low chant grew more insistent in his mind, in tempo with the fingerfuck and the pulsing suction heating his blood. Fuck him now, fuck him Toreth's elbow bumped something and he looked down to find the forgotten gun. Now there was an interesting idea. A very interesting idea, and Toreth tried to hide a smile, even though Warrick wasn't looking at him was, in fact, totally focused on working his hips hard in counterpoint against Toreth's fingers. When Toreth pulled out his hand, Warrick whimpered once, then stilled, braced against the hard edge of the bench. Thinking he knew what was coming next, and thinking wrong, or at least Toreth hoped so. The grip of the gun felt cold to Toreth's oil-slippery hand, because despite the SimTech equipment and the excessive body heat they were both generating right now the room was still cool.

The barrel would be colder still. He pulled his fingers away from Warrick's mouth, ignoring the determined press of his tongue, then twined them in Warrick's hair, holding him still. "Spread your legs. Wider. Are you ready?" The nods tugged at his grip. "Please." "Are you sure? Do you want it?" "God, yes." He set the tip of the gun against Warrick's body and began to slide it oh-so-very-fucking-slowly inside. For a moment, there was no resistance from the slick, well-prepared passage, then the invasion of hard, cold metal registered and Warrick tensed reflexively. "What . . . " And for a few seconds Toreth could see that he really didn't know, that he hadn't guessed, and the delighted triumph kicked through him like downing a glass of vodka. Then realisation dawned and Warrick breathed, "No." Toreth pulled the tip of the gun back, just a fraction, and Warrick followed hungrily. "No?" Toreth tightened his grip on Warrick's hair, and he stopped, trembling slightly, his hips making tiny, helpless movements. "You fucking liar. You want it." Warrick's breath was hitching as he fought for control. The most he could manage was a tiny, pathetically unconvincing shake of his head. "Ask for it," Toreth said. He stroked the rounded tip of the barrel down, nudging behind Warrick's balls, caressing him with the slick, solid, dangerous weight of the thing. Then he slid it back up, poised against Warrick's hole. "Ask me for it." The silence lasted for longer than he would have credited before Warrick breathed, "Yes, do it." "More," Toreth said. "Fuck me." Warrick jerked suddenly, as if he'd heard the words from someone else, then braced himself. "Fuck me, please." Toreth released his hair, taking a light grip on his hip instead. Warrick tensed against him in anticipation. "How?" Toreth asked. For a moment, he really didn't think Warrick would ask, as desperately as he obviously wanted it. They'd hit limits before not many of them and he wondered if this was one. Then Warrick shivered, his head falling forwards. "With the gun," he whispered. "God. Fuck me with the gun. No . . . " "No?" "Yes. Fuck me with with the gun." He said in a kind of stunned amazement, tasting the words. He could have gone in hard he knew Warrick's limits better than he did himself but he didn't. He kept to the tormentingly slow pace of the earlier game, watching Warrick's face as he worked the gun in and out, fractionally deeper with every return, until he hit the right spot and Warrick's face twisted and he bit his lip. Another few millimetres, with a tilt of the gun, and Warrick moaned aloud. "Is it okay?" The gasp was almost laughter. "I can't believe . . . yes. God, yes. Incredible. But . . . harder. Please." Then Toreth looked down, actually saw his hand and what he was doing, and Warrick spread for

