The Resistance

seen an actual girl for . . . well, ever, actually, apart from the odd photograph of a Surplus in the newspaper, or a little glimpse of a Surplus housekeeper through someone’s window. Jude couldn’t afford a housekeeper himself, although he’d been tempted to make some more money so he could, just to see what it would be like to have someone his own age to talk to.
    He stared at the screen. The girl was red-haired and was lying on a bed, her face pale, her eyes closed. Was she sleeping? Why? And what was she doing at Pincent Pharma? All these questions flashed through Jude’s head at once, but he couldn’t begin to answer them; all he could do was look, in wonder, in amazement, in . . . in hope, he realised. Hope that she might open her eyes. That she might look into the camera, meet his eyes. It was impossible, of course, Jude knew that; she wouldn’t meet his eyes or have any inkling that he even existed. But still, he hoped that she’d wake up.
    His eyes flicked around the screen – at the bottom was the code for her whereabouts: Unit X. Then, suddenly, as his eyes returned to her face, he felt something clenching inside him. Her eyes opened, but they weren’t at peace; they were filled with terror. Of what, Jude couldn’t see, but he felt it; deep down in the pit of his stomach he felt her desperation. Then, suddenly, the picture was replaced by another image, a corridor, along which guards were patrolling.
    ‘No!’ Jude shouted, immediately bringing up the camera control function, jabbing at his keyboard to get the girl back. But he couldn’t find her. Frustratedly, he searched the security system, flicked from camera to camera, but to no avail. It was as though he’d imagined her. As though she didn’t exist. Except he knew she did. And he also knew that he couldn’t leave her there, not like that, not with agony etched into her eyes.
    He thought for a minute, then, carefully navigated out of the security system and brought up a new page, scrolling down it until he had the information he needed. Then, he picked up his phone and dialled a number.
    ‘Welcome to Pincent Pharma. Please press 1 to be put through to our twenty-four hour helpline, 2 for our latest product information, 3 for dosage information, 4 for advice on ageing . . .’
    Jude pressed the hash key, followed by 349.
    ‘This is Richard Pincent. Please leave a message.’
    Feeling his heart quicken, Jude cleared his throat. ‘This message concerns Pincent Pharma security and information regarding the recent Underground attacks. I am a friend; I can help. If you’re interested, please leave me a message at www.LogBook.290.’ Then, ignoring his shaking hands and the feeling of trepidation in his stomach, he turned off his computer and went downstairs to make some coffee.
    Peter only found the note in his coat pocket as he arrived at work; he didn’t know whether it had been put there the night before or that morning on his way to work. It didn’t matter either way; what mattered was that he had his first proper mission. Printed in small, neat lettering, in the familiar Underground typography and layout, were the words ‘We need file 23b from RP’s office. Pls secure. Destroy this note.’
    Peter memorised the file number and thrust the note back in his pocket, burning it as soon as he got to the lab. It was more direct than anything he’d ever received from the Underground, he realised as he watched it being eaten by the hungry flame. Perhaps Pip was beginning to really trust him. Maybe he was finally seeing him as a man, not a boy.
    ‘Peter. A word?’
    It was his grandfather. Peter started, blew the ash in front of him off the counter, hardly dared to think what would have happened if he’d appeared seconds earlier. ‘Sure,’ he said casually, as he felt the muscles on the back of his neck tighten.
    They walked down the corridor towards the lift, then travelled in silence, as before, to Richard’s large office. Several guards were positioned outside, their beady eyes sweeping the corridor for anyone who shouldn’t be there. To the side of the door was a keypad into which his grandfather entered an eight-digit number; Peter watched carefully, whilst appearing to check his watch for the time. Once inside, Peter was ushered into a comfortable chair opposite his grandfather’s desk.
    ‘So,’ his grandfather said, sitting down behind his desk and offering him a cup of coffee. ‘I just wondered how your deliberations