The Administration Series (180 page)

"Nothing I can think of, no. And believe me, I'm trying."

He grinned in the dark. "Let me know if you do. Until then, I'll say what, and you can tell me how much."

"Oh, for God's sake." Then Chevril shrugged, and hissed through his teeth. "Hellfire, that hurts. All right, go on."

"Blowjob."

"Bloody hell! Couldn't you give me some warning before you say something like that in my ear?"

"I did. Blowjob. I get to come in your mouth. How much?"

"You don't have enough to persuade me to put it
in
my mouth, never mind anything else."

"Chev, it's hypothetical. I've got however much it takes. You don't have to swallow."

"Urgh, that's just . . . no. I couldn't. Really. I'd be sick."

Toreth let the silence stretch out. Chevril and money made a reliable combination.

"Ten thousand," Chevril said eventually.

"Eight?"

"Ten. I said ten, and I meant ten. And I'd still puke."

"Okay. That was giving, how about taking?"

"Um . . . God, that's almost worse."

"Close your eyes, you wouldn't know it wasn't Elena. Except that I'm probably better at it."

A chilly silence — literally and metaphorically — then Chevril said, "Leave Elena out of this."

"Sorry." He wondered briefly if it was outside her repertoire, before deciding that asking would be a good way to end the conversation. "But it's not that different, honestly."

"Five, then."

"Five
thousand
? Fucking hell."

"When I said 'revolting', I meant it. Whatever it felt like, I'd still know it was you."

"Fair enough. How about fucking, then? Proper fucking."

"Meaning what, exactly?"

"I fuck you in the arse, I come inside you, and you come too."

"I wouldn't."

"You would. It's just reflexes. Obviously enthusiasm helps, but you'd come in the end. How much to let me fuck you?" And he had to admit he was getting more interested in the idea. What would Chevril be like as a fuck? "I'd be quick."

"There isn't enough money in the Administration," Chevril said firmly.

"Sure?
Any
amount?"

Silence again, then, "Yes."

"How about you fucking me?"

He felt Chevril move, turning his head to look over his shoulder — pointlessly, because it was still blacker than midnight.

"You do that?"

"Of course I do. Why wouldn't I?"

"
I
don't know. It just seems . . . not you. I mean, it's a well understood fact in the section that you'll do anything, with anyone. But . . . I suppose I can't imagine someone so bloody competitive wanting to be on the bottom for anything."

Toreth started to laugh, but pain quickly cut it short. "It's not like that," he said when he'd got his breath back. "It's something to do, that's all — a question of taste. Some men prefer one or the other, some of the time. I fuck more than I am fucked, but I enjoy it both ways."

"If you say so." Chevril still sounded vaguely put out by the idea — spoiling his preconceptions, perhaps. "What's-his-name does it to you? Your rich corporate?"

For a moment, he was tempted to tell Chevril to leave Warrick out of it, but that would just have been tit for tat — talking about fucking Warrick was a topic he always enjoyed.

"Yeah, sometimes."

"I heard — " And he stopped abruptly.

"Heard what?"

"Oh, just rumours. Coffee room stuff. That he was into all sorts of kinky shit, whips and chains, and that's why he was with you in the first place. Interrogator junkie."

Except when it was phrased like that. "Yes to the kinky shit, no to the interrogator junkie. I don't need to do that to get a fuck. He hates me working here."

"Hates it? So why's he still hanging around?"

"Because I'm the best fuck in the solar system."

Chevril laughed, and then groaned. "Oh, Jesus, don't make me do that. Toreth, you can't build a relationship on sex and nothing else. It wouldn't work."

Or I bet that's what Elena says, right before she tells you she's got a headache. "Suit yourself. I must be imagining fucking him and nothing else for the last however many years it is. Anyway, you never answered the question: how much to fuck me? Tell you what, I'll do myself, so you won't even have to touch my cock."

"Oh, hell, I don't know. If you could get me out of here, I'd do it for free."

He sounded pissed off and exhausted, so Toreth dropped it. Again, he thought about moving, but he simply didn't have the energy.