him, sweating desperation, and the reality hit him like a dose of one of Daedra's more potent fuck drugs, the kind that came with a warning about not using near children and animals. His cock ached, screaming to touch flesh. He pulled the gun back and thrust in, again, twice, again, Warrick's choked reaction sounding distant because Toreth couldn't believe that Warrick was really letting him do this, trusting him this much. Just taking it. He wanted very badly to see Warrick come like this, with the gun inside him, wanting it almost more than he wanted to come himself. Oil made his fingers slip on the grip, and he curled them tighter around the trigger and the trigger guard. Every thrust now pressed his fingers up against Warrick's shuddering body. "Let me, please," Warrick was gasping, and it took Toreth a moment to work out what the fuck he was talking about, to remember the instructions he'd given. And it brought a new resolution. "Move your arms and I'll break them." Fumbling desperately, Toreth managed to unfasten his own trousers one-handed, never letting up the movement of the gun inside Warrick. "This is going to be enough. You're going to come just from this." "Please." With every thrust, Warrick squirmed back against him as hard as he could without disobeying and releasing his hold. "I can't." "Yes, you can." Finally, he had his cock free. He touched Warrick's hip, curling his fingers round towards Warrick's cock without making contact with it, then tightened his grip to hold Warrick steady. "It's like this or not at all." "I can't. Please, touch me, just . . . " "It's loaded," he whispered into Warrick's ear, twisting the gun at a new angle deeper, moving faster. Warrick choked out a cry, whether in response to the barrel or the words Toreth wasn't sure. "Did you hear me?" The response was a contradictory shake of his head. "No, it's n liar," Warrick panted. "It's loaded," he repeated, then paused so that Warrick would hear the click. "And that was the safety. My finger's on the trigger. How long do you think it'll be before I slip?" "No . . . God, no, I can't " Then the words were swallowed into sharp panting breaths, closer and faster as Warrick's shoulders tensed, pulling back. Impossible, utterly impossible, but it was really happening, and the realisation snapped his control and his determination to watch Warrick come. He pressed up against Warrick, feeling the cold hard edge of the gun against his hip bone and the heat of Warrick's oil-slick body against his cock. Four quick thrusts and he was almost there. His hands clenched reflexively and the trigger clicked, seeming deafeningly loud. Warrick jerked forward away from the noise, breath whooping in, then screamed as he came. Toreth felt the strength of it as Warrick's muscles clenched round the gun, and then his own orgasm swept through him, hot and wonderful, while he looked down to watch in dark, delighted disbelief as his come spurted over the gun and his hand, and the curve of Warrick's buttock. When the spasms stopped, Warrick was leaning on the bench, head on his arms, his fingers gripping the far edge tightly enough to whiten his knuckles. He was still shaking and Toreth wondered if his knees were about to give way. He slid the gun out carefully and laid it back on the bench. Taking hold of Warrick's shoulder, he pulled gently until he came back, away from the support, fingers uncurling reluctantly. Toreth leaned against the wall of the station, sliding slowly down and guiding Warrick down with him until the sat on the floor Toreth with his back to the panel, Warrick curled

against him, his head on Toreth's knees. The only noises in the room came from their breath and the humming SimTech equipment. Toreth leaned forward to kiss Warrick's shoulder. "It wasn't loaded," Toreth said. "I know. Hell." He lifted his head slightly, then put it back down. The shivers were slowly subsiding. "I know that. There wasn't any ammunition in the cabinet. But what I didn't know is that it's possible to come just from being so so " "So fucking shit scared?" "Yes." "See." He draped one arm over Warrick's shoulders. "I told you. They're not fucking toys." It took a moment before Warrick started to laugh weakly. "As it were." He looked up at the clock. "If we clean up quickly, we'll have ten minutes to grab a sandwich."

Make It A Surprise
When Toreth wanted to plot anything these days, he had to do it at Sara's place. Not so different, in a way, because he'd done most of it here before anyway, starting with the collar and manacles, fucking years ago now. Technically, though, that had been at her old flat, from the dim and distant past Before The Revolt. Different flats for both of them, and the original manacles were gone too. Sometimes he wondered how the hell his life had turned into this, and what else might be waiting around the corner to blackjack him. He shook his head. Depressing ideas for what was supposed to be fun evening. Sara was sitting beside him on her sofa, beer bottle in her hand. She was paging slowly through the designs on the screen, flipping back and forth to compare them. "What do you think?" he asked her. "Picked one yet?" "I like the curvy one, with the three colours of wood. That goes best with the rest of the flat, doesn't it? Although I don't really remember what the bedroom looks like I only saw it the once with the furniture in, at the flat warming." "Yeah. I took some pictures round to show her, along with the measurements." "What did you tell her?" she asked. "I told her to design something that would match the furniture and the flat, and that it had to be the right shape and solid enough to tie someone to and fuck them as hard hey!" he exclaimed, as Sara spluttered beer over the screen. "Sorry," she gasped, still coughing. "You didn't?" "Why not?" He fished a tissue out of his pocket and wiped the screen. "It's what it's for." "Yes, but the woman is . . . I mean, she makes bespoke furniture. For really posh people. I read her advert. I found her advert, and I made the appointment for you." "So? You're not planning to order anything from her, are you?" "No . . . no, I suppose not. Definitely not now she knows I work for a pervert. What did she say?" Toreth grinned. "That she'd better use all-wooden pegged joints because they squeak less. And that they were more expensive." Sara stared at him, then started giggling. "My God. You are so bad. Not to mention an evil influence." She finished her beer and waved the bottle. "D'you want another one?" "I'll get it." In the kitchen, the remains of the Thai takeaway were piled on the table. Bastard stood in the middle, lapping up the Tom Yum soup Sara had been forced to give up on because it was too hot. Toreth lifted his hand and raised an eyebrow, causing Bastard to crouch down and flatten his ears. As Toreth started the swing, Bastard hissed malevolently and shot off the table and out of the room. No doubt gone to slink into the living room and pretend to Sara that he'd been cruelly abused. Toreth grinned and opened the fridge. Inside he found mostly beer, along with an assortment of revolting-looking low calorie drinks: Sara's traditional pre-New Year-blowout health regime looked to be starting in good time this year.

