The Resistance

meaningless to him, just a list of abbreviations and companies.
    Then, shaking himself, he stood up and walked over to the shelves at the side of the office. Tall leather boxes lined the shelves, each numbered: 1–3a; 4–7a; 8–10a. Scanning downwards, Peter soon found the b’s; moments later he was pulling out 23b. It was entitled ‘Pincent Pharma Terminology and Abbreviations’. Immediately Peter tucked it in the waistband of his trousers under his shirt.
    Then, looking around furtively, he frowned. He’d done it, he realised suddenly. He’d got the file. And it had been easy.
    Quickly, he returned to the desk, moved everything back to exactly where it had been when he walked in. But as he did so, his eye caught something, some words, typed on to white paper, lodged between other papers in a tray on the left of the desk. One word in particular stood out: ‘Surplus’.
    Bristling slightly – the very term ‘Surplus’ was a constant source of anger and disgust to Peter – he carefully pulled the page out; with it came twenty or so more pages which were stapled to it. The front page, the one that Peter’s eyes had alighted upon, had just one line of type on it, all capital letters: ‘SURPLUS MANAGEMENT PROGRAMME’. Below this, scribbled in pencil was a note: ‘Richard, have you seen this? I think you need to . . .’
    Frowning, Peter turned the page and started to read. It was a fairly dull, if utterly offensive, review of the measures that were being used to ‘manage’ the Surplus Problem. It outlined the use of Surplus Halls, the role of the Surplus Police or ‘Catchers’, the education programme to encourage citizens to report any sight or sound of babies or children. It contained spreadsheets identifying the cost-per-Surplus, and analysing ways to bring this cost down, and a paper discussing the colour of overalls and whether grey might be a more suitable colour for them than navy – less cheerful, less easy to soil. Peter flicked the pages over angrily, his mouth curled up in distaste. And then he came to a page entitled ‘Surplus Sterilisation Programme’. His brow furrowing further, Peter began to read.
    ‘. . . As agreed by clause 54.67d of the 2124 Surplus Bill . . . would initiate a programme of irreversible sterilisation of all Surplus children on arrival at a Surplus Hall . . . inhibit further Surplus production . . . as part of routine medical . . . Successful trial revealed few problems . . . less aggression in male Surpluses owing to lower testosterone levels and no obvious effects seen in females . . .’
    Peter stared at the page, the words beginning to swim before his eyes as they sank in, drowning him, pulling him into deep, angry water. Irreversible sterilisation? Was he reading what he thought he was reading? Slowly, he turned the page, to see a list of names. There were hundreds of them, all with dates next to them, and their location and age. He could barely bring himself to look. But he had to, flicking desperately through the pages until he found what he was looking for, what he’d hoped he wouldn’t find, and when he did he felt his heart crash into his feet and the blood drain from his face. It was there in black and white: ‘ Surplus Anna (F), 2127 (2), Grange Hall (South) ’. Frantically he turned the pages, searching for his own name; finally, he found it, towards the end. ‘ Surplus Peter (M), 2140 (15) Grange Hall (South) *.’
    He had to turn two more pages to find the definition of the asterisk: ‘ Late Entrant ’. All at once images flooded into his brain – of the injections he’d been given at Grange Hall; of Pip telling him it was his responsibility to bring new life into the world; of the Declarations he and Anna so nearly Opted Out of, for nothing.
    He leant against the desk to steady himself. The walls seemed as though they were caving in on him; in front of him he could see only darkness. There would be no new generation. He wasn’t the Underground’s greatest hope. Pulling himself up, Peter looked around the room wildly, then, only just remembering to scan the corridor for guards and wait for the cameras, he ran from the room.

Chapter Thirteen
    Peter didn’t go home immediately. He couldn’t face Anna, couldn’t face telling her what he’d just learnt, not when it was so new to him, not when he hadn’t been able to process the information, or even to establish how to react. So, instead, he walked the streets of South London; found a