Then he sat back, his mouth dry and his heart pounding.
Whatever reaction he'd expected, laughter wasn't it. It took a good minute for the para-investigator to get himself back under control. "I never knew there were idealist drugs." He shook his head, still chuckling. "No wonder the resisters I meet are all so fucking miserable."
Greg had no idea what to say. That kind of thing never failed to get an angry rise out of his parents, his father especially.
"Do you really believe that crap?" Toreth asked.
"Of course."
"And I thought you were supposed to be smart. Or did you parents buy your way into Cambridge?"
He ignored the goad. "They'll get me out of here, you know."
"Or Christofi might get to keep you." Toreth leaned back in his seat. "But you're probably right. It doesn't matter to me — it pays the same either way."
Greg tried to read his expression. As he did so, he realised that he'd never really looked at Toreth before. Since the door to his college room had opened, he'd seen only the uniform; even in the car on the way down, he'd been more worried about what might happen to Ali. Now Greg was trying to find the man, and failing. It was like looking into a well — a cold, empty darkness, showing fractured glimpses of something almost human, a long way beyond his reach.
He shook his head slightly. God, this place really was freaking him out.
As if to prove that, a soft chime sounded, making him jump. Nerves, he chided himself.
The noise was the para-investigator's comm. He listened to his earpiece in silence for a while, then finally said, "Yes, sir." He stood. "Come on."
"Are there so few serious crimes in the city that you have the time spare to spend chasing children for taking a few illegal substances? I wish to know the names of everyone responsible for this outrage. Who carried out the arrest, who ordered it, who gave
them
permission.
Everyone
."
Greg didn't remember seeing his mother in such a magnificent temper for a long time. His parents must have been out somewhere; his mother was dressed in her favourite long fur. She was beautiful — everyone always said so, although Greg didn't often notice it. Right now she looked like a sleek, angry she-animal — a mink defending her cub — as she faced down the looming para-investigator. Greg's father stood nearby with his usual air of coiled watchfulness.
His parents were like fire and ice, and Greg couldn't believe how glad he was to see them.
The para-investigator was listening patiently to her diatribe, his face still unnervingly unreadable.
"Ms Ballester," Toreth said finally, "the Political Crimes section arrested several of your son's associates tonight in connection with an investigation into active recruitment of resisters, premeditated sedition, and the wilful dissemination of anti-Administration materials within the university. All serious criminal offenses."
That stopped his mother dead. "Gregory? Is this true?"
"They came to the college, yes. I don't know who they arrested." Who
had
been picked up? Not everyone, surely?
His father stepped forwards. "Answer the question, Gregory."
He dropped his gaze. "Yes, it's true."
"Did you have anything to do with it? With the political part?"
Greg looked up at his father and squared his shoulders. "Yes."
There was a long silence before his father said, "Para-investigator, might I have a word with you in private?"
The two of them moved to the other end of the room, leaving Greg with his mother.
Now came the exercise of privilege, Greg thought. The word in the right place from the right person which could put people above the law. He'd written leaflets denouncing it, but much as Greg hated the whole thing, he had to admit a sneaking relief that he'd be out of here soon.
The low voices continued.
"Are you all right?" his mother asked.
"I'm fine." He thought about telling her about Ali, maybe asking for help for her — now didn't seem like the right time.
Toreth tapped his comm. Almost at once, a guard opened the door.
"Take the prisoner back to the interview room," Toreth said. When the man hesitated, Toreth pointed to Gregory. "No need to cuff him."
"You can't do that!" Gregory's mother said.
"Ms Ballester, I can. And I am doing. Your son isn't under formal arrest — not yet. Senior Para-investigator Christofi will speak to you when he returns. Until then, if you have any further questions I'm sure the section head of Political Crimes will be delighted to answer them."
Numb with surprise, Greg accompanied the guard out of the room.
"Sit down and wait," the guard said when they reached the room. Then he went back into the corridor and closed the door.