No sound in the cell now but breathing and the cycling air. The quiet brought with it a new awareness of the blackness, pressing close around them. He wished that he hadn't taken off the blindfold.

"Have you got any idea how long it's been since it started?" Toreth asked.

"No bloody idea at all." Chevril shifted against him. "Days. I'm more worried about how much longer it'll be before someone opens the door and . . . " Silence for a moment, then Chevril said, "Do you think they'll execute us?"

"Probably. Maybe. Fuck, I don't know. What do you think?"

Chevril said nothing, but Toreth felt him nod. After a minute he heard a hitch in Chevril's breathing. A few seconds later he felt a second suppressed sob. However, that, to his great relief, was it — Chevril's breathing steadied, although he still shook slightly.

Cold, that's all.

Cold could kill, though. Would kill, in the end, as surely as bullets or bleeding. Through the fog of exhaustion Toreth tried to recall the course he'd taken years ago on temperature management in detention and interrogation. All he could dredge up was that shivering was a good sign, or at least a better one than stopping shivering.

How many hours had they been locked in here? How much longer would it be before they ended up like Sed? He almost didn't care — he'd never felt so thoroughly miserable in his whole life. He curled up closer to the other man, the difference in their heights meaning that he could rest his chin on top of Chevril's head. He expected a protest, but none materialised.

Toreth closed his eyes, shutting out the darkness. He'd been trying not to think about Warrick, but now, drifting closer to sleep despite the pain, he couldn't help it.

They'd argued, when he'd last seen Warrick, about something stupid and trivial and entirely Toreth's fault. As usual he'd been late showing up, but this time after he'd promised to be punctual. He should've made it up then and there. (Or he shouldn't have been late in the first place, but that was getting ridiculous.) He hadn't bothered to make up, that was the thing. It hadn't mattered, or so he'd thought — if he left Warrick alone for a day or two, he'd cool down by himself.

All it would've taken was Toreth not walking out. Then they could've rowed properly and fucked afterwards, still hot and angry, and it would've been as great as it always was. He'd still be lying cuffed on the floor of this filthy, freezing, stinking cell, bruised and thirsty and starving, with a corpse and the straightest man on God's green Earth for company, but at least he would've had one more fantastic fuck in his life.

God, he missed Warrick — wanted him. Just sleeping next to him would be enough right now. To have Warrick's warm body beside him, to able to smell him, kiss him, touch him, skin rubbing against skin . . . well, maybe not
just
sleeping, then. Why waste a beautiful bed? Imagining the unimaginably comfortable mattress and fresh sheets, clean-smelling and soft. Holding Warrick close, whispering to him, fucking him slowly, making it last for both of them, hearing him moan with every —

"I can feel that, you know," Chevril said.

He was back in the cell, cold and aching. "It has nothing to do with you — I was thinking about someone else. Move away, if you don't like it."

"I'm too bloody cold. Just don't
do
anything with it."

Sometimes you have to laugh. Even when it hurts.

"Oh, Christ, look at that!"

Disgusted voices woke him, and he rolled half away from Chevril before pain stabbed through him, pinning him into stillness and leaving him gasping for breath. His ribs, his pounding head, his hip where it had been pressed against the hard floor — these were islands standing out from a wide sea of pain. Beside him, Chevril tried to sit up, and fell back, groaning.

"Not you, him. Get up."

Toreth blinked at the light from the open door. As far as he could see, the guard was pointing to him. If he wasn't, he'd soon find out. He seemed to have guessed right, because when he finally made it to his feet, one of the guards took hold of him and dragged him out. Toreth struggled to keep himself upright, hampered by the restraints around his ankles and the agonising stiffness in his muscles. The sharper pain in his side snatched at his breathing and he fought the urge to cough.

"Come on," the guard said.

Too stupefied with exhaustion to think straight, Toreth muttered, "I'm coming as fast as I fucking can."

He vaguely expected to get hit for it, but he wasn't. That should have caught his attention, made him wonder where they were taking him, but he was too thoroughly worn out to care about where, only how far.

In the end, it was a mercifully short distance. The guards pushed him through an open doorway, sending him stumbling again, and stayed outside.

