The Resistance

  Allowing a little smile on to her face, Sheila looked around. Her brain felt fuzzy, her limbs heavy on the thin mattress beneath her. She vaguely remembered arriving here, remembered being driven up towards a large, white building. She’d been scared when she got out of the white van, had asked where she was, but they hadn’t told her, and when a man had dragged her towards a door, she’d started to shout and someone else had stuck something sharp in her leg. She couldn’t remember anything after that. And now she was here in another dormitory, just like Grange Hall but white, not grey, and there were no bells, no chores, no Training. She’d been here a few days, she thought. Maybe longer – she kept falling asleep and it was hard to keep track.

  There were others in the room, others like her, on beds, all girls, all asleep or feigning sleep. She caught a girl’s eye and they both looked away quickly. One of the girls had been caught trying to start a conversation a day or so before and had been punished for it with a beating; Sheila had thought it served her right for being Stupid; hoped that they would notice that she wasn’t breaking any rules, that she should pass the test more quickly than the other girls.

  The tests weren’t very nice. Sheila had decided that she didn’t like medicals very much at all. Every day she was given an injection; every day they took blood from her; every day her legs were hoisted into stirrups and metal instruments prodded inside her painfully as she clamped her mouth shut and did her best not to cry out in pain. But apart from that, she was left almost entirely alone. There was a small, cramped bathroom, which the girls were allowed to visit, one at a time. Three times a day a tray of food was placed in front of her. All the girls were wearing the same gowns – long at the front, open at the back, which meant they had to hold the two sides together firmly whenever they made their way to the bathroom. And every so often, one of the girls would be replaced with a new face; they’d passed their tests, Sheila thought enviously. They’d been allowed out, to become housekeepers. She hoped that she’d be next. She couldn’t wait.

  Jude flicked from camera to camera, searching for the girl, for Peter. Instead, his screen was filled with shots of laboratories, production lines, the cafeteria, long sweeping corridors, the reception hall. At the sight of this screen, Jude paused – a line of guards were now positioned outside the glass doors, armed and ready for action; a further three were positioned inside. Jude recognised one of them as the guard who had been assigned to him.

  A man was being searched by the guards; moments later, he emerged through the doors and headed towards the reception desk. Jude watched silently. The man was holding up an identi-card; Judge zoomed in and saw the words ‘Manchester Evening News’ written on it and the name ‘WILLIAM ANDERSON’. The guard took it and scrutinised it, then seemed to be demanding something else; the man in the suit shrugged, smiling, then took out a piece of paper and handed it to him. The guard appeared satisfied; he was soon standing up and showing the man into a side room off the lobby. It was only as they passed the camera outside the door that Jude saw the man’s face properly for the first time, saw his eyes. Jude felt a trickle of sweat wend its way down his neck. The man wasn’t a journalist. He wasn’t from Manchester. And he wasn’t called William Anderson. Shaking slightly, he stared at the screen as the man disappeared from view.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The corridor stretched out, long, white and brightly lit, and Peter looked around it curiously. It was, he’d established, on the outer perimeter of the main building; from the windows on the right-hand side the whole of Pincent Pharma could be seen – its buildings within buildings, its outside spaces, its long tunnel-like corridors, which circled it like snakes.

  It was a wide corridor, with installations at various intervals – at one end there were display stands showing the ascent of man; at the other end were several more explaining an aspect of the Longevity production process. There were two identi-card stands where passers-by could check their blood pressure, nutritional levels, brain activity and antibody presence. Two large cabinets against the wall revealed within them life-size models of the human body, clearly displaying the position and look of each human organ, each bone and ligament. One of the models was ‘healthy’ or, rather, post-Longevity; the other showed a body that had aged, its organs failing, its muscles wasted, its skeleton drooping.

