The Resistance by Gemma Malley
To his surprise, though, when he turned the corner, he discovered that the guards who patrolled the corridors outside his grandfather’s office weren’t there. The cameras were still operating, but watching them for a short while, Peter realised that for a full thirty seconds every few minutes, they were all facing away from the door.
Not quite believing his good fortune, and timing his movements to perfection, Peter waited for them to move then sprung silently towards the door, his heart beating fast in his chest. Quietly, he knocked, then more loudly. Looking around, cautiously, he turned to the security key pad and entered the eight-digit number he’d memorised earlier that day. The door swung open immediately and he slipped inside, looking around furtively for any sign of the room being occupied, but it was empty. The lights were on, but his grandfather was nowhere to be seen; a half-drunk cup of coffee on the desk was cold, suggesting that no one had been in this room for at least an hour.
Peter’s eyes quickly scanned the room, plotting a way forward, formulating a plan. There were cupboards, filing cabinets, shelves, any of which could contain the file he was looking for, along with a computer on his grandfather’s desk, which for all Peter knew could hold the key to Longevity itself. He wanted to search everything comprehensively, but he knew it was impossible – he didn’t have the time, couldn’t risk disturbing anything. Even without cameras, this room would have its own security measures; measures Peter couldn’t even see.
He would find the file and he would go. Immediately.
But as he approached the desk, he found himself drawn to his grandfather’s chair. It was a large brown leather chair that swung from side to side and rolled across the floor easily; as Peter lowered himself into it, he realised that it could spin a full circle. Allowing himself to relax, he sank further into the leather. It was indecently comfortable – large, soft, solid. In it, Peter felt weighty, significant. This was not a chair for the faint-hearted; it was a chair of power.
Slowly, deliberately, he rolled himself towards his grandfather’s desk, the large imposing mahogany table that he’d only ever seen the other side of. It was huge – at least three metres long and two wide – on large legs with ornate carvings. The bulk of the top was covered in dark red leather, embossed with gold round the edge. And right in the middle of the leather was a file ‘Chemical Components and Supply’. Peter opened it quickly, his eyes scanning the contents. It was meaningless to him, just a list of abbreviations and companies.
Then, shaking himself, he stood up and walked over to the shelves at the side of the office. Tall leather boxes lined the shelves, each numbered: 1–3a; 4–7a; 8–10a. Scanning downwards, Peter soon found the b’s; moments later he was pulling out 23b. It was entitled ‘Pincent Pharma Terminology and Abbreviations’. Immediately Peter tucked it in the waistband of his trousers under his shirt.
Then, looking around furtively, he frowned. He’d done it, he realised suddenly. He’d got the file. And it had been easy.
Quickly, he returned to the desk, moved everything back to exactly where it had been when he walked in. But as he did so, his eye caught something, some words, typed on to white paper, lodged between other papers in a tray on the left of the desk. One word in particular stood out: ‘Surplus’.
Bristling slightly – the very term ‘Surplus’ was a constant source of anger and disgust to Peter – he carefully pulled the page out; with it came twenty or so more pages which were stapled to it. The front page, the one that Peter’s eyes had alighted upon, had just one line of type on it, all capital letters: ‘SURPLUS MANAGEMENT PROGRAMME’. Below this, scribbled in pencil was a note: ‘Richard, have you seen this? I think you need to . . .’
Frowning, Peter turned the page and started to read. It was a fairly dull, if utterly offensive, review of the measures that were being used to ‘manage’ the Surplus Problem. It outlined the use of Surplus Halls, the role of the Surplus Police or ‘Catchers’, the education programme to encourage citizens to report any sight or sound of babies or children. It contained spreadsheets identifying the cost-per-Surplus, and analysing ways to bring this cost down, and a paper discussing the colour of overalls and whether grey might be a more suitable colour for them than navy – less cheerful, less easy to soil. Peter flicked the pages over angrily, his mouth curled up in distaste. And then he came to a page entitled ‘Surplus Sterilisation Programme’. His brow furrowing further, Peter began to read.
