Certainly not Lucas, because Rove, dick or not, was still his boss. And his boss was planning to choose who survived the apocalypse. Lucas swallowed his empathy and stepped forwards to serve the wine.

Rove gave Khan his best smile as Lucas poured, and signalled to the rat escorts to leave. Rove had done his time as man of the people, when it had been politically expedient. His direct line to folk like Billy White wasn’t accidental; he’d made sure to keep that crowd sweet for when he had a use for them. He’d worn the same smile holding pint glasses next to nationalist soap-boxers as he had beside upper-crust heirs out of the Home Counties.

“Mr. Khan,” he said crisply, that friendly expression still on his face. “Or, I should call you Khurram, really? We are, after all, going to be working closely together.” A remarkable thing, that smile, Lucas considered. Despite all his practice, Rove could never entirely escape a hint of piranha in the curve of his lips.

“My name,” Khan muttered, “is Kay. I want my clothes back.”

The smile widened. “As you have been made aware,” Rove said pleasantly, watching Lucas fill the scientist’s glass, “the universe is imploding upon itself. We don’t really have time to indulge that kind of foolishness. When our work is done, I suppose you can pretend whatever you like.”

A little of the old fire flickered in Khan’s eyes like far-off lightning, but then he—she—hunched her shoulders and stared at the wine before knocking back half the glass with an expression that suggested she’d rather it was Scotch. Lucas went out to get the food the rats had brought up. He hoped it wasn’t roast rump of rat.

Rove hadn’t been just another over-privileged profiteer with an inheritance and a few cousins in the House of Lords. Rove was a genuinely smart guy. He invested in computers and data before the world saw that was where the future was. He also invested in vastly complex webs of corporate ownership. So when a pension fund collapsed or personal data was sold en masse, the dirt never splashed high enough to soil the immaculate uppers of his bespoke shoes. He’d cruised through polite society like a shark. You could see the fin and the wake, and it was obvious that Rove was working towards something—but it was never clear what. Lucas knew, of course. Daniel Rove was going to take what he wanted from the sinking ship that was Britain, the whole world and possibly the universe. And…well, this was what he was expounding on when Lucas carried in the steaming tray.

“It’s all maths, Khurram,” Rove explained easily. “Which is providential, because you are one of our premier mathematicians, after all. I need you to work on the equations, find a solution to the mess we’re in now.”