  Peter wasn’t interested in the models, though. Instead, he moved back to the wall and leant against it. His logical brain told him to go back to the lab, to find his grandfather later. But something in his bones wouldn’t let him. Deep down inside he knew something wasn’t right. Sighing, he peeled himself off the wall. Unit X. It was on the sixth floor, Pip had said; Peter was on the fourth. He looked up at the ceiling searchingly, looking for his own peace of mind as much as anything else, and then he frowned; behind him, he could hear voices. The sound was very muffled, but there was no doubt in Peter’s mind. This was no engine humming; it was the sound of voices. Human voices.

  Confused, Peter looked around, but there was no explanation for the sound. Had he been mistaken? Was he going mad? But then, he heard a voice again, and not just any voice. It was the voice of his grandfather. It was muffled, but there was no mistaking it.

  Slowly, he turned round to look properly at the model next to him. And then he noticed something, something behind it – a panel with edges.

  Frowning, he manoeuvred himself behind the casement, his fingers searching the wall, feeling around the panel for a catch, for something indicating that the panel could move, could open. He was so close; he knew he was, and yet his tugs, his pulls, yielded nothing. Sighing, he stepped back to check he wasn’t missing anything, then, frustrated, he leant against the panel. Immediately, it clicked open, and Peter stared in disbelief as it swung open, revealing a steep staircase leading upwards. Quickly, Peter checked that the corridor was still empty, then, holding his breath, and making sure to close the panel behind him, he began to climb.

  Richard took out his phone. ‘Yes?’ he barked.

  ‘Richard, it’s Derek Samuels. The doctor’s just left.’

  Richard’s eyes flickered over to Hillary then back again. ‘Ah, Samuels. I’m . . . I’m with someone at the moment. Can this wait?’

  ‘I don’t think so. You’re not going to believe this.’

  ‘Believe what, exactly?’ he said, not attempting to hide the annoyance in his voice. ‘I hope there’s nothing wrong.’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong, Richard. She’s pregnant. The doctor said just over three months.’

  Richard’s mouth fell open.

  ‘Richard? Did you hear what I said?’

  Richard nodded; he could see Hillary was straining to listen. ‘Yes,’ he said quickly. ‘Yes, I’m just with someone, that’s all . . . What you were saying, that’s . . . that’s interesting.’ He shot her a smile. ‘Excuse me just one minute,’ he said, then walked around the corner, out of earshot.

  ‘Who knows about this?’ he hissed into the phone a few seconds later.

  ‘No one.’

  ‘Good. Keep it that way.’ Samuels paused. ‘So what do you want to do? About the foetus?’

  ‘Give it to Dr Ferguson to do as he pleases.’

  ‘You mean it? What about the father?’

  ‘I don’t believe there is one,’ Richard Pincent said evenly.

  ‘No father?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Of course,’ Samuels said quickly. ‘No father.’ Richard could hear the surprise in his voice, and it irked him.

  ‘A live foetus is gold dust, isn’t it?’ Richard asked impatiently. ‘Isn’t Ferguson always crying out for live cells to experiment on?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Yes, I believe he is.’

  ‘Then get on with it,’ he hissed. ‘I’m with a senior representative from the Authorities. I have a press conference today and a blackout to contend with. I don’t want to be bothered with anything else, do you understand?’

  ‘Completely,’ Samuels said quickly. ‘Consider it dealt with.’
/>
  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Shivering under the thin blankets, Sheila rolled over on to her side. Her stomach was swollen and sensitive to the touch and she wriggled awkwardly to get comfortable, then slowly allowed her eyes to close and tried to coax her body into sleep.

  She was woken what felt like minutes later by the sound of voices close by. Sheila froze. Voices close by were never a good thing in her experience of this place.

  ‘Right. So we think this one’s nearly ready?’

  ‘Levels look right.’

  ‘Lovely. And how many are we looking at?’

  ‘At least twelve, maybe more.’

  The other voice whistled. ‘Great. OK, then, let’s wheel her in.’

  Sheila felt her bed moving and she opened her eyes, fearfully. Behind her was a heavy-set man, pushing her bed; at the foot, pulling her, was a nurse she recognised.