At least some things didn't change. ~~~ It would never have occurred to Toreth that it would cost so much to get something made out of dead trees. The cabinet had been expensive, but that was antique. Antiques ought to be expensive. Things like Warrick's ridiculous coffee-brewer were antiques. A few years ago, during an investigation, Toreth had seen one in a shop in an up-market shopping complex. It was the kind of shop that didn't show prices on anything so, as it was the end of the day and he had no other appointments, he'd wandered in to ask. He'd taken his time looking round the place, enjoying the forced pleasantness of the staff, who hadn't dared be openly rude to a para-investigator in uniform. He'd thought at the time that the brewer might make a nice New Year present for Sara, who'd gone on at great length about Warrick's fabulous kitchen and it's contents. After he'd found out the price and left the shop empty-handed, Toreth had needed a stiff drink. He gave Sara her usual stack of skin-care products for New Year. Paying the bill for the bed had been another unexpectedly painful moment. It wasn't that he particularly wanted the money for anything else, but these days he had a more acute awareness of how much he earned, and how much he saved, and how those differed from Warrick. Secretly, Toreth had rather enjoyed the financial troubles at SimTech. Not that, God forbid, he wanted the corporation to go bust or be forced to sell out. Warrick would be utterly impossible to live with if that ever happened. But he had derived a certain satisfaction from Warrick having to think about money more often. Toreth sat on the brand new bed and examined the ropes he'd bought and cut to length: plain, bright-white cotton, their ends wrapped with thread to stop them fraying. Then he spent five minutes practising the knots until he was certain that he'd got them right. Something that would tighten when tugged on, but only to a point not so far that it would turn into a tourniquet. Stage one completed, he sat against the beautiful head board, getting the angle right. He lifted his arms, his hands at shoulder height, then moved them away from his body until he reached a comfortable spread. He tucked his fingers behind the sinuous narrow posts and waited. After a couple of minutes, he adjusted the position again. Planning. That was the key. Plan everything out to start with, and things would be so much better. When he thought he'd found the perfect angle, he tied one end of each rope securely to the chosen posts, and the other into a loop. Standing up, he surveyed the results. Perfect. And still plenty of time for a shower and a snack before Warrick could possibly get back. ~~~ Clean and fed, Toreth still had time to kill, so he fished out his screen and continued reading a terrible crime novel he'd started a couple of months earlier: 'Three Voices From Beyond' by some woman who claimed to be called Colette Clousteau. The problem was that Toreth kept leaving it for so long that he forgot what had happened and had to start again. It didn't help that the plot made no sense, although at least that meant he wouldn't guess who'd done it before he'd got his money's worth. Not that he'd actually paid for it it belonged to Sara's mother, who had the world's largest collection of completely crap mysteries. Toreth flicked to chapter six, where the intensely irritating hero was receiving yet another unhelpful message from the dead, channelled by his equally annoying

