The Resistance by Gemma Malley
‘We do things differently here, Peter,’ he said, his eyes glinting. ‘The rules that apply to others don’t apply to us.’
Peter cleared his throat, trying his best to appear relaxed and confident, but underneath the facade, he was filled with a sense of dread – dread that he was going to be expelled from Pincent Pharma before he’d been of any use to the Underground, dread that he’d allowed his heart to rule his head, stupidly, foolishly.
‘So, Peter,’ his grandfather said, sitting down at his large, mahogany desk and motioning for Peter to take the chair on the other side of it. ‘How are you getting on?’
Peter looked at him cautiously and forced a smile. ‘Fine. I’m getting on fine.’
Richard Pincent nodded. ‘Fine. I see.’ He sat back in his chair. Peter’s eyes had been darting about the room curiously, and he made himself look down instead. Anna had told him before that his eyes were dangerous – they unsettled people, they refused to compromise. ‘But you’ve decided not to sign the Declaration.’
Peter bit his lip. ‘Actually,’ he said, his throat feeling suddenly dry, ‘I haven’t really decided. I’m . . . thinking about it.’ Inside, he knew he was doing the right thing; he still felt slightly sick even suggesting he might sign.
‘Peter, I wonder if you’d let me tell you the story of Longevity.’
Peter looked up briefly. ‘I know the story,’ he said, before he could stop himself. ‘I saw the film.’
His grandfather held his gaze for a few seconds. ‘Indulge me, Peter, just for a few minutes?’
Peter nodded quickly, kicking himself.
‘The story of Longevity,’ his grandfather said, standing up and walking towards the vast window behind him, ‘starts many thousands of years ago, when humans first walked this earth.’
Peter found his eyes drawn back to the window and its spectacular view. Slowly, he scanned the horizon, taking in the buildings on the other side of the river, the river itself. Somewhere out there were his friends; somewhere out there were the other members of the Underground, his comrades. They were outside and they were depending on him, just like Anna had in Grange Hall. And just like then, he wasn’t going to let anyone down.
‘As soon as man worked out how to communicate, how to develop tools, the fight against death had begun. Man learnt how to protect himself from predators, to insulate himself against his environment. Through discovery, he extended his lifespan. But that wasn’t enough, Peter.’
Peter nodded seriously. ‘It wasn’t?’
‘No. Because man still feared death; feared disappearing into nothingness, feared how death made each life insignificant. And so he sought to attack the things that ended his life – disease and illness. Longevity did not appear out of nowhere, Peter; it is simply the latest invention in a long line of inventions – antibiotics, vaccinations, X-rays, even sanitation – all of which extended man’s life substantially. If you reject Longevity, then why not reject all of medicine? If nature’s way is the best way, then surely a bandage, antiseptic, any intervention at all in fact, is morally wrong, is “unnatural”.’
Peter felt his cheeks redden. ‘I haven’t . . . I mean, I haven’t rejected Longevity. I just haven’t decided.’
His grandfather looked at him impatiently. ‘Then decide, Peter,’ he said, a hint of menace in his voice. ‘Decide. Choose life, Peter. Man has always searched for eternal life – through religion, through philosophy. And you are being offered it on a platter.’
‘Religion?’ Peter frowned.
‘You won’t know much about religion, Peter; people have no need of it now,’ he said. ‘But people used to put great store by the notion of a god, or gods. Great men spent many hours debating the subtle nuances of different religions, arguing that belief in a higher being, in an afterlife, in redemption, placed humans above animals; that it made them special, superior. Great wars were fought between countries that held different religious beliefs, even when the points of contention were so small as to be laughable now. But religions were based on the pretext that humans were fallible, that humans died. Only gods lived for ever; only through religion could humans hope to achieve salvation and some sort of existence after death. Now, we ourselves live for ever. Now, Peter, we are our own gods. Through Longevity, we are more powerful than anything man has ever imagined.’
