The digital display on the platform flashes green: low humidity, decent air quality and only twenty-four degrees, very comfortable for April. Particulates and CO2 levels all good, which means it’s officially a no-mask day. I still put mine on. It serves a dual purpose.

The Hydrail isn’t too busy, so when the train glides into the station, I secure my favourite seat: middle of the carriage, by the window. It’s not just the view; it’s been proven, statistically, that air quality is better here. And if the doors malfunction, you can get out fast.

We cruise past the ponds, white crests of cloud reflected in solar floