The Administration Series (179 page)

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?

• 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
  

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?"