The Resistance

impatiently, for fifteen minutes to pass – just in case Dr Edwards came back, just in case he was right outside the laboratory talking to someone. And then, finally, he put his own coat on, and slipped out of the door into the empty corridor. With his own ears he’d heard his grandfather order a car – right now, he would be speeding towards the West End through empty streets. This was Peter’s best chance to get the file. Possibly his only chance.
    Quickly, he made his way down the brightly lit white corridors, his eyes drawn as he walked to their high ceilings, the bright posters of cells that hung on the walls. Everywhere he looked was bright, white, enticing, like everywhere else within Pincent Pharma’s four walls. It was hard to imagine that anything bad could be created in such a clean and pure environment.
    Finally, Peter arrived at the lifts and, seeing a door to the left, opened it. As he expected, there were stairs leading up and down – a safer option, he decided, bounding up two steps at a time. Checking he was on the right floor, he opened the door ahead of him cautiously. This corridor was empty too, large and bright like all the others, but unlike the corridor outside the training lab, this corridor, Peter knew, was patrolled by guards. Slowly but surely, his eyes and ears alert to the smallest movement, he made his way towards his grandfather’s office, all the way practising in his head his excuse if he were caught: I wanted to talk to my grandfather. I was having doubts about Opting Out. I thought I might have left something behind when I was in the office earlier . He still didn’t know exactly how he would get past the guards, but he had convinced himself that he’d find a way – they would change shifts at one point, they would become distracted, take a coffee break. If he waited long enough, his chance would come. It had to.
    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