The Resistance

day right here, then,’ he said. ‘Now, do you think I should sit on that patch of gravel just there, or over on the concrete?’
    The guard didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Then he opened the gate. ‘You know,’ he muttered, ‘only the best get to work here. People have to pass exams, wait years for a vacancy. Not everyone can just waltz in. You might want to watch yourself in there.’
    ‘I absolutely will,’ Peter said drily. ‘And thanks for the compliment.’
    ‘For what?’
    ‘For saying I’m the best,’ he said lightly. ‘I am working here, after all.’
    ‘You want to be careful,’ the guard said, his voice suddenly taking on a menacing tone. ‘Because I’ll be watching you. I’ll be watching you like a hawk.’ He set off through the gates, motioning Peter to follow him, and walked towards the imposing doors at the front of the building.
    The sky was still dark outside, but Jude was restless, couldn’t sleep. Sighing, he pulled himself out from underneath his bedcovers and pulled on some trousers, two jumpers and a coat. He navigated the small patch of bare carpet in his bedroom that enabled him to get to the door, then went downstairs, swearing at the cold beneath his feet. Silently he made himself some coffee, then returned upstairs to take up his usual position at his computer. He stared at it moodily. He didn’t feel like doing any work, would rather be trying out a new computer game he’d found, a relic from the twenty-first century that he was planning to adapt to a new platform, but he needed money. There was no food in the kitchen in spite of increasingly agitated reminders from his fridge to place an order, and he was going to run out of energy in twenty-four hours if he didn’t top it up soon.
    With a sigh, he pulled up his latest project and lazily started to type. His work was sporadic but well paid; whenever funds became low, he would hack into the systems of a bank or major institution that relied on technology for its survival, then call them up and offer to improve their firewalls, for a price. It was easy money – he had a reputation now and occasionally work even came to him.
    An hour later, and money banked, he checked his watch, then, taking a gulp of the coffee he’d made earlier and which was now horribly cold, brought back up his spycode programme. He had developed it himself and updated it every couple of months; now at Version 16 it was able to render any system powerless. Most systems, anyway.
    His first computer had been a gift from his father ten years ago when Jude had been six. ‘Something to keep you occupied,’ his father had said, his breath infused with alcohol. ‘See if you can teach yourself to use it.’ It had been an Authorities computer, declassified during the Electronic Shutdown, when the Authorities led organisations everywhere in lessening their energy footprint. Smaller, more efficient machines were introduced – functional computers that offered word-processing, messaging, no colour, no downloads. But Jude’s was old school, a relic by most standards. Its functionality wasn’t great – but it allowed him to do what he wanted. On it, he’d discovered something he was good at, better than anyone else he’d ever come up against. He’d written codes, programmes that were far more advanced than anything the Authorities had thought of themselves. He’d even tried to show his father – had thought that he would be interested, impressed. But the Director General of the Interiors Ministry hadn’t been interested; had said he was too busy, had seemed embarrassed by his son’s attentions. It hadn’t taken Jude long to realise that the computer hadn’t been a gift but a sop. Not that he was bothered. He didn’t need his father to care about him; he didn’t need anyone.
    He navigated carefully, delicately breaking through several firewalls, guessing and second-guessing file names and locations. And then, across his screen, the view from a CCTV monitor flashed into life; his eyes widened slightly with excitement when he realised he’d timed it to perfection. He’d know that figure anywhere – that walk, shifty and arrogant at the same time. Jude had seen Peter on news programmes, in the newspapers; he’d even seen him on the street once. But this was much better. This was real.
    ‘How the mighty revolutionary has fallen,’ Jude muttered to himself as he zoomed in, focused on Peter’s face, his impenetrable expression. He