The Administration Series (82 page)

Even if it were true, would that change anything? Was that why he was still thinking about Carnac?

No, it wouldn't, and it wasn't. Even without Toreth's track record, bizarrely reassuring in this context, Carnac wasn't a serious threat, for all his 'I find him fascinating' routine. Toreth disliked Carnac, while Carnac's opinion of Toreth didn't seem to leave much room to worry about his showing a long-term interest.

So why hadn't he asked Carnac, politely or otherwise, to stop fucking his . . . whatever?

Because — back to this again — he had to put up with it whether he liked it or not, because Toreth wasn't about to stop. Besides, Toreth would be furious if he heard he'd warned Carnac off, and Warrick certainly didn't trust Carnac to keep his mouth shut about it.

A light touch against his leg made him look down. There was no visible clock in the beach room, and he'd always meant to do something about that — now someone had beaten him to it. On the sand beside him sat a large crab, with a clock face set into its violet shell. Its eyestalks goggled at him briefly, then it clicked its claws.

"Time's up, Doctor Warrick," it said in a voice he recognised as one of the staff's from the Artificial Life lab, and then it sidled down to the water.

Warrick stood up, automatically brushing the sand from his clothes without using his hands, and called up the control panel. He hesitated for a while, though, staring out over the glittering, unreal ocean.

Half an hour of useful sim time wasted in self-indulgent self-absorption. After that investment, he must have solved the problem.

Carnac didn't matter that much, that was his conclusion. If he let himself get obsessed by this one, then the next one would only be worse. Time to get back into the real world and get on with real things. If he ever caught them fucking on a Sunday, then he'd worry.

Life at I&I had settled into a routine; it was still dull and unpleasant, but it allowed Carnac to work more effectively. Coffee breaks, primarily taken in the coffee rooms, were an interruption, but apparently a cultural requirement.

In the interests of completeness, he'd asked Toreth to take him to coffee rooms in various sections. He'd discovered a few things — for one, that General Criminal was by no means the worst place in the building to have coffee. That honour went to the Interrogation levels and the interrogators, who were very like para-investigators, only with fewer interpersonal skills. From a distance, the social dynamics of the freak show might have been of mild interest. While actually sitting in the same room as people discussing difficult prisoners, they made his fingers itch for a heavy blunt object.

As would be expected in a job that was bound to engender a degree of paranoia, I&I employees seemed to conduct an inordinate amount of their business via unofficial interactions. While unsurprising, the observation would fill a space in the report. Whereupon, no doubt, I&I senior management would seize on the fact and try to mandate some kind of reduction in the practice, thereby damaging morale and efficiency. The usual effect of writing an intelligent report and handing it to morons.

He would find the prospect quite depressing, if he didn't so thoroughly despise the lot of them.

They were drinking coffee again when Toreth surprised him with another spontaneous question.

"How long have you been doing this?"

Carnac tipped his head. "That's rather open-ended."

"I meant your job. Socioanalysis."

Interesting question. An oblique approach to discovering his age, or a genuine enquiry? "Counting training, or since I qualified?"

"Either."

"Since I was fully licensed — the end of my first independent case — thirteen years less a few weeks. Since I entered the official training scheme, a little over thirty-seven years."

Toreth blinked. "Fuck, they do start you young."

"Historically, the Division took recruits as old as twelve, but the end results were less satisfactory. I was picked out as having potential by postnatal neural screening. All the initial training and testing was carried out locally." He left the location unspecified, and added a pause, but Toreth didn't ask for details. "Then, after my four-year assessments proved acceptable, I was transferred to the central Socioanalysis training facility and officially enrolled."

"You didn't see your family much, then." He sounded as if he thought that was no bad thing. Not surprising, in view of Sara's indiscretions.

"Controlled visits are permitted — it isn't a prison." Time to try something a little more ambitious. "The arrangements were perfectly satisfactory. I occasionally felt sorry for my siblings, though, overshadowed as they were by my success. My parents were inordinately proud of me."

Silence. Then, "That must have been nice for you." He'd never heard Toreth's voice so dispassionate, not even when he'd been laying out the terms of the damage waiver to his prisoner. He decided not to push that further.

"Feel free to ask anything else," Carnac said.

He thought Toreth might close the conversation, but after a moment he asked, "Is there much of a dropout rate?"

"No. As you can imagine, with the per head investment, the entry screening is rigorous. Neural changes during adolescence account for the greatest number of losses, but these days development is more effectively managed. I benefited from some of the early trials."

Toreth smiled, not very pleasantly. "Sounds like you were quite a lab rat."

"I thought everyone had heard the stories about our training. I've encountered some quite lurid rumours from time to time."

"I don't believe everything I hear. People talk a lot of crap about para training, too. So — " His eyes narrowed. "You're forty-one."

"Yes." Gratifying to have his guess confirmed. "And?"

"And nothing." Toreth shrugged. "You don't look it."

"Thank you."

Another shrug. "Just an observation." He checked his watch and stood up. "I have to get down to interrogation. I won't be long, but one of my junior's cases is wrapping up and I need to sign it off."

"Before you leave, I have a question."

Toreth stopped in the doorway. "What?"

A touch defensive. Good — that would make him more likely to agree to an apparently innocuous request. "I have some free time on Sunday, and I hoped you might be available to help me fill it."

"Oh. Yes, I suppose so. Is that it?"

"Yes. I'll see you later."