‘. . . As agreed by clause 54.67d of the 2124 Surplus Bill . . . would initiate a programme of irreversible sterilisation of all Surplus children on arrival at a Surplus Hall . . . inhibit further Surplus production . . . as part of routine medical . . . Successful trial revealed few problems . . . less aggression in male Surpluses owing to lower testosterone levels and no obvious effects seen in females . . .’
Peter stared at the page, the words beginning to swim before his eyes as they sank in, drowning him, pulling him into deep, angry water. Irreversible sterilisation? Was he reading what he thought he was reading? Slowly, he turned the page, to see a list of names. There were hundreds of them, all with dates next to them, and their location and age. He could barely bring himself to look. But he had to, flicking desperately through the pages until he found what he was looking for, what he’d hoped he wouldn’t find, and when he did he felt his heart crash into his feet and the blood drain from his face. It was there in black and white: ‘Surplus Anna (F), 2127 (2), Grange Hall (South)’. Frantically he turned the pages, searching for his own name; finally, he found it, towards the end. ‘Surplus Peter (M), 2140 (15) Grange Hall (South)*.’
He had to turn two more pages to find the definition of the asterisk: ‘Late Entrant’. All at once images flooded into his brain – of the injections he’d been given at Grange Hall; of Pip telling him it was his responsibility to bring new life into the world; of the Declarations he and Anna so nearly Opted Out of, for nothing.
He leant against the desk to steady himself. The walls seemed as though they were caving in on him; in front of him he could see only darkness. There would be no new generation. He wasn’t the Underground’s greatest hope. Pulling himself up, Peter looked around the room wildly, then, only just remembering to scan the corridor for guards and wait for the cameras, he ran from the room.
Chapter Thirteen
Peter didn’t go home immediately. He couldn’t face Anna, couldn’t face telling her what he’d just learnt, not when it was so new to him, not when he hadn’t been able to process the information, or even to establish how to react. So, instead, he walked the streets of South London; found a bar that allowed its customers to bypass its identi-card scanner and bought a drink – a vodka and orange juice – then another one. The bar was full – evidently, Peter wasn’t the only person who had had his fill of life that day. Old-looking men and women sat hunched over tables, nursing drinks, muttering to each other, to themselves.
The barman looked at him curiously, but didn’t say anything. He simply took Peter’s money and gave him his drink. Peter downed it straight away and ordered another.
‘Drinking a bit quickly, aren’t you?’
Peter turned to see that a man had joined him at the bar. His face was red, bloated; his eyes bulged out of their sockets as though straining to be free.
‘What’s it to you?’ Peter emptied the glass into his mouth and ordered another. Yet another adult telling him what to do. Yet another adult thinking he knew better, thinking he knew it all.
‘Nothing, I s’pose. What you drinking anyway?’
Peter looked at him for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Vodka,’ he said.
The man peered at him. ‘How old are you?’
Peter took a gulp of his drink, ignoring the man, who was getting on his nerves. He wanted to be left alone to think, to brood, to tame the anger welling up inside him, to turn it into something manageable. But instead of allowing him to drink in peace, the man repeated his question, forcing Peter to turn back to him. ‘Does it matter?’ he asked tightly.
The man thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘Nah. Don’t suppose it does.’
He appeared to lose interest in Peter then; Peter took another gulp of his drink, then stared down into it. In the reflection in the glass he could see his face, distorted, twisted, like a strange freak of nature, like an idiot. Had he been an idiot? Did the Underground know about the sterilisation programme? No, they couldn’t. They just couldn’t. Pip wouldn’t have been so keen for Peter to Opt Out if he knew there was no point. If he couldn’t have children anyway.
‘Haven’t seen you in here before, have I?’
Reluctantly, Peter turned back to the man still standing next to him. ‘I’m sorry?’ His tone wasn’t so irritable this time. The alcohol was warming his stomach, making his head fuzzy.