  ‘Where . . . where am I going?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice level.

  The nurse looked at her irritably. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Am I going back to Grange Hall?’

  The nurse grimaced. ‘No, Surplus. You’re about to repay your debt to society, young woman.’

  ‘Does that mean I’m going to be a housekeeper now?’ Sheila asked hopefully. ‘Does that mean I’m going to a house?’

  The nurse laughed. ‘A house? Give me a break. Now shut up or I’ll have to inject you, and the doctor prefers you lot awake, understand?’

  ‘Awake?’ Sheila asked, before she could stop herself. ‘For what? What’s the doctor going to do to me?’

  ‘What’s the doctor going to do to me?’ the nurse repeated, her voice mocking. Then she looked past Sheila to the orderly pushing her bed. ‘All right, stop a second will you?’

  The bed stopped and the nurse pulled out a needle. ‘Just a little one,’ she said. ‘She’ll be awake in time for the op.’

  Sheila felt a hand clamping hold of her arm and the sharp pain of a needle being inserted into it.

  ‘That’s better,’ the nurse said to no one in particular as she disposed of the needle. ‘You’d have thought with all the experiments they do on Surpluses they’d have mutated a gene by now to stop them talking. Organ regrowth is all very well, but what about us? We’re the ones that have to deal with them day in, day out.’

  Sheila’s head started to spin and, seconds later, she felt herself falling into a deep sleep.

  The room Peter found himself in reminded him of the old depots and derelict warehouses he’d spent time in when he was younger, being dropped off, picked up, left sometimes for days at a time while the Underground tried to work out what to do with him, tried to find someone who’d be prepared to take him in. Boys were difficult, Pip would mutter to him; girls were easier to hide, easier to entertain. Boys needed space to run around, but running around simply wasn’t an option for illicit children, not with prying eyes everywhere, not with the Catchers ready to pounce at any minute. It had got harder as he had got older, too – there were always homes for young children, always people who would offer to hide babies, but a growing boy was a challenge. Any boy more than five years old was difficult to place.

  Peter frowned and pushed the memory from his mind. Then, pausing only briefly to take in the shabby state of the room, the boxes piled up, the unswept concrete floor, he scanned the room. In the far corner, only just visible behind a pile of what looked like rubbish and rubble, he saw a door. Checking that there was no one to see him, he scurried towards it and opened it just a fraction. The first thing he heard on opening the door was the voice of his grandfather, and he quickly jumped back.

  ‘So you see,’ his grandfather was saying, ‘Longevity is a wonder drug, but it has its limitations. What we’re developing here is the next stage. Longevity 5.4. Or, for marketing purposes, Longevity+.’ They were walking towards a staircase; Peter strained to listen.

  Hillary shrugged. ‘If you say so. Now, can we get on with this? The Authorities have other pressing concerns, Richard. Concerns that rather supersede Longevity.’

  Peter’s grandfather smiled thinly. ‘Supersede Longevity? Hillary, nothing supersedes Longevity. Nothing ever will. If Longevity production were to cease, the human race would die out in a matter of years. Civilisation as we know it would crumble. The human race is now entirely dependent on Longevity for its very survival.’

  There was silence for a few seconds.

  ‘Very well, Richard, you’ve made your point.’

  ‘Good. And now, if you’ll just follow me into Unit X, I will show you the future.’

  Peter waited for them to reach the top of the stairs, then silently slipped through the door he was hiding behind and followed them.

  Sheila squinted against the bright light that was shining into her eyes. Her arm was aching where the nurse had stuck a needle into her, and her head was feeling woozy, as though she was still in a dream, and it gave her confidence, encouraged her to open her mouth.

  ‘Where am I?’ she asked no one in particular, trying to focus her blurred vision and failing miserably. She could see that she was in a large room; she could hear low voices, but couldn’t see who was speaking. ‘What’s happening?’

