The black-uniformed man beside her, his back to the window, stood out shockingly against the harshly-lit white. He had something in one hand — something Greg had never seen before, made of black metal and plastic.
"God," Greg whispered.
A second man, short and grey-haired, sat at a table, reading something on a screen. Greg had to look twice before he could believe it — he was wearing earplugs.
The man by the chair moved, fast and precise, and another scream, hoarse and horrifying, came through the speakers. Greg cringed away again and the fingers digging into his biceps tightened, pulling him away from the wall and up to the glass. When he was only a few centimetres from it, the para-investigator released him and stood behind him, blocking his retreat.
"Can she see us?" Greg asked.
"No."
The relief was as strong as it was ridiculous. The woman didn't look capable of noticing anything, but he couldn't bear the thought of her knowing that she was on display, like an animal in a cage.
It's not for me, he told himself. It's not just a lesson for me. It was happening anyway. The guard said so. Six hours. (God, six
hours
.) She isn't here because of me.
Ali might be, though. Somewhere in the building, Ali might be in a room like this because he'd dragged her into a stupid, pointless show of rebellious bravado without thinking that she didn't have a rich family or the protection of a corporate name.
He heard a movement behind him, then the sounds from the room cut out. The para-investigator's hands landed on Greg's shoulders, and he felt the warmth of a body too close behind him.
"See that?" the para-investigator asked unnecessarily.
Greg nodded, unable to speak.
"Being in that room doesn't depend on what you've done — it depends on what we think you've done. It can take a long, long time to convince us we're wrong. And sometimes even that isn't enough. Sometimes telling us everything you know isn't enough either. That girl — she's going to die in there. She doesn't know it yet, but that's what will happen."
"Why?"
"Good question." He sounded approving. "She helped embarrass someone. A friend of hers tried to blackmail . . . well, let's just say someone who wouldn't be too worried about pissing off your parents. She was the one who got the blackmailer the information he needed."
"She won't give you his name?"
"Oh, no." A soft, obscene chuckle in his ear. "She gave up the name. And once Chev's decided she hasn't got anything else left to give, he'll also make sure she can't embarrass anyone ever again with what she knows."
He leaned even closer, body solid against Greg's. Greg fought to keep still — the only place to go was forwards and the idea of touching the glass made him feel sick. He was sure it would be warm, like skin.
"How much did your suit cost?" Toreth asked.
For a few seconds, surprise made him almost forget the scene in front of him. "What?"
"Come on, it's an easy question. Not like the ones she doesn't know the answers to. How much?"
"I don't know. My — " Greg felt himself flush. "My mother and I went shopping, we went into the shop, they measured me, they made it up. I never asked what it cost."
"Doesn't surprise me: nice fit, pricey material." He rubbed circles over Greg's shoulders with his thumbs. "You've got a cushy life, corporate-boy. Your parents protected you this time and they didn't even know they were doing it. The name was enough. They'll do the same thing the next time, maybe even the time after that. Then, one day, when you've done something stupid enough, they'll have to choose between you and their corporate standing. What do you think they'll do?"
Greg fixed his eyes on the thin trail of blood running down the leg of the chair.
He wanted to say, they'll choose me, of course they will. But something that had been a certainty all his life seemed suddenly hollow. Outside — at home — in college — he would have been sure. Not here. Not underground, in this soundproofed room with a woman he had never met before screaming the last hours of her life away beyond the glass. Had she been someone friendless, like Ali? Had she had protection, like him, which hadn't been enough?
The grip on his shoulders tightened. "Well?"
Hands. He tried not to think about the things those hands had done. "I don't know."
"If I were you, I'd think about that when I was back at college, while I was looking for a new set of friends. Seen enough?"
"Yes." Greg closed his eyes. "Yes, please."
Toreth didn't speak for the whole journey back upstairs, not even in the lift as he unlocked the handcuffs. Greg breathed deeply, concentrating on every breath. As the lift rose it felt like leaving Hell behind — the fading stink of disinfectant playing the part of brimstone.