‘Haven’t seen you before,’ the man repeated.
‘No,’ Peter said vaguely. ‘No, you haven’t.’
His grandfather had said that the Underground wanted him to throw his life away for their cause. Was he right? Why hadn’t Pip Opted Out? Why was it one rule for him and another for his followers?
‘I thought as much,’ the man said, nodding seriously. ‘I don’t remember seeing you before and my memory isn’t too bad. Not usually.’
‘Right,’ Peter said. He felt angry with Pip suddenly. He should have known about the Surplus Sterilisation Programme. He should have told him.
The man grimaced. ‘How old did you say you were?’ he asked.
‘I didn’t,’ Peter said. ‘Is it really so important?’
The man shook his head. ‘Not usually. Not for most folks. You, though, you’re different, aren’t you? You’re that Surplus that was in the papers.’
Peter sighed. ‘So then you know how old I am,’ he said.
‘Hmmm,’ the man said, nodding slowly to himself. ‘So young. So new.’ He put his hand on Peter’s. ‘You wait a few years, then you’ll see,’ he said lugubriously.
‘Thanks,’ Peter said tightly. ‘Thanks for the tip.’ He drained his glass, looked at his watch, thought about Anna, thought about leaving. Then he shrugged and ordered another. What did it matter anyway? What did anything matter now?
The man laughed. ‘You’re welcome,’ he said, pretending to doff his cap. ‘You’re welcome, I’m sure.’
Peter opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. Pip wanted him and Anna to Opt Out. To cut their lives short – for what? To make a point? Was that all his life was worth in Pip’s opinion? Angrily, he slammed his glass down on the counter. Pip had betrayed him; the Underground had. And they’d betrayed Anna too. They’d pretended to care, and all the time . . .
‘I wouldn’t worry about it,’ the man next to him said conversationally. ‘Whatever it is you’re vexed about, can’t be that bad.’
‘Can’t it?’ Peter swung round and stared at the man. He could feel himself sway, noticed that his words were slurring slightly. ‘And you’d know, would you?’
The man smiled and shrugged. ‘Nothing matters, you see. What goes around comes around and what doesn’t come around . . . well, that goes around too.’
‘You’re wrong,’ Peter said, his voice low and angry. ‘Everything matters. I matter. Anna matters. Our lives matter.’
‘If you say so,’ the man said.
‘I do say so,’ Peter said forcefully, almost forgetting that he was talking to a stranger. ‘If you think nothing matters, then it’s OK to use people. And it’s OK to believe in people who let you down. But it isn’t.’ He rocked forward slightly and pulled himself back just in time to avoid falling off the stool.
‘They let you down, you let them down, then they’re your best friend, until next time,’ the man said, the words almost sounding poetic as they came out of his mouth, like a rhyme, or a folk song. He looked at Peter for a few seconds, then he shrugged. ‘It all just goes round and round, you see,’ he muttered. ‘You’ll find out. Can’t make a bad choice, can’t make a good one.’
‘You’re talking rubbish,’ Peter said, abruptly pulling himself upright and starting when the room began to spin violently. ‘Of course you can make a bad choice. You can choose to trust the wrong people. You can choose to believe them . . .’ he trailed off, fighting the tears that were pricking at his eyes.
The man leant closer and Peter gagged slightly at the smell of alcohol on his breath.
‘Trust who you want. Right and wrong, they’re just the same.’ He stared at Peter, his bulbous eyes focused on Peter’s with an intensity that made him uncomfortable, then he erupted into rasping laughter. ‘So, you going to make better choices? That why you’re in here?’
Peter pulled himself off the stool and put some money down on the counter. ‘I don’t know,’ he said quietly, swaying, his vision now blurred, his heart heavy in his chest. ‘I don’t know what the right choice is. I don’t know if I even have one any more.’
‘None of us does,’ the man said sagely, downing his drink. ‘We thinks we do, but we don’t. Not really. Best thing to do is just sit still and it’ll all happen to you anyway.’ He winked. ‘Don’t want to rush things, after all.’
