The Resistance

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.