The Administration Series (52 page)

"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 . . . thirty-two.

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 sun-drenched 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.