Peter cleared his throat. ‘I heard,’ he said carefully, ‘that religion was suppressed by the Authorities because its leaders didn’t agree with Longevity.’
His grandfather’s eyes clouded over and Peter kicked himself for speaking his mind yet again. ‘It’s true enough that religious leaders condemned Longevity,’ his grandfather said darkly. ‘But why do you think that was, Peter? I’ll tell you why. It was because they were desperate to hold on to power and influence. Do you think people miss being told what to do, being encouraged to mistrust others because they happened to believe in a different god? Do you think people miss the corruption, the genocide, the wars, the terrorist attacks that were all implemented in the name of some god or other? Do you think they are sorry to be free of all of this? To make their own decisions?’
Peter said nothing, and his grandfather smiled triumphantly. ‘Of course,’ he said lightly, ‘personally, I’m rather grateful to religion. You see, we used to be rather behind the US when it came to scientific research; everyone expected their scientists to come up with something like Longevity, not us. But their religious leaders banned research on stem cells. Banned it – can you believe that? So their research dried up. We took the baton, and . . . well, you know the rest.’
Peter frowned. He felt confused, didn’t know what to say. ‘There used to be young people,’ he said eventually. ‘Now there aren’t any.’
His grandfather nodded. ‘That’s what people have chosen, Peter. There are difficult choices to be made and that was one that was unavoidable. But is it really such a bad thing?’ He shook his head dismissively. ‘These young people you talk of, they had nothing. No hope, no prospects. They were turning to crime to support themselves, Peter. They terrorised communities.’
He walked back to his desk, leaning against the front of it so that he was just inches away from Peter. ‘And then we discovered Longevity. The Holy Grail, Peter. The secret to eternal life.’
Peter took a deep breath. ‘And nature?’
‘Nature?’ His grandfather shook his head with disgust. ‘Nature is our enemy, Peter. She has always been our enemy. Nature held sway over humankind, striking us down at will, ravaging our bodies with cancer, killing women during childbirth, creating plagues that wiped out entire cities. All these are the gifts of nature, Peter. She is no friend of humans.’
‘And Longevity is?’ Peter asked uncertainly.
‘Yes, it is. Longevity was created to save us, Peter,’ his grandfather said gravely. ‘Imagine if Anna was dying. Wouldn’t you want to give her Longevity then? Wouldn’t you want to save her life? Yes or no?’
Peter didn’t say anything for a second or two. ‘I . . . I don’t know,’ he said. He realised as he spoke that he was telling the truth. Then he shook himself. It was a trick question. Wanting to save someone’s life didn’t make Longevity OK.
‘No,’ his grandfather smiled. ‘I don’t suppose you do. The truth of the matter is that nothing is black and white – it is all shades of grey. You might want to think about that before you throw your life away for a lost cause.’
As soon as Peter had left, Richard picked up the phone and dialled Adrian’s private line.
‘Adrian,’ he said, when the phone was answered, ‘where are we at with the research grants?’
‘Grants?’
Richard frowned. It was a woman’s voice.
‘I’m sorry. I thought this was Adrian Barnet’s line.’
‘It was. Now it’s my line. My name is Hillary Wright. I’m the new Deputy Secretary General.’
Richard took a few seconds to digest this information. ‘And Adrian?’
‘Adrian has be
Richard nodded. ‘Then welcome to your post,’ he said jovially. ‘This is Richard Pincent speaking. Of Pincent Pharma.’
‘Yes, I rather thought it might be.’
The voice wasn’t cold, but it sounded almost amused; certainly she didn’t sound impressed. One of the new breed of women, he realised irritably; the first generation of women with no expectation of raising young to hamper their ambition, to temper their choices.
