Roth drummed his fingers on the top of the forensic bag one more time, and smiled at Marshall.
‘If Iain’s finished being offended,’ said Grant, ‘we need to discuss the tasks that need completing outside of New London. After that, I believe we’re done here. What needs doing, gentlemen?’
‘How about the external backups I’ve been requesting?’ asked Marshall. ‘The sooner this technology is sent to other Citadels, the safer we’ll be.’
‘You’ll have them,’ answered Grant, ‘but not tonight. And we’ve already been through why.’
‘Why?’ asked Roth, not content with being out of the loop.
‘Because you’re talking about whole chambers full of very large pieces of equipment, and data so complex it can’t simply be emailed. The sheer volume of it all can only be transported across two lanes of empty motorway, which we no longer have anywhere on this island, or via huge freight trains, which are no longer powered. We’ll be able to fit it all on the Sheila, but she won’t be ready for another few weeks.’
Roth smiled at the thought of the Sheila coming into use. It would be a long while after this day had ended, but it was sure to be beautiful once she embarked upon her maiden voyage.
‘In the meantime,’ said Pearce, ‘there are still resources from the test centre that need bringing here. Research papers, computers and the like.’
‘Sorry to break it to you,’ Roth said, his sympathy clearly limited, ‘but a quarter of the retard school was burnt to a crisp when I arrived. A bunch of that stuff will be gone. This guy must have started a fire before he killed himself,’ he finished, patting the top of Raj’s head and looking to Marshall for a reaction.
‘Then we’ll search through the other three quarters,’ answered Pearce.
‘The school’s safely trapped behind a shield,’ said Roth. ‘Why spend time and resources getting anything back?’
‘Because,’ Pearce said with an irritated sigh, ‘someone in their crew might only need to remove their metal earrings to have free access to any surviving research. Some of the paperwork may have been destroyed in the fire, but I want everything else brought back here.’
‘Fine,’ Marshall butted in, ‘I’ll send out some transport. I’ll need to bring the shield down though.’
‘You can do that remotely from the AME computer in your office,’ said Pearce. ‘I’ll tell you when.’
‘Sort it out between you,’ said Grant. ‘Anything else that needs doing outside these walls?’
Roth shrugged, and hoped his colleagues would do the same. There was a bed in his room not far away that awaited his attention.
‘There’s a weapons cache out towards Beaconsfield,’ said Marshall, ‘left over from the days of using quarries as drop-off points between Citadels. Better to bring those weapons inside so they don’t fall into rebel hands.’
‘Start right away.’
‘It’ll take until tomorrow evening, but I’ll start as soon as this meeting is over.’
‘Then it’s over. Keep in touch.’
The white screen reverted back to its countdown, and the background noise from Grant’s microphone fell silent. The meeting was over, and not a moment too soon. Pearce wasted no time in heading to the door, and Roth caught the man’s eyes gazing forlornly at the bin as he passed it.
‘Right,’ said Roth, grabbing the forensic bag in one hand and stuffing it back into his rucksack, ‘it’s been a lovely morning, but I need some sleep. Wake me up when something interesting happens.’
‘Oliver,’ said Marshall, ‘a word, please.’
‘Twat. That’s a word.’
‘Out in the corridor, now.’
Roth rose to his feet and laughed.
‘Why not in here? Because you’re afraid Nick’s still listening? And hi Nick, if you are.’
Marshall didn’t say another word. He walked to the door, grabbing Roth by the shoulder as he passed – tight enough to show his impatience but not tight enough to make it seem aggressive. He took Roth out of the office, found an empty stretch of corridor, and stood him against the wall.
‘Sadism, severed heads and cavalier bad judgement. Not cool, Oliver.’
‘Do you have any idea how much I cringe when an adult tries to use the word “cool”?’
‘My language is not the problem here, Oliver. An experienced war veteran is giving you combat advice, and you should bloody well listen to it.’
‘Go on then. Advise me.’
‘However much you hate an enemy, you can’t veer from your military training. That’s how they win. Even if you despise them with all the passion in your whole being, you still dispatch them with tactical cunning and ruthless rationality. What you don’t do is give in to mindless impulses which tell you to indulge in sadism and self-entertainment, like carving off a dead enemy’s head just for a trophy.’
Marshall took a step back. Until then, Roth had neither noticed nor cared how close Marshall had been to his face. His boss’ words had been predictable: Roth had spent many meetings listening to Marshall’s lectures about logical approaches and strategic brutality. But brutality wrapped in logic was still brutality, and Roth felt that his personal investment in his work added to his effectiveness rather than dulled it.
‘The younger version of you used to know all that,’ Marshall continued. ‘This last year, you’ve started to lose the sensible, measured determination I used to admire in you. You’re on dangerous ground, and you can’t even blame it on puberty hitting you like a tonne of bricks. This—’
‘No, I can’t,’ Roth interrupted. ‘I’m blaming it on you.’
While Marshall took time to react, Roth took the opportunity to steal the initiative.
‘If you think I’m a monster, I’m a monster you created. I still played Pokémon when I was twelve. And if you hadn’t promoted me as quick as you did, for the reasons you had, maybe I’d still be that friendly ambitious kid now and still be playing bloody Pokémon.’
It was the closest Roth had ever come to directly referencing Marshall’s extinct assassination plan. He would go no further. Not today. There was a momentary twinge of fear in Marshall’s face before he replaced it with predictable anger.
‘Nobody goes through what I did without becoming what I’ve become,’ Roth finished. ‘You made sure of that.’
‘You’re wrong, Oliver. Everything you became is what you wanted to become.’
‘Did you want to be a miserable authoritarian moron then? Or a failed arms dealer?’
‘I made my own choices and I know who I am. Do you know who you really are, Oliver?’
‘Well I’m sure you’re going to enlighten me either way, so stop wasting my time and go ahead.’
Marshall’s top lip began to quiver and his face turned red. There was just a little part of him that seemed tempted to lose control: a sub-personality within him that looked like it wanted to throw his own advice out of the window.
‘Oliver,’ he began, ‘you are the result of a perfect storm of bad circumstances. Apathetic parents, enormous opportunity, and a complete lack of boundaries. And those circumstances have tricked you into thinking that no matter how little self-discipline you have, the world will just accommodate your errors of judgement. You are the school bully who never grew up to learn that the real world doesn’t care how cool you were as a teenager. You are the one person on Earth who has been given everything he ever wanted, and it has destroyed any possibility of you growing up to be a good man. But at the very bloody least, Oliver, be a decent soldier.’