blind female sidekick. If this was the most help the dead could be, Toreth was glad he got his own messages via O'Reilly and her lab. Once he reached a part he didn't remember reading before he began to get a little more involved. It was almost a surprise when the door to the flat opened and closed. "Warrick?" Toreth called, as he closed the screen and threw it over to land neatly on the pile of his clothes. Chapter eight, he told himself, knowing full well he would forget. "Yes?" Warrick sounded surprised reasonably enough, because Toreth had been working very late for the last couple of weeks. The day after tomorrow they were going to see Warrick's family for New Year. In Toreth's view, they deserved a little time off to themselves first to build up to the trauma so he'd been deliberately vague about which day he'd be able to get away from work for the start of the New Year holiday. Warrick thought Toreth would be working tomorrow. Possibly, Warrick thought he would be working too. Wrong on both counts. Toreth planned to spend at least the first day at Jen's house in a pleasant haze of sexual exhaustion. Toreth slipped his hands through the loops and settled his shoulders into position. One knee up, one leg straight on the bed. He could see his reflection in the long mirror opposite, the bondage-porn perfect tied hands against the polished wood, the spotless rope elaborately knotted and making a contrast with his skin. God, he looked good. He shook his head back, to mess his hair. Positively mouth watering, if he did say so himself. He could see the smooth curves of the headboard behind him too, of course. That looked okay too, but while Toreth was pretty fucking confident Warrick would like the body in his bed, the new bed itself was less of a sure-fire sell. "Up here," Toreth called. Warrick's footsteps sounded on the stairs, then along the hall. "I wasn't expecting you to be home y" Silence. Warrick stood in the doorway, mouth actually hanging open, staring. Toreth wondering if he was even breathing. He hadn't tightened the ropes yet. If Warrick was about to blow a fuse over the new bed, Toreth could still slip free and argue from a position of more dignity. However, he didn't think that would be necessary. "Happy New Year," Toreth said, breaking the silence. "Oh, God. God, it's . . . " Warrick crossed the room slowly, moving round the bed to end up standing beside it. "You remembered." And that was it. The bed was a hit. Toreth let the ropes take the weight of his arms and the knots tightened beautifully, like a magic trick. "I remember some things, sometimes. Especially confessions." For once, the oblique reference to I&I didn't draw any kind of reaction. Not annoyance or disgust Warrick was simply staring at him, his eyes moving minutely as his gaze moved over Toreth's body. The appreciation, the heat in his eyes, felt like sunshine. "Come on," Toreth said. "It'll be next year before long and then I will have to go back to work."

Warrick smiled, still looking a little glazed, then he started to loosen his tie. "It was months ago." "So? I'd hardly start replacing beds if you hadn't mentioned the idea. Not when you're so fucking anal about furniture." "I am nothing of the kind," Warrick said without the slightest hint of offense, as he stripped rapidly. "Bollocks. No feet on the table, no glasses on the table without coasters, no eating in bed . . . " "Do you enjoy having crumbs stuck to your backside so much?" "Not the point." Toreth wasn't really listening to himself. The familiar argument produced itself while he watched Warrick's body appearing. That was also familiar, of course, but somehow he never got used to it. "The point is that when a scratch a couple of millimetres long on the mantlepiece means a major bloody " "Shut up." Now completely naked, Warrick leaned over the bed and placed his fingers over Toreth's mouth. "Shh." "Make me," Toreth said past the fingers. Warrick kissed him hard, and Toreth smiled against his mouth. He didn't mind doing this every once in a while, because Warrick was ever so amenable afterwards. This had to worth at least one semi-public fuck. When the kiss broke off, Toreth shifted his shoulders and said,"Do you remember what else you said, when you were talking about a new bed?" Warrick blinked. "Ah not as such." "You are such a fucking liar." He twisted his hands in the ropes, and Warrick's cock leaped. "I bet you're still using it for wank material." As ever, Warrick didn't blush. He did smile wryly and say,"You know me too well. As far as I recall, I said that as an optimum position, I'd like to fuck your mouth and be able to look at your wrists at the same time." It took a few seconds before Toreth's circulatory system managed to divert some blood back up from his groin to his brain. "Ready when you are." Warrick shook his head. "Not yet." Had he remembered it wrong? He didn't think so. "What " "Shh. Keep still. Relax." Warrick knelt beside him, his hands on the headboard, and kissed him again, slow and deep, lot of tongue. Nice. The kind of kissing that worked best with someone you'd fucked at least a couple of times before, which made it something special. Something that only happened between the two of them. It was so different to kissing . . . fuck. What had her name been? He'd only picked the woman up last night. God, memory like a sieve sometimes. And the circumstances weren't helping. Too good to concentrate on the fading memory of a stranger. Warrick kept kissing him, not touching him anywhere else. Toreth's skin felt cool, acutely aware of every air current in the room. The hairs on his arms and legs prickled, on and off, nerves firing randomly at phantom touches. He'd forgotten about the ropes on his wrists until he tried to move his arms and couldn't. Toreth tightened his grip on the smooth wood.