An interrogation room, white and stark, and one person waiting for him.

Sara.

Surprise snapped him awake. He hadn't dared hope that he'd see her again. And he'd never imagined it would feel this good, and this awful: overwhelming relief that she was alive followed at once by the fear of what might happen next. She wasn't visibly bruised, but she looked pale and terrified, her hair messy and her face smudged with dirt. When she saw him she nearly screamed, swallowing the sound before it escaped.

"Toreth? Oh, God."

He wanted to put his arms round her, but he couldn't. Instead, with a glance at the guards, he went over and kissed her.

She'd obviously been crying, tear tracks showing in the grime on her face, and she was starting to cry again now.

"Shh." He lowered his voice. "Don't make a fuss. Don't attract attention."

She nodded, sniffling. Her hands were cuffed too, so he offered his filthy sleeve for her to wipe her face.

"I thought you were dead," she whispered.

He forced a smile. "You don't get rid of me that easily. Do you know what's going on?"

"I've been locked up since it happened." She darted a frightened glance at the doorway. "They separated out the admins and took us away, by sections. They put us in one of the coffee rooms. No one knew anything much."

"How long has it been?"

"Four days." She frowned at him. "Didn't you . . . ?"

He shrugged, then wished he hadn't. "I lost my watch. Besides which, it's tricky to look at one when you're cuffed. In the dark."

"In the dark? Jesus! All this time?"

"More or less. And those were the better parts, really. Did you see anything on the way down here?

"Christ, yes." She shuddered. "Toreth, there's . . . such a mess. You should see the upper interrogation levels. You can't imagine. It looks like they killed . . . they killed everyone. Not just the interrogators — the admins too, even the medics.
Everyone
. There's blood everywhere. So
much
blood. And God, the smell — " She stopped, coughing, nearly retching. "They were still clearing the bodies away when they brought me through, down here. That's when I was sure . . . that you'd be dead too."

"They got me coming out of the level two entrance. I finished the interrogation early so I was on my way to the gym. Lucky fucking break. What about the other paras? And the investigators?"

"I don't know." Her gaze dropped. "There were a few with us, but they were . . . taken away. On the second day — early Saturday morning." She looked up, her eyes pleading for good news. "I hoped you might've seen some of them."

"'Fraid I didn't see much at all. The bastards were in a hurry to get into the main building — " And massacre the interrogation level staff. "So they threw me in with a load of specialists from Corporate Fraud. Chean was telling anyone who'd stand still for five seconds that they were all nothing more than number crunchers. The resisters weren't treating them too badly, at least then."

Toreth nodded down at the senior para badge on his shoulder. "I didn't think to ditch my jacket, but a few hours later they picked out the interrogators and paras whether they were in uniform or not. After that everything got a lot less fun."

"But you didn't see anyone at all from our section?"

"Chevril. He's alive, but he's not good. Sedanioni was in the cell with us — she died last night. Nothing we could do for her. That's everyone I know about. I left Starr in interrogation with my prisoner, so he would've been down there when — " He stopped. That wasn't what she'd want to hear. "Nagra was over at Justice with B-C when it started. They'll be okay." If Justice hadn't been hit too.

She still looked stricken, so he tried to think of something more optimistic for her. "There's a chance for all the others, too. If the resisters concentrated on the Interrogation levels."

It was the best he could do, but he shouldn't have said it. She went pale again — or rather, paler, and Toreth remembered his own thoughts earlier. Tidying up loose ends, eradicating the survivors. He was an interrogator, or at least he'd trained as one, and that was in his file. Now he was a para, and as far as any resisters were likely to be concerned, paras were as much torturers as anything else. Sara was his admin. How far was it going to go?

Why had they been picked out, the two of them? It couldn't be a coincidence.

Warrick. The only reason he could think of was Warrick. If whatever fuck-up had happened at I&I hadn't engulfed the corporations too, maybe he'd managed to do something. He would, if it was at all possible. Toreth hadn't doubted that at any time over what Sara said was the last four days. If Warrick could do anything, he would.

If
he could. Hope was dangerous, and he wasn't going to let it drive him into anything stupid.