‘And that sentence right there,’ he said, ‘is why you’re Head of Military and not Chief Scientist. You clearly have no appreciation for the complexities involved with building a factory that produces armies of imitation humans.’

‘That and you’re still alive. For now.’

‘Oliver,’ Grant said with a discreet laugh, ‘don’t threaten your closest colleague.’

‘Why not? Iain and Nat fought all the time. I’ll sign this contract, but I’m not becoming his new best friend.’

Roth grabbed a fountain pen that Grant had left next to his papers, and found the dotted line.

Then something strange happened. He had not heard McCormick’s voice for a month, and had only heard it for one evening, but he recognised it when it entered his head.

The world is full of young people who think their futures are already decided, just because they’ve been instructed to believe it.

It had been one of McCormick’s sentences that Roth had tried to ignore. Even now, he did his best.

Even though we don’t get to decide what happens to us, we do get to choose how we respond. And even if people tell you your future is predestined…

Roth shook his head, and hoped that Grant wouldn’t notice.

He remembered his miniature breakdown on the night McCormick died: when he came to realise that he had already made every meaningful decision that would decide the course of his life. When he had realised that, in all likelihood, it really was too late for him.

Helplessly obedient to his boss, despite being the only person in the room with an assault rifle, Oliver Roth signed on the dotted line. And just like that, he became the second most powerful person in the whole of Great Britain.

‘Ok, job done,’ Pearce said, stretching his arms. ‘Can I go now?’

‘Has Gwen arrived?’

‘Not as yet.’

‘Then no, you can’t.’

Roth smiled. He didn’t know much about Gwen Crossland, except for her now-famous work on the Ginelli Project, but he knew to keep his distance from her. After Marshall’s death, someone in Grant’s health department recommended her to Roth as a psychotherapist who might help him. Roth had obviously declined: the less influence that tiny well-spoken Womble had over his brain, the better off he would be.

Suddenly, she was there. Standing in the entrance, next to Nathaniel Pearce.

Bloody hell, she even moves like a bloody poltergeist.

‘Nicholas,’ she said, although her lips barely moved.

‘Nick,’ Grant corrected her. ‘Are you ready?’

‘My bags are packed, and my equipment is in safe hands. But my work on Floor G is not yet complete.’

‘How long, do you think?’

Roth noticed how polite Grant was being to Gwen Crossland. He could not tell whether it was genuine politeness to a lady from his own generation, or politeness inspired by fear.