Carnac watched him go. Second personal conversation, which hadn't yielded anything that wasn't classic, unsurprising, and absolutely in agreement with his psych file. Still, it was always mildly interesting to see how profound and destructive an effect a childhood could have. He was grateful, at times like this, that his own had been so carefully controlled.

"I want to see my wife."

"As your Justice rep explained to you, that's not possible."

(pause 3 sec)

One of the things that made Sara such a good admin was her talent for multitasking. While proofreading transcripts ready to send off to Justice and painting her nails in preparation for a Friday night out, she had enough attention left over to worry about Toreth. Or to be more accurate, to worry about Carnac and whatever he was planning.

Thinking about Carnac at all made her furious, mostly with herself. How could she have told him those things about Toreth? Tactical gossip was her speciality. She should have known better, been more careful, but she'd felt flattered by his attention, and told him far too much. She wouldn't have blamed Toreth if he'd never spoken to her again. The fact that he'd taken it so well only made her feel worse.

Then, this week, the atmosphere had changed. Carnac was as ingratiating to Toreth as he always had been to the admins. More so, in fact. She didn't like to think there was anything dangerous behind it — even now she knew what the man was capable of she couldn't help responding a little to him when he was deliberately charming. But in her heart she knew he was Up To No Good.

"You'll remain in custody until we've had a chance to question your daughter."

. . . (signal inadequate) . . .

Hell. Abrupt reduction in volume. The microphones needed checking, because they should have compensated. After making a note for maintenance, she manually adjusted the volume, listened, and watched the system add in:

(pause 4 sec) "No. You can't."

She authorised the manual intervention and the transcript started up again.

"I'm afraid we have no choice. We have to have the information."

"She's underage. She — "

"Will be fifteen in three days. We are confident that in this case Justice will give us a waiver for retrospective interrogation. The application is already being processed."

(pause 8 sec)

"Please. She doesn't
know
anything."

"Unfortunate for her, if true. Nevertheless, we will proceed, if we have no alternative."

(pause 10 sec)

"If you cooperate now, there is a possibility of a deal. That possibility stays open for only so long. Three days."

(pause 25 sec)

She allowed her conscious attention to tune out the recording again and watched the transcript. After a while, names, dates and places, all nicely articulated and accurately recorded, began to flow smoothly up the screen. She'd be able to get away early after all if it ran like this to the end.

Really, she shouldn't get involved. The memory of her last foray into helping with Toreth's personal life was still sharp, particularly the part where he'd called her a lying cunt in front of the rest of the office. He was old enough to make his own mistakes and live with the consequences. On the other hand, if he screwed things up with Warrick, the consequences would be unbearable for her to live with. Looked at like that, it was pre-emptive self-defence.

She didn't doubt that he was more than capable of screwing things up. Or, rather, Carnac was more than capable of making him do it, for whatever reason. The unfortunate part was that she simply couldn't think of a way of broaching it with Toreth, not even via her usually reliable method of getting him pissed enough to handle reality.

What could she say to him? Her guess about Carnac's strategy was only a guess, although she felt the evidence analysis system would give it a high confidence. Having been on the receiving end, she recognised the deliberate application of charm, the pleasant and perfectly measured focus of friendly attention. And with Toreth, it had the element she hadn't at the time noticed missing from Carnac's attack on her defences — seduction.

Worse, she'd seen Toreth's response, the slackening of dislike and suspicion, and the growing ease. How could she possibly find the words to warn him?

He's trying to get you involved with him. He's going to string you along until he's finished whatever mind-fuck game he's playing and then he's going to drop you cold and go back to Socioanalysis.

He wouldn't believe her. And, Christ, if he did believe her, he'd kill Carnac. He'd have to. She might not be a spook or even a para, but she knew how Toreth's mind worked. He wouldn't be able to bear the humiliation.

The transcript finished, and she authorised it, filed and submitted. Done for the day — or at least officially done. She tapped on Toreth's door, got no reply, and went in. God, the place
stank
of sex. At their age you'd think they'd have a bit more restraint. Or a bit less stamina.

Toreth was at his desk, alone, folding paper. Half a dozen crumpled origami birds littered the desk.

She thought she'd seen Carnac leave, but she'd better check before she started this. "Is he still here?"

Toreth shook his head. "Come and gone."

"I can tell. You should get some air-freshener."

He just nodded. Not his usual sparkling self, which was worrying. He looked preoccupied, in the way she'd only ever seen him look with Warrick. Please don't let that mean what she thought it meant.

"I was wondering . . . " How should she phrase this?

He looked up. "What?"

"He asked me to arrange some things for Sunday. A taxi booking and lunch. For two."

He grinned briefly. "Yeah. So what? Jealous?"

She shook her head. "Aren't you going somewhere with Warrick on Sunday? Some SimTech thing?"

She braced herself, expecting him to bite her head off for interfering, but there was only silence. Eventually, he said, "How do
you
know?"

"'Cause
you
told me, a few weeks ago. I remember stuff like that, remember?"

"Then you ought to remember it's in the evening." He paused. "I can make both. No problem."

He'd forgotten. Totally and utterly forgotten.

She gave him a deliberately bright smile. "That's okay, then. Sorry to bother you. I'm off, now. See you Monday — have a good weekend."

He didn't even reply.

Back at her desk she gathered her things together and wondered what the hell she was going to do. This was more serious than she'd thought. Two-timing his boyfriends, almost like a normal person. Except that when you thought about who he was, and who the boyfriends were, it was like watching a slow-motion recording of a train accident, the inevitable carnage approaching with plenty of time to appreciate it.