The Administration Series (182 page)

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. Official-looking 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."

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.