Winning over the female population had been critical to the success and legalisation of Longevity. The Authorities had, predictably, failed miserably in convincing them, so it had been left to Richard to hire the slickest spin doctors, the most Machiavellian individuals he could find to win over the hearts and minds of Britain and then the world. ‘Free from the slavery of child rearing’ went the strapline aimed at women; eminent female academics had been secured to argue Longevity’s case, to hail it as the ultimate triumph for women, the final emancipation. The strategy had been successful and soon women, unencumbered by the desire to have babies, focused their attentions on the workplace instead. The post-Longevity generation of women saw no glass ceilings; they soon found their way into company boardrooms, soon took over companies, public bodies, until no one thought twice about it. No one except Richard. This new breed of woman made him uncomfortable; made him nervous. They were known by those of his generation as ‘the ball-breakers’, but to Richard, the reality was more ominous. Ball-breakers didn’t understand the codes and protocols of men; they were always so much harder to bribe, to meld. He would have to proceed carefully, cautiously.
‘Well, you must come to the labs. I’d love to show you round,’ he said coolly.
‘Indeed,’ Hillary replied. ‘I wonder, would you mind telling me what you meant when you asked about grants? I hope you weren’t attempting to bypass official channels?’
Richard bristled. ‘Of course not,’ he said quickly. ‘I do apologise – I thought I was talking to Adrian.’
‘You and Adrian discussed research grants?’
‘No,’ he said, feeling his anger grow. ‘I just wanted him to put me in touch with the grant department.’
‘Yes. Yes, I see.’
Richard felt a trickle of sweat make its way down the back of his neck.
‘And how is your grandson getting on?’ Hillary continued.
‘Peter? He’s doing well. Very well, in fact.’
‘I’m pleased. We were talking about him yesterday, as it happens,’ she said. ‘Thought it might be a good idea to hold a press conference. Peter Pincent signs the Declaration at Pincent Pharma, something like that. It wouldn’t be a bad thing to demonstrate once and for all that his links with the Underground have been severed.’
Richard cleared his throat, then let his neck drop backwards as he took a moment to think. He had always viewed life, including human relationships, as a game of chess: the trick was to think three steps ahead, to use people to their best advantage, to always have one eye on the final win, on the absolute conquest. But usually he knew his opponent. Right now, he felt unarmed.
‘A press conference?’ he asked carefully, sitting up straight again, asserting his dominance if only to himself. ‘That’s an interesting idea. But not one that we should rush into, I suspect.’
‘Rush?’ Hillary asked, her voice betraying nothing. ‘No, nothing should be rushed. But I understand that Peter will be sent his Declaration shortly. So will the girl. The Authorities are keen to . . . tie up loose ends. And since I have no doubt that your grandson will be signing forthwith, I can’t see that anyone is rushing, can you? We thought next week would be ideal. Perhaps you’d like to arrange it?’
‘Next week?’ The blood drained from Richard’s face.
‘Next week,’ Hillary confirmed curtly. ‘Now, there was another thing. Adrian’s notes suggest that a new version of Longevity, Longevity 5.4, is finally ready for launch. Is this correct?’
Richard, still preoccupied by the idea of Peter signing the Declaration in front of the press in only one week’s time, nodded vaguely. ‘Longevity 5.4,’ he said. ‘Yes, that’s right. But we prefer to call it Longevity+. Longevity, only better.’
‘Indeed,’ Hillary responded. ‘The Authorities would like to see it released.’
‘Or,’ Richard said, spotting an opportunity, ‘we could launch Longevity+ at the same time that Peter signs his Declaration. Of course, next week will be too soon, I’m afraid – there’s testing to be completed, details to be finalised. But we could look at a date some time next month instead?’
‘Out of the question. Anyway, according to Adrian’s notes, the testing has already been done. But I do like the idea of combining the two. Shall we set a date now? Which day next week suits you best?’
‘Some testing has been done,’ Richard said icily. ‘There is still more to do.’
‘Then we can make a preliminary announcement,’ Hillary said.
‘We?’
‘We. After all, Richard, it is the Authorities’ licence that has enabled the development of this drug, is it not? And it was the Authorities who granted Peter Legal status.’
