The Administration Series (133 page)

"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.

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.