The Administration Series (234 page)

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.