  The blurry outline of a woman wandered over to her side. When she was close, Sheila could see her face. It looked kind, so different from the people who’d been manhandling her for the past week or so.

  ‘Surplus Sheila?’ she asked. Sheila nodded. ‘Welcome to Unit X,’ the woman continued. ‘Your procedure will be starting soon. It’s relatively painless, and you need to stay as still as possible. Can you do that for me?’

  Sheila nodded. ‘The procedure,’ she said. ‘What’s it for?’

  The woman smiled. ‘It’s for making history,’ she said. ‘You’re going to be helping us with a scientific breakthrough, Sheila. You’re about to become a Valuable Asset.’

  ‘Really?’ Sheila felt herself bristle with something approaching pride. She was going to make history. She was important. Then she winced. ‘It hurts,’ she said. ‘It really hurts. And I feel sick.’

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ the woman said. ‘I’ll be back very soon. Just lie there quietly, will you? And don’t worry, everything will be OK.’

  She disappeared out of view, and Sheila put her hands on her stomach, wishing the pain would subside but knowing there would be no point in making a fuss. She felt her face getting hot under the lights, and tried to roll on to her side but her legs were clamped in a strange position. Her arms, too, were restrained, she discovered when she tried to move them.

  Anxiously, she called after the woman, but there was no response.

  Peter took the steps two at a time; at the top was a short corridor, at the end of which was another door. Unit X, he found himself thinking, his heart thudding in his chest. This was it. Pressing his ear against the door, he listened.

  ‘The problem with Longevity is not what it can do; it’s what it can’t do, wouldn’t you say?’ he heard his grandfather say. ‘Our age shouldn’t be visible, shouldn’t have any impact whatsoever on our bodies, but it does, doesn’t it? Our wrinkles, our spare tyres, our lack of energy – they conspire against us. Nature is still laughing at us, holding us back. We have inherited the earth, and yet we cannot control how we feel, how we look.’

  ‘There’s always surgery.’

  They were close to the door – too close for Peter to risk opening it.

  ‘Yes, but surgery is only a sticking-plaster. One operation is never enough, Hillary; we are permanent fixtures in this world. Our internal organs are Renewing themselves constantly with the help of Longevity, but our skin, our muscles, have yet to catch up.’

  ‘And you can help them? Really? How?’

  ‘Stem cells.’

  Peter heard Hillary sigh. ‘Stem cells? Richard, what’s new about that?’ There was a screaming noise that made Peter jump with alarm. ‘And what’s all that noise? Do you have animals up here?’

  ‘Animals? No. That’s just . .
. part of the process. The important thing to remember here is that we’re not dealing with animal stem cells, or stem cells taken from adults, Hillary. Adult stem cells are so limited. Once they’ve developed beyond a certain point, they can only repair, replace or be grown into specific organs.’

  ‘So? What’s the alternative?’

  ‘It’s in this room, Hillary. Just beyond those double doors.’

  ‘Then show me what’s behind them, Richard. I want to see.’

  Peter gritted his teeth with frustration. He needed to get in, needed to see for himself.

  ‘And you will. We have within our grasp the Holy Grail of anti-ageing, if you’ll just wash your hands over there and put on this gown . . .’

  ‘But I don’t understand. I don’t . . .’

  ‘You will! We’re already at the testing stage. Unofficially, that is. But so far, there’s been nothing but an increase in demand from our . . . the participants in our trials.’ He grinned. ‘I promise you, Hillary, this is going to be absolutely huge. For us, for the nation . . . Follow me, and prepare to be amazed.’

  Sheila moaned softly, and tried in vain to free her arms. She didn’t feel important any more; she felt unhappy, afraid, uncomfortable. She could hear screams every so often, and it scared her.

  A man appeared in a white coat, walking briskly towards her. Next to him was the nice woman who was organising things on a trolley. Sheila’s vision was improving gradually; she could make out other beds, people in white coats talking in hushed voices.