‘Whatever,’ Peter said dismissively. ‘You don’t have to rush things. You’ve got for ever to make bad choices, haven’t you?’
The man guffawed, his mouth opening wide and his face getting even redder than before. Then he leant in close so that his rasping voice resonated in Peter’s ear, making it itch. ‘You talk about choices,’ he said, his tone conspiratorial. ‘But there’s only one choice I want to make, and I can’t make it, see? I don’t want to die. I just can’t see the point in living either.’ He rolled his eyes and laughed, then slammed his empty glass down on the bar. ‘Another of your finest,’ he said to the barman, who duly filled the glass.
Peter looked at him for a moment, then he pushed back his stool. ‘Maybe you can’t,’ he said angrily, ‘but I can. And I’m going to.’
He stood up straight, his hands catching the bar to maintain his balance. As he did so, his eyes were drawn briefly to the ring on his finger with its engraved flower. The flower had always represented something important to him – not just his beginnings, but life itself. The Coveys had told him again and again about the natural cycle of life – flowers growing, blooming, spreading their pollen via butterflies, bees and other insects in order to create their young before they died, their work done. They’d given him books on natural history, on natural selection, on the development of a species through the cycle of life, reproduction and death. But Peter could see the ring was out of date now. The cycle had been broken; it wasn’t relevant any more. Natural selection had been replaced by something else, something different, and there was no going back. It was still about survival of the fittest, though, and Peter was determined to survive, whatever it took. Without looking back at the man, Peter stumbled out of the bar. He needed to talk to Anna. He needed to know she’d survive with him.
‘Peter!’ Anna greeted him like a war hero, in spite of the fact that it was nearly midnight; in spite of the fact that he stank of alcohol, that he was swaying from side to side. It made him feel guilty, uncomfortable; he’d have preferred her to be angry with him.
‘Hi,’ he said, stumbling slightly. ‘Sorry I’m late.’
Anna smiled cautiously. ‘It’s fine,’ she said, ‘I knew you’d be OK. Where were you?’
Peter shrugged. He’d been telling himself all the way home that he would sit Anna down the moment he got to the house; would tell her what he’d discovered. But now, looking at her worried face, her wide, trusting eyes, somehow he couldn’t do it, couldn’t find the words to tell her what he’d discovered. So instead, he pushed past and made his way to the kitchen.
‘Ben’s asleep, and I made shepherd’s pie,’ Anna said, eyeing him cautiously. ‘It’ll be cold now but I can reheat it. So, you’ve been drinking?’
‘Shepherd’s pie,’ Peter said, sitting down heavily and noticing that the room was spinning. ‘Great.’
‘Were you
Peter looked up briefly to see that Anna was looking at him hopefully; as he met her eyes, her voice trailed off. Then he remembered something and started to rummage through the pile of papers on the side of the table. Eventually he found what he was looking for.
‘Our Declarations,’ he said seriously, his voice slurring slightly. Anna nodded, and didn’t say anything.
Peter blinked several times to try to force his eyes to focus. He began to read his again, managing the first few lines, then giving up when he realised he was seeing double.
Anna tentatively put a plate full of steaming hot shepherd’s pie in front of him.
‘You know everyone signs the Declaration, don’t you?’ Peter said, picking up his fork, then putting it down again. ‘You know all that stuff Pip told us is bullshit?’
‘No, it isn’t,’ Anna said lightly.
Peter raised an eyebrow. He didn’t mean to go on the offensive, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. ‘Even your parents signed it.’
Anna blanched. ‘They didn’t know what they were doing. They were young. They wished they hadn’t.’
‘They still signed.’
‘What’s the matter, Peter? Why are you talking like this? It’s like you’re . . .’
‘Like I’m a Pincent? Well, I am. I’m Richard Pincent’s grandson. Albert Fern’s great-grandson. My family invented Longevity, Anna. Maybe it’s in my blood.’