To his unutterable relief, when the interview room door opened Gregory saw his parents waiting for him. The relief was strong enough that he didn't even object when his mother hugged him and kissed him.
However, when she turned to Toreth, she was all arrogance again.
"We will take our son home now," she said in her best 'speaking to lackeys' voice. "We have spoken to your superiors and cleared up the misunderstanding."
"Ms Ballester, there was no misunderstanding involved. Your son committed a crime — a very serious crime. If he wasn't who he is, or, more to the point, if
you
weren't who you are, he would be under interrogation right now. As it is, he's being given a second chance."
For a moment, Greg thought it would set her off again. Earlier, it had been funny. Now he couldn't shake the memory of the woman below them. Still there. She would still be there, in that room, if she wasn't dead yet.
'Someone who wouldn't be too worried about pissing off your parents'.
It could happen. Rarely, even important corporates might be arrested if they stepped out of the shelter of corporate privilege and acceptable levels of corporate sabotage, and into out-of-control vendettas or political crimes. And as dead sure as he was that neither of his parents would contemplate such a thing for a nanosecond, Greg wanted to grab his mother and warn her to shut up. Riches or prettiness wouldn't have any effect on the para-investigator if he had her down in that interrogation room.
Don't push him. Don't you know what he
is
?
"I'm sure Gregory has learned his lesson from this," his father said smoothly. "Haven't you?"
Greg glanced at Toreth, who raised one eyebrow slightly. It looked almost like a challenge.
"Yes. I won't get mixed up in anything like that again, I promise."
It was the sensible thing to say — the only possible thing — so why did it feel so much like cowardice?
"There you are," his father said. "Is that good enough for you?"
"Of course," Toreth said blandly.
His mother cleared her throat. "I apologise for my earlier manner, Para-investigator. I'm grateful for your efforts to keep Gregory's name clear of this unsavoury matter."
"We're here to protect respectable citizens, Ms Ballester. Even from themselves, if we have to."
Toreth accompanied them all the way to the main reception. Greg felt almost giddy with the relief of escaping from the place. It wasn't until they were actually outside, waiting for the car to arrive, that he remembered.
He walked a few metres away, trying to avoid his mother's gaze, and beckoned Toreth over.
"What . . . what will happen to Ali?" he asked in a low voice.
Toreth looked at him blankly.
"The girl in my room."
"Oh. That depends on whether the others implicate her. Will they?"
Greg bit his lip. It meant implicating her himself, but what else could he do? "They might."
Toreth spread his hands. "Then she'll be interrogated. What happens after that depends on how good a rep she can afford."
"Please, can't you . . ." What the hell could he ask, or offer? Nothing for it but to see how much of a Ballester he was. He squared his shoulders and looked Toreth right in the eyes. "She was never really involved, Para-investigator. If you could find a way to get her out of it, I'd be grateful. I might not have a great deal of personal power now, but I will have, and I'll remember this evening."
To his surprise, Toreth seemed to consider the request. At length he said, "Are you going to stay out of trouble?"
"Yes." God, yes.
He smiled, and this time Greg thought he caught a touch of genuine warmth in his eyes. "Then I'll see what I can do for her." He half turned, as if to go, then paused and touched Greg's arm with his forefinger. "Don't fuck it up, corporate-boy."
Greg nodded and the para-investigator turned away, back through the I&I doors.
"Gregory," his mother called. "The car is here."
The main door closed behind Toreth, and he sighed. A Friday evening wasted nannying idiot corporate brats when he should have spent it fucking Warrick against a handy vertical surface until they were both too knackered to do anything except eat takeaway and surf through Warrick's weirder porn channels. Some of that stuff raised even Toreth's eyebrows, not to mention occasionally crossing his eyes.
He took the lift up to the fourth floor, wondering idly if Warrick claimed the porn subscriptions back on corporate expenses as sim-fuck research.
As he'd hoped, Toreth found Christofi in his office. The general office outside was empty, the admins long since departed. Good. He wanted to keep things smooth with Political Crimes, but he didn't want an audience for the apology. He knocked on the half-open door and went in.