It looked to be the same room, but there were probably dozens exactly like it. The door was locked. The table and chairs were secured to the floor. The screen had no obvious controls. Greg sat and waited, wondering what had happened to Ali and how long it would take his parents to get him out.
'Your son isn't under formal arrest — not yet'.
'Not yet'.
It couldn't happen. His parents wouldn't let it happen.
His watch said an hour had passed when the door opened again.
Toreth entered, alone, and sat opposite him.
"What's happening?" Greg asked.
"Christofi's back and he still wants you transferred." Toreth yawned and checked his watch. "And I should've gone home half an hour ago. Other than that, nothing that concerns you."
"Sorry to keep you here."
That failed to draw a smile. "Want something to watch?" Toreth asked after a moment. He expanded his hand screen. "I've got to wait until everything calms down, so I might as well entertain you."
The wall screen came to life, divided up into sections. Greg looked between the faces, not for the people that were there, but hoping that there were some that weren't. He felt sick. Now he knew what 'several of your son's associates' meant. Everyone. They had everyone. Even Tam's new girlfriend. He couldn't remember her name — she'd only come along to the last meeting because she and Tam were going somewhere afterwards. She'd spent the time writing an essay. He wondered if telling the para-investigator that would do any good.
Only Ali was missing, and he didn't know if that was good or not. Did they think she wasn't involved, that she was just sleeping with the corporate heir? Or was she somewhere else? Somewhere worse than the interview rooms he was allowed to see?
Toreth touched his hand screen again, and sounds joined in with the pictures. Feeds from each interrogation, one at a time, moving slowly through the rooms. A minute with one friend, a minute with another. Almost everyone sounded to be talking. What they had done — leaflets posted around campus, meetings, 'net discussion sites and anonymous mail-outs. He caught his own name mentioned, but not yet Ali's.
After they had cycled through everyone once, Greg put his head in his hands.
"Shut up," he whispered. "Shut
up
."
Toreth laughed, short and cold. "Enjoy the show — I'll be back."
This time he was gone for only five minutes, during which Greg tried and failed not to listen to the collapse of the fledging resistance group. He could look away from the screen, but he couldn't ignore the sounds, and putting his hands over his ears would be childish. If the other rooms were on camera, this one could be too, and he wouldn't give them the satisfaction.
Tam was talking about his girlfriend — trying to excuse her involvement and digging them both in deeper with every word.
Greg had met Tam's parents once, when they'd come up to take Tam out to dinner on his nineteenth birthday. They'd been awed by the college and so proud of their son: that he'd won the scholarship that had got him there at all, that he was doing well academically, that he was fitting in. That he'd made respectable friends. Neither of them was the kind of person Greg was used to mixing with, but they'd been good people. Good citizens. This would kill them.
Greg didn't look up when the door opened and closed, until the smell of coffee made him lift his head.
"I brought you a drink," Toreth said as he sat again. "I doubt it's what you're used to, but it's all there is."
The coffee was revolting, but at least it was hot, and it gave him something to do other than watch his friends betraying each other.
When he'd finished the coffee, the sound feed switched back to Tam's interrogation. He was crying now, looking down, fighting the sobs like a child trying to hide tears he's been told he'll be punished for.
'If you don't stop that noise, I'll give you something to cry about' had been a favourite threat of Greg's great-grandmother, although she'd been far too soft-hearted to ever carry it through.
Suddenly, he couldn't bear it any longer. "Will you — please, would you switch it off?"
The para-investigator smiled faintly. "Of course."
The screens went blank.
"It was just posters, that's all," Greg said. "That's the most we ever did."
"You were breaking the law, though. You were spreading sedition. You knew that, didn't you?" He tilted his head, curiosity surfacing, like a man contemplating a mildly interesting puzzle.
"Yes." Something about the scrutiny compelled him to try to explain. "But we didn't . . . we didn't mean any harm, not really. It wasn't serious. It was hardly even ideological, just sticking two fingers up at the college — at authority. It was only . . . "
"Only a game?"
