The Resistance

armed attack would bring the security forces down on us. No, we need to do this quietly.’
    ‘Quietly,’ Peter sighed with frustration. Then he frowned. ‘So who caused the blackout? If it wasn’t you, I mean?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ Pip said, shaking his head. ‘In former times I’d have said that God was on our side.’
    ‘God?’ Peter’s eyebrows shot up. ‘I thought he’d been replaced by my grandfather.’
    As he spoke, there was a noise from above and they both looked up sharply. Then, seconds later, there was another noise, something scraping along the ceiling. Pip put his fingers to his lips and silently moved a chair under the air vent in the ceiling. Then he stood on it, lifted his hands up and quietly levered the air vent open.
    Peter looked up apprehensively; the next thing he knew, Pip was dragging someone down through the vent on to the floor. Peter stepped back, his eyes wide, his heart racing in his chest and stared at the person on the ground. He didn’t look like a Pincent Pharma employee; he was wearing jeans, his hair was too long, his face was . . . Peter frowned as he peered at him from the corner of the room. His face looked young. As young as Peter’s own face.
    Peter looked around for a makeshift weapon and grabbed a wooden pole, which closer inspection revealed to be a broom handle. He brandished it, held it over the youth as Pip knelt on top of him. But instead of flinching, he looked directly at Peter, and his expression wasn’t one of fear, of fascination, or any of the usual emotions people displayed when seeing him for the first time; it was an expression Peter couldn’t read – of sadness, perhaps, or loss.
    ‘You know, it isn’t God that’s on your side,’ the young man said, his voice strangled from Pip pressing down on his chest. ‘To my knowledge, no god can leave a connectivity demon, untraceable by even the most experienced technological professional, particularly the lazy, ignorant computer geeks that work here. A connectivity demon that shuts down electricity across the whole building.’
    Pip was peering at him. ‘You!’ he exclaimed, his voice full of surprise.
    ‘Yeah, me,’ the young man said. His face was dirty; his eyes alert.
    ‘Who are you?’ Peter demanded. ‘What are you doing here?’
    The young man stared at him. ‘I’m here to get that girl out. The one with the red hair.’
    ‘But who are you?’ Peter was staring at him, his mouth wide open.
    Jude bit his lip. ‘I’m Jude . . .’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘I’m your half-brother.’

Chapter Twenty-Eight
    It took a few seconds for Peter to digest what Jude had said, then, bewildered, he could do nothing but stare uncomprehendingly at the dirty, dishevelled young man sitting on the floor.
    ‘Half-brother?’ he said eventually, staring at Jude in disbelief. ‘Then you’re . . .’
    ‘Stephen Fitz-Patrick’s son,’ Jude choked. ‘Jude 2124 at your service.’ He tried to throw his shoulders back but his chest hurt and his throat had seized up. He’d rehearsed this speech, this meeting, so many times in his head – now he couldn’t say anything, all he felt was pain.
    ‘What are you doing here, Jude? I thought I told you to watch yourself?’
    Jude stared at Pip in disbelief. ‘What?’ he asked incredulously. ‘I’m helping, in case you didn’t notice. You should have accepted my help before, too, when I offered.’
    Pip shook his head, his expression serious. ‘It was for your own good. And us. You know you’re under surveillance by the Authorities?’
    ‘Jude 2124?’ Peter’s face was still blank with incomprehension, confusion.
    ‘My cipher,’ Jude said, standing up and dusting himself down. ‘And I can handle Authority surveillance, thank you very much. Guards here thought they could lock me up. Look how that turned out.’ He shot Pip a triumphant glance.
    ‘And you know Pip . . . ?’ Peter asked.
    ‘Yeah,’ Jude said, coughing violently. ‘We’ve met.’
    ‘And you never told me?’ Peter swung round to Pip.
    ‘I didn’t want to confuse you,’ Pip said quietly. ‘Not when there was already so much at stake.’
    Peter turned back to Jude. ‘You’re really my brother? You’re the one who . . .’ He stepped forward, his eyes wide. He reached out tentatively as if to touch Jude, but he pulled back.
    ‘Yeah,’ Jude said. ‘I’m the one who . . .’ He shrugged. ‘You know . . . who ruined your life.’ He threw a defensive look