The Resistance

forward to retrieve your tray.’
    Peter hesitated, tempted to rebel as he always was when he was told what to do, even by a machine, then, relenting, he did as the tinny voice requested and waited for his tray to appear in the hatch in front of him. It was his second week at Pincent Pharma and things were beginning to feel more familiar.
    He reached forward to take his tray, then studied the food contained within it. Today he had salmon with vegetables, a baked potato with plenty of butter, fruit crumble for pudding, and a large glass of unidentifiable liquid. Pincent Pharma’s nutrition sensor was a more sophisticated version of the identi-card scanners, which dictated the food groups that everyone should consume each week. The nutrition sensor went further still; at each meal it analysed employees via their palm print to establish their daily nutritional requirements according to their genetic profile and current metabolic status. Today, just as every day in the past week and a half, Peter’s analysis revealed that he was slightly underweight and that he was lacking in various amino acids and sub-vitamins; those not present in the food were provided via the nutria-liquid. Dr Edwards looked at his own tray with a wry smile – it displayed a smaller piece of salmon, vegetables but no potato, a similar-looking liquid and no fruit crumble.
    ‘After you,’ he said, and followed Peter into the huge dining hall. Peter disliked this place – his only experience of communal eating on anything approaching this scale had been the far smaller Central Feeding at Grange Hall where the Surpluses had eaten each meal silently, carefully, knowing that any transgression of the rules would result in a beating or some other punishment. And whilst the Pincent Pharma dining hall had no such penalties – employees talked freely, eyes were not cast downwards, and a spill was greeted with sympathy not fear – the hair on the back of Peter’s neck still stiffened whenever he entered it.
    Seeing an empty table on the other side of the dining hall, he walked towards it, but as he made his way past all the other tables, something caused him to stop. Someone, in fact. A woman in a lab coat, talking loudly to the people around her.
    ‘The whole idea of Surpluses having rights is illogical. The most basic human right is the right to life, and Surpluses have forfeited that, so to talk about welfare or other so-called basic rights is nonsense, pure and simple.’
    ‘Yes, but once a Surplus has been created, is the contravention really its fault?’ a man interjected. ‘After all, it was the parent who made the choice, who contravened the law. I think there is an argument for one of the parents losing their life, and allowing the Surplus to live.’
    ‘Which parent?’ the woman said dismissively. ‘How could you decide? No, knowingly or otherwise, Surpluses are a contravention of the Declaration and they have to pay for it. I’m sorry, but that’s the only way.’
    Peter was standing behind the woman and gradually all her companions turned to stare at him. It took her a minute or so to realise that they were not staring at her, and she shifted in her seat to discover what had attracted their attention.
    When she saw Peter, she blushed slightly, then, as if determined to regain her composure, stuck out her chin.
    ‘It’s Peter, isn’t it?’ she asked coolly.
    Peter nodded.
    ‘Well, Peter. I’m sorry if you didn’t like what you just heard, but these things have to be said. Rules are rules.’
    Peter nodded tightly. He couldn’t make a scene, he knew that. He just had to walk away. But he’d never been very good at walking away. ‘Rules,’ he said. ‘Right.’
    He was fixed to the spot; he felt Dr Edwards come up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. Then his teacher turned to the woman.
    ‘Perhaps these things are a matter of opinion. I’m not sure that Surpluses have any debt to pay. Their existence is not of their doing, after all.’
    The woman looked disconcerted by Dr Edwards’ intervention. ‘That’s not what the Declaration says,’ she said irritably. ‘It’s not a matter of opinion at all. You should know – after all, you’re a scientist. Isn’t science all black and white?’
    Dr Edwards smiled gently. ‘Ah, but that’s just the thing. Science teaches us that we are rarely right. The whole discipline of science is aimed at proving ourselves wrong, is it not?’
    The woman looked at him archly.