Richard could feel himself getting hot. No one cornered Richard Pincent like this. No one. ‘Peter was not granted Legal status by anyone,’ he said tightly. ‘“A Life for a Life”, remember. The Authorities didn’t have any alternative. And next week is too soon. If you and I are going to announce anything, I need more time.’
There was a pause, then he thought he heard Hillary sigh. ‘There is no more time,’ she said, her voice a little less combative. ‘The week after next sees the World Energy Forum. If we are to have any leverage, we need an announcement before then.’
Suddenly, Richard saw a chink in her armour. A chink that could mean he was back in control of the game. ‘You’re saying that you need Pincent Pharma to bail you out at the Forum, to give you negotiating power?’
‘And you need me to approve the drug. To approve your methods.’
Richard paused. ‘Our methods?’
‘Adrian’s notes are very enlightening. I just hope you’re not contravening the Protection of Surpluses Bill, Richard. You’ll know that corporate crime isn’t tolerated by the Authorities.’
Richard took a deep breath. The Protection of Surpluses Bill had been a sop to the Liberals when the Surplus Halls were set up; everyone knew that it was meaningless – a series of checklists, of safeguards that everyone turned a blind eye to. But it was still on the Statute. If Hillary wanted to, she could insist its requirements were followed. Which meant that they were moving rapidly towards a stalemate situation, he realised. One that would suit neither of them. ‘Perhaps we might work together on this one, Hillary,’ he said carefully. ‘I suppose a preliminary announcement might be possible.’
‘Next week? And Peter will sign the Declaration?’
‘Next week,’ Richard smiled thinly. ‘Friday. I’ll arrange the conference for late afternoon, and perhaps you could visit us earlier in the day to see the production process for yourself?’
‘Very well,’ Hillary said curtly. ‘Then I’ll be in touch.’
Richard put the phone down and waited a few seconds before picking it up again and dialling a number. ‘I need you to do something for me,’ he said, when Derek Samuels answered. ‘You know Underground message formats? I need one delivered. And it has to be utterly convincing . . . You can? Good, OK, then. Take this down word for word . . .’
His heart beating quickly, he relayed the message, explained what Samuels was to do with it. As he spoke, his eyes flicked up to the screen to his right, which was trained in on Dr Edwards’ lab. ‘Oh and Samuels?’ he said. ‘I’ve got another job for you. Delicate matter. I’ll need one of your best operatives. Former Catcher would be ideal. They’d be good with former Surpluses, wouldn’t they?’
‘A former Surplus? You don’t mean . . .’
Richard shook his head at the surprise in Samuels’ voice. Did he really think that Richard P
‘Actually, perhaps you’d better come up to my office. This is one I’d rather discuss in person.’
He switched the receiver off, then turned to his computer to bring up his profit ratios. Money and power – he had more of both than he’d ever imagined possible. And nothing – no one – was going to take it away from him.
Chapter Eight
Peter didn’t sleep well that night. However much he tried to suppress them, the first notes of doubt had started to float into his head, clamouring to be heard, and leaving him angry and feeling guilty. He found himself wondering about religion, about the thin line between old-fashioned medicine and Longevity, and he found himself worrying about how much of an impact he could really make on the world in just fifty years, if he even lived that long. Fifty more years didn’t seem much when everyone else was here for ever. Fifty years wasn’t really long at all.
It was with relief, then, that Peter found the note from Pip on the doormat on his way to work the following morning, reminding him that he had an important role to play, that he was significant after all. At first he thought it was another flyer for some service or other – painting, decorating, vitamin injections, plastic surgery, petrol coupon trading schemes, permanent make-up – but as he started to crumple it in his hands, he saw the mark of the Underground – a small dove with an olive branch in its beak, representing the search for new life. Immediately he ducked back inside, carefully uncurling it.
Looking for a new direction? Bored of doing the same thing every day?