As Michael slipped the trodecap off his scalp, the first sight to great his real eyes was a placid-faced uniformed policeman, sat directly opposite him on a lab stool.

A hand came down on his shoulder.

“I assume the simulation has not yet been terminated as per my instructions, Oppenheimer?” rumbled the voice of Gunnersson, Michael’s CEO.

“No, sir, I was just collating … getting final data …”

“The window is closed, Oppenheimer. The two hundred days of our sim licence expired yesterday morning, and Officer Dalrymple here has been sent down from the Agency to ensure that we’re keeping to the rules.”

Michael stood quickly, spun round, and grabbed Gunnersson by the lapels. “We can’t switch it off now. It would be murder. No, it would be genocide! They’re alive, damn it!”

Gunnersson, his professional calm unruffled, detached Michael’s hands from his jacket. “Oppenheimer, need I remind you that your career – and mine, and that of the entire company – hinges on our obedience to the Simulation Agency protocols?”

“Mr. Gunnersson, sir?” came the cop’s voice.

“It’s all right, Officer. Oppenheimer here is just very attached to his work.” Gunnersson’s cool blue gaze shifted back to Michael. “And he is fully aware of the penalty for an individual breach of the Protocols. Aren’t you, Oppenheimer?”

Michael said nothing, considering whether being locked away or shot by Dalrymple would be better than what he was about to have to do. Maybe it would … but someone else would do it even if he refused. For a hysterical moment, he wondered if this was the responsibility of godhead the preachers shouted about in the streets; the cold knowledge that all you created – all that you loved – would have to be destroyed, by your own hand.

He turned from Gunnersson and, under the patient watchful eye of Dalrymple, walked to the server rack, and slowly rested his finger on the cool red plastic of the power cut-off.

He blinked away a sudden hot rush of tears, and whispered “I’m sorry, Wendy.” Then he pushed the switch.