Christofi looked up. There was a moment of tension before he waved Toreth over.
"Sorry about that," Toreth said as he sat down.
The Political Crimes senior shrugged. "I know how it goes. Someone gets twitchy over a big name, and they want to cover their arse. I already got a bollocking from Ravi about not pointing out to him that Gregory Ballester was a scion of the Ballester-Hodders-Simone Inc dynasty. I wonder if he even reads the bloody IIPs."
Toreth nodded. "Ravi must've had a word with Tillotson. Tillotson told me to pick the lad up and hold him for something — anything — until the rest of them were safely locked up."
"Always the bloody same. Don't touch the corporates, and then they wonder where the resisters get their money." Christofi sighed. "Is he gone?"
"Yeah. Off in a corporate car with mummy and daddy. They got here before you did, but when I explained why he was here daddy asked me to give him a scare. I took him down to level C."
"Good." Christofi smiled grimly. "Maybe it'll teach the little bastard not to do it again and waste my surveillance budget."
"Want a drink?"
"Sure." Christofi checked his watch. "Give it ten, and Roth will be along. I hear you had a proper eyeful of her."
Toreth grinned. "I had to send B-C up to the pharmacy for tranquillisers when we got back; he can't cope with that kind of thing. If she's a sample of the undercover agents you send in, I'll start plastering level five with anti-Administration posters myself."
"You'd probably get Wyman — he's next up on the rota."
"Wyman? Could be worse. Roth's not going back into the college, then?"
"Nah." Christofi waved to the screen, where the collection of pictures taken during prisoner processing made a pitiful group. "They're just a bunch of student losers — waste of her time and mine. Half of them will go for reeducation, half will get lawyered out of it. We got a couple of names of contacts outside the college which we might chase up. But 'Alison' will send in a resignation tomorrow. I need Roth on real cases."
"Yeah?" Toreth grinned. That should work out beautifully. He could buy Roth a drink, apologise for the 'take a deep breath' crack, and ask her to drop an in-character note to Gregory which would win him a nice set of brownie points with the brat. It was always handy to have friends in the right places.
Toreth examined the map on the car's screen, trying to work out where the hell it was going. The streets outside were unfamiliar — he'd left the heart of New London behind and moved out into one of the industrial zones.
No obvious destination sprang to mind. Toreth shrugged to himself and sat back. Warrick's instructions had said evening wear, which he had on, and he'd been more or less ready when the car arrived so he'd be on time. There was nothing more he could do except wait.
Eventually the car drew up at a formidable gate, which gave access through an equally formidable wall. An armed guard stepped out of a security station, and Toreth had a moment's unease before he spotted the SimTech logo on the man's shoulder.
He looked at the car, cross-checked something on a hand screen, then tapped on the window.
"ID, please, sir," he said when Toreth opened it.
Toreth handed it over, fairly confident now of where he was.
The ID was evidently acceptable, because the man nodded. "The car will take you up to reception, sir. Please don't stop the car before then, or try to get out. If the car stops by itself at any point, please wait in it — some of the security systems are a little overzealous at the moment."
Toreth sat back as the window wound up, wondering what 'overzealous' meant and how fatal it was likely to be.
Beyond the fence was a large, rectangular building with a discreet SimTech logo on the side. There was, interestingly, no visible entrance. After ten metres the car turned left, directly towards the building, and the road dipped down into a short tunnel. At the far end a pair of heavy security doors opened, and the car drove into a plain room and stopped. The doors slid silently closed behind him.
Get out here? However, there was nothing in the room except the doors behind, another pair of doors ahead, and an assortment of electronics on the walls above.
Jesus. He couldn't remember ever being anywhere with such tight security, not even the high security section of the detention levels at I&I.
After a minute, the door ahead opened and the car moved off.
When it pulled up again, it was beside yet a third set of doors, these were sized for people rather than vehicles. A sign above them announced them to be the entrance to SimTech Production Visitor Reception, so Toreth opened the car door and climbed out. He half expected a pack of slavering Dobermans to materialise. Instead, the doors opened and a SimTech-uniformed security guard stepped through.