Page 170 of King’s Ransom

Winnie Tan turned to the Unperson.

‘Cut this little four-eyed shit’—(128)—‘into tiny pieces and dispose of him. I want him gone. Gone. That would give me satisfaction.’

The Unperson gave me an apologetic shrug. ‘As you know, Samuel, the customer is always right. As you wish, ma’am.’

He assessed me up and down.

‘Samuel, it’s been very enjoyable watching you try so determinedly to figure things out. You really do have fighting spirit. But, alas, now your investigations must end and you will die not knowing everything, which I am sure will burn you.’

‘It’s not over yet,’ I said.

‘Oh, it’s over, Samuel.’

I hadn’t seen the hypodermic needle that he’d silently slipped from his sleeve into his palm.

When he moved, he moved with startling speed, and before I knew what had happened, the syringe was in my neck and he was depressing the plunger.

Like an expert.

Like someone who had performed many hypodermic injections in his life.

Like a doctor or a surgeon.

‘Nighty-night,’ he whispered in my ear.

The Duramorph entered my bloodstream and in six seconds my world went black.

UNPERSON

You can’t buy fighting spirit.

– From Starship Troopers

by Robert Heinlein

Location unknown

30 December, 2355 hours

I don’t know how long I was knocked out by the anaesthetic but when I woke up I wasn’t in Southampton anymore.

It was dark.

Night.

And cold. Really cold.

I was lying on a hard surface, indoors but also, strangely, outdoors. The chill night-time air stung. I was glad I was still wearing my unfashionable fleece-lined Patagonia jacket.

I blinked rapidly, regaining focus, and saw the Unperson kneeling over me, holding a small nasal spray bottle.

He’d just roused me with a dose of Narcan.

‘Wake up, Samuel.’

He stood and joined Uri and Vasha, lurking nearby with their guns.

I sat up, groggy and woozy, blinking some more.