He nodded.
Toreth drained his own coffee and stood up.
"Come on. I want to show you something."
They went down three levels in the lift. When it stopped, Toreth pressed the hold button. "Sorry about this, but I have to cuff you. No unsecured prisoners on the interrogation levels."
Greg held out his hands, and he couldn't stop a shiver as the metal closed round his wrists. Toreth smiled slightly.
"Okay." He pressed another button and the door opened.
The first thing that hit Greg as he stepped out was the smell — a harsh, chemical grace note to every breath of air, without even a pretense of perfume to cover it. It brought back vivid memories of his great-grandmother's last days in the hospital. She had been his father's grandmother, and right to the end she'd been too proud to take a cent of his mother's family's money. The Administration-run basic care facility had had this same smell, and he wondered if all Administration buildings used the same disinfectant.
A pair of security guards sat in a glass-enclosed reception booth beside a heavy security door. Toreth showed his ID.
"Transfer, Para?" a guard asked.
"Little tour for a guest," Toreth said.
The guard grinned, unpleasantly feral. "Try one-six-seven. They're six hours into a level eight."
"I know, if that's Don Chevril."
The man checked a screen. "That's right, Para."
The door opened, and Greg hesitated.
"Move," Toreth said quietly.
"Where are we going?" Greg asked as they started down the long grey corridor.
"To see the place you'll end up if you keep playing fucking stupid games."
Greg didn't ask. It was very quiet, the grey plastic flooring dulling their footsteps and killing echoes. They'd taken a turn that put the entrance out of sight when a door a little way ahead opened. As they drew level Greg caught a glimpse of a white room and movement before a woman dressed as a medic stepped through and closed the door. She looked round and saw them, and her face lit up.
"Toreth!"
"Oh — evening, Mandy."
She glanced at Greg. He saw her gaze light on his cuffs then lift dismissively away. "Do you have a moment, Toreth? If you're not busy."
"Not at all." Toreth's voice had become warmer, more conversational. "What can I do for you?"
"Did I hear that you've been given a second junior para post on your team?"
"Good news travels. There's still some paperwork, but I'm planning to pick out a fresh one in October." He raised an eyebrow. "Any particular reason?"
She smiled. "Yes, of course. Someone I know has a son finishing his training this year. Joel Starr. I was hoping you might be able to give him a chance at a place."
"Send the name to Sara and I'll have a look at his training records." Toreth held his hand up. "No promises, mind."
She nodded. "I understand completely. Thanks. See you around."
She headed off the way they had come — going home, perhaps, and Greg envied her. As they started walking again, he realised that after the initial scrutiny she hadn't even glanced at him again. It was as if the cuffs had made him invisible.
They met a few other people, including a couple more medics, but mostly men in black suits like waterproof overalls. No noises came from the rooms they passed — the security doors probably muffled most sounds. They also passed corridors, both crosses and T-junctions. After half a dozen turns, Greg was thoroughly lost. The doors and corridors were labelled in numbers and letters, but he couldn't catch the pattern. 'C' was prominent; he was still trying to work the rest out when Toreth stopped by a door labeled 'C167-O'.
"Here we are."
He swiped the door, and it opened. Greg recoiled at the choked scream which shattered the silence of the corridor.
An expert push sent him stumbling through the doorway, and he reflexively tried to bring his hands up to cover his ears. The crossbar of the cuffs caught him hard on the mouth, and he tasted blood. The door closed behind him and he turned sideways, against the wall, trying to find a hiding place from the awful noise.
The para-investigator grabbed his upper arm and forced him round. "Look."
It took a few moments for the glass to register. The window filled most of the left-hand wall of the small room. The space they stood in was unlit, but the much larger area beyond the glass was bright white. A woman, strapped into a solid chair, threw her head back and screamed again. Her short hair, matted with sweat, was brunette. Her face, under the bruises and blood, might once have been young and pretty.