Marshall’s office was up ahead. The floor in front of the entrance had been recarpeted, with an ever-so-slightly different colour that made it stand out awkwardly from the rest of the corridor. Roth noticed himself slowing down, enough for Pearce to glance behind him.
This room was where my life began, he thought. The good life, anyway.
His mind, very briefly, went back to the early meetings he used to have in that office, alone with a man he admired. Iain Marshall, war veteran of twelve years (who had not yet told him about his eight as an arms dealer), had been a rare person Roth had looked up to. At twelve years old, in a Britain that existed before the clones took over, not many people held that status in Roth’s life. Their meetings had largely been theoretical training sessions, with Marshall teaching him about military strategy, weapons, and the dirtier tactics that Marshall-Pearce’s youth training programme had not dared to touch.
He never talked about Oliver Roth’s real reason for being there, of course. He was too smart to discuss it in a place which stood a one per cent chance of being bugged, in addition to having compulsory CCTV. The subject only came up during their field trips and training sessions in the forest. Once upon a time, Oliver Roth was going to prevent Takeover Day from ever happening, by assassinating Nicholas Grant himself. Clearly though, Marshall had lost his nerve and never given him the signal.
Roth felt no guilt about the little fact that he could have stopped Takeover Day before it began. It had been Marshall’s decision rather than his own. It had also been perfect blackmail material – the ability to walk up to Grant and spill the beans any time he liked – but Roth had never needed to actually make any threats. Marshall had been careful enough to give him everything he ever wanted in order to buy his silence.
Oliver Roth sighed as he realised the true reason why he felt uneasy that day, and why he missed Iain Marshall. His leverage was gone; all his unspoken power vanished in that explosion. He no longer had the unquestioning support of Grant’s Head of Military.
He turned into the office, and found himself in unfamiliar territory. All trace of the explosion was gone, not a charred stain in sight. It looked like the room had been rebuilt altogether rather than just redecorated.
At the new desk, placed on the opposite side of the room to where the old one had been, Nicholas Grant sat in a large leather chair.
‘Oliver,’ he said, in a voice that could perhaps have been called friendly, ‘take a seat.’
Another leather chair had been placed on the other side of the desk. Grant stretched out a welcoming hand. Roth knew right away that this wasn’t about his failure to contain the rebels that morning.
‘Do you actually need me here?’ asked Pearce.
‘Yes,’ said Grant. ‘This is a formal ceremony that should be witnessed by the most valuable people in the Citadel. Unless you don’t consider yourself that valuable?’
Pearce said nothing. Roth sat down in the chair, and browsed the paper placed on the desk for him to read. It was a contract of some sort, as far as he understood.
‘Formal ceremony?’ he asked. ‘You should have let me get changed.’
‘I thought you’d feel more comfortable in your current outfit.’
He’s not wrong, thought Roth.
‘So what’s this about?’ he asked.
‘You’re getting promoted,’ answered Grant with an enthusiastic grin. ‘You’re one signature away from becoming my Head of Military Division.’
Oliver Roth had a lifelong habit of not letting his emotions show on his face, but it was difficult when surprises were landed on him. His eyebrows rose to the top of his head, his mouth opened, and his eyes stared into Grant’s like a man who had won the lottery and been caught in a car’s headlights at the same time. His thoughts about the three escaping rebels left his mind altogether.
‘I’m Iain’s replacement,’ he gasped.
‘The youngest field marshal in history.’
‘Why me?’
‘There aren’t many other candidates, in all fairness,’ Grant replied as he leaned back in his leather chair. ‘I have a few other ex-military personnel on my payroll, but none of them have modern, post-Takeover experience like you. Keith Tylor would have been perfect back in the day, before he came down with that bad case of multiple stab wounds. So that leaves either you or some colonel downstairs, and you’re the one I believe in most. Besides, I’m sure Iain would have wanted it.’
You’d be surprised what Iain Marshall would have wanted.
‘Do I still get to serve in the field?’ Roth asked.
‘Yes, you’ll still get to run through the corridors killing rebels. Except now you’ll do it with real authority. And this office will be yours once it’s finished. It may be a couple more weeks, but I’m sure you understand.’
Roth flipped through the contract, pretending to understand all the legal words.
‘Wait,’ he asked, ‘so how come we still haven’t rebuilt the clone factory two months on, but this office can be completely fixed in a matter of weeks?’
Pearce guffawed from the entrance.
‘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.