Come on, you bastard. Touch me. Soft lips, hard pressure of teeth behind then, tongue in his mouth, teasing him. Really fucking good kisses, but he wanted more, needed more. Surprise made him hit the back of his head against the headboard as Warrick's hands landed lightly on his shoulders. He gasped, taking down the air from Warrick's simultaneous laugh. Warrick stroked down his arms to the crooks of his bent elbows, then up to his wrists, his fingers coming to rest on the ropes. They stayed there, rubbing over and around, into the palms of Toreth's hands, over his knuckles, across the posts, always slipping back to the ropes and knots. It wasn't unpleasant the semi-tickle made the muscles in his neck and shoulders twitch, which in turn had some weird autonomic nervous system synergy going on with his cock but it made him more aware of the ropes. A part of his brain he couldn't shut up kept telling him that he really preferred tying to being tied. Still, however he felt about it, the New Year present was going over well. Warrick was breathing faster now, kisses turning sloppy and careless. Toreth turned his head away, pushed forwards to find Warrick's ear. "Fuck me. Fuck my mouth." Warrick whimpered, his hands stilling, then he breathed,"Again." "I want you to fuck my mouth. Let me taste you." He felt Warrick shake his head. "Not yet." "Warrick " "Not yet." ~~~ Warrick dreamed about this far more than they did it: literal dreams, and the occasional daydream, and in deliberately constructed fantasies. It meant that when it actually happened, on the few, random occasions when Toreth decided to indulge him, it never felt real. It never felt quite as good as the dreams, either. Over the years they had tried it several times. It worked best, oddly, in the Shop, where it pandered to Toreth's exhibitionist streak, as well as providing Warrick with the satisfaction of showing Toreth off. In private the dynamics were off, out of kilter. Toreth wouldn't offer the gift if he objected he was far too selfish and far too much of a hedonist and Warrick knew it. However, Warrick also knew that Toreth didn't really enjoy it, not for its own sake. The sex yes, always, whenever and wherever. The restraint, no. Warrick wished Toreth could really understand it, just once. Not because Warrick wanted to do this often, but because it was so unbelievably good when Toreth did it to him that he wanted to share it. This is how you make me feel. This is why you obsess me. Perhaps there would even be some reassurance in it for Toreth. Not that Warrick wasn't enjoying what he had. The contrast of the ropes and smooth skin against his fingertips was almost enough to drive him insane. He could imagine how good it would feel to be tied like this. Tied and taken. Begging, being controlled. No doubt, before too long, their positions would be reversed. Like the cabinet, the new headboard would always be there, ready for the game. At night, he thought, I'll be able to reach up and touch it. Awareness of the endless future possibilities rippled through him, leaving him suddenly so close

to coming that he had to stop moving, to close his eyes, to hold still and breathe. Toreth's mouth was only a few centimetres from his, and after a moment Warrick had to pull back even further, away from temptation. Unbelievable ridiculous that furniture (he reached out with his fingertips to brush the wood again) could turn him on so much. Except that it had far less to do with the new bed than with the man on it. He opened his eyes and found Toreth watching him, squinting a little because they were still close. After a moment, Toreth smiled slightly, smugly, and closed his eyes again. He moved to straddle Toreth's thighs, and the tip of his cock brushed Toreth's skin below his ribs. His stomach muscles twitched at the touch. Warrick ran his hands along Toreth's arms again, down and back up to his hands, to the ropes. The muscles were tensed, not pulling against the knots because Toreth's fingers were hooked behind the bars of the bed head, holding his arms up so he didn't feel the ropes, the confinement. This was why it was wrong. Warrick leaned down and kissed him again, mouthing over his lips and up to the line of his cheekbone, into his hair and back again. "Relax," he breathed into Toreth's mouth. "Relax." ~~~ Relax? What the hell did that mean? He was relaxed, Toreth thought with a twinge of irritation, tightening his grip on the bed. Having a naked man rubbing himself all over Toreth's body was about the best relaxant available outside a pharmacy. What the bloody hell did Warrick want from him? Toreth knew Warrick was waiting for something, but Toreth had no idea what and he didn't think that asking would help. He was here, he was in the bed, he was tied to the fucking thing, and he didn't really have much of a clue as to what more he could do. It was all up to Warrick now. It annoyed him a little because he hated the uncertainty of not having a plan laid out ahead of him. Outside the game he'd got used to fucking with no rules years ago. Or almost. At least he could easily ignore the perfectly ridiculous twinges of unease it generated, the bizarre sense of danger he still sometimes felt when they were just being together and when, for a moment, it would be like walking on too-thin ice over deep, cold water. As long as he didn't think about it afterwards, which he never did, it was fine. The feeling would come and go, a hard, fast cramp of fear, and then he would forget it just as quickly. The game usually felt safer than that. Today he'd set up what Warrick had wanted. What, in fact, he'd described in loving detail while Toreth had been fucking him into the very mattress they were now lying on, although in a different frame. It should be perfect, except that now they were here Warrick had promptly changed the script. Too late in the fucking day now the ropes were tied. No, there really was nothing Toreth could do to Then, finally, he understood. Not whatever it was about the ropes that turned Warrick on which was probably impossible but that the ropes didn't matter, that at this moment they were absolutely not the point. Relax, Warrick had said, but what he'd meant was surrender. Everything would be fine. In fact, everything would probably be absolutely fucking wonderful, but even if it wasn't, that wasn't Toreth's problem. Not his responsibility, not this time. Because, really, fucking wasn't so complicated that it needed two people in charge.

If there was one person in the world Toreth ought to be able to trust to do this, or anything else, properly, it was control-freak, perfectionist Warrick, who probably couldn't force himself to do less than his best with a gun on him. So. Relax. With the resolution made, it was easier to carry out than he'd expected. A lot of muscles he hadn't even noticed were tensed relaxed all together. His fingers ached from holding on to the bed, although he hadn't noticed until then, and taking the weight of his arms on the soft cotton rope around his wrists was actually a relief. ~~~ Warrick had had an idea once more fantasy than serious intent of making a Toreth-Yes in the sim. It had never gone beyond fantasy because he acknowledged that the concept was, frankly, deeply unhealthy. The corporate psychologists would not approve. But the one thing he'd most wanted to see, the one thing he would have happily spent hours working in the sim to create, was this. Real surrender. Unspoken, implicit trust that was almost as much of a turn on as Toreth's closed eyes, the warm skin under Warrick's hands, the mouth open to his. He drank in the sight, touching Toreth gently, randomly, not quite believing the gift. "Can you turn over?" Warrick asked. "Mm-mh." It took him a couple of tries, but Toreth managed it, ending up kneeling with his arms crossed. Warrick watched, not moving to help because Toreth looked so incredible muscles sliding under his skin, so beautifully defined it was like looking at a computer generated image. It's not real, he thought. The evening can't possibly be real. Maybe this is the sim. Touching didn't actually prove anything about reality but he ran his hands slowly down Toreth's back. This time he didn't flinch away, didn't move at all, not even when Warrick trailed his fingertips lightly back up Toreth's sides. He simply waited, head bowed, breathing a little quickly, letting Warrick do whatever he wanted. Utterly perfect. Now Toreth couldn't see him, Warrick allowed himself to smile, allowed himself to feel everything without reserve. Now, they could begin.

Table of Contents
Cover The Administration Series Mind Fuck
MF Chapter One MF Chapter Two MF Chapter Three MF Chapter Four MF Chapter Five MF Chapter Six MF Chapter Seven MF Chapter Eight MF Chapter Nine MF Chapter Ten MF Chapter Eleven MF Chapter Twelve MF Chapter Thirteen MF Chapter Fourteen MF Chapter Fifteen MF Chapter Sixteen MF Chapter Seventeen MF Chapter Eighteen MF Chapter Nineteen MF Chapter Twenty MF Chapter Twenty-One MF Chapter Twenty-Two MF Chapter Twenty-Three MF Chapter Twenty-Four MF Chapter Twenty-Five MF Chapter Twenty-Six MF Chapter Twenty-Seven MF Chapter Twenty-Eight MF Chapter Twenty-Nine MF Chapter Thirty MF Chapter Thirty-One

1 2 3
4 7 13 19 30 35 47 56 73 78 89 106 112 118 126 134 144 150 163 168 178 182 189 196 202 209 221 228 235 241 254

Unlucky Break Friday

258 267

Pancakes Surprises
Conversation Taste Test I May Forget Birthdays, But . . . Conversation (Reprise)

274 306
307 312 316 342

Family Mirror Mirror Game, Set

GS Chapter One GS Chapter Two GS Chapter Three GS Chapter Four GS Chapter Five GS Chapter Six GS Chapter Seven GS Chapter Eight GS Chapter Nine GS Chapter Ten GS Chapter Eleven

347 384 394

395 398 404 409 414 422 427 432 443 449 461

As Long As It Lasted Fuck of the Day Wine, Women, and Cushions Playing With Fire
PWF Chapter One PWF Chapter Two PWF Chapter Three

465 474 476 487

488 498 509

All Work And No Play

Cattle Market Doubles

520
521 533

Gee Shopping & Fucking

Shopping Fucking Icing On The Cake

545 552
553 563 573

Pool School Without The Game

585 595

Control Chapter One

Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five

599 600
611 633 642 661

Wait For It
Day One Day Two Day Six Day Seven

676
677 682 683 687

Caged Unaccustomed As I Am . . . Helen Shopping, No Fucking Losing It Quis Custodiet . . .

QC Prologue QC Chapter One QC Chapter Two QC Chapter Three QC Chapter Four QC Chapter Five QC Chapter Six QC Chapter Seven QC Chapter Eight QC Chapter Nine QC Chapter Ten QC Chapter Eleven QC Chapter Twelve QC Chapter Thirteen QC Chapter Fourteen QC Chapter Fifteen QC Chapter Sixteen QC Chapter Seventeen QC Chapter Eighteen QC Chapter Nineteen QC Epilogue

698 708 711 721 725 742

743 746 750 756 761 765 768 776 781 784 789 795 806 809 820 830 833 841 849 855 860

Gratuitous Kink

863

Gratuitous Epilogue Then And Now Friends In The Right Places Smoke and Cameras Sunday First Against The Wall
FATW Chapter One FATW Chapter Two FATW Chapter Three FATW Chapter Four FATW Chapter Five FATW Chapter Six FATW Chapter Seven FATW Chapter Eight FATW Chapter Nine FATW Chapter Ten FATW Chapter Eleven FATW Chapter Twelve FATW Chapter Thirteen FATW Chapter Fourteen FATW Chapter Fifteen FATW Chapter Sixteen FATW Chapter Seventeen FATW Chapter Eighteen FATW Chapter Nineteen FATW Chapter Twenty FATW Chapter Twenty-One

888 891 898 912 926 928

929 948 962 983 997 1012 1026 1043 1060 1067 1079 1092 1103 1117 1131 1146 1154 1158 1164 1171 1182

Family Values
FV Chapter One FV Chapter Two FV Chapter Three FV Chapter Four FV Chapter Five FV Chapter Six FV Chapter Seven FV Chapter Eight FV Chapter Nine FV Chapter Ten

1185
1186 1192 1202 1206 1213 1222 1234 1248 1261 1268

FV Chapter Eleven FV Chapter Twelve FV Chapter Thirteen FV Chapter Fourteen FV Chapter Fifteen FV Chapter Sixteen FV Chapter Seventeen FV Chapter Eighteen FV Chapter Nineteen FV Chapter Twenty FV Chapter Twenty-One

1273 1279 1285 1295 1315 1325 1330 1334 1344 1349 1354

Boy's Toys Make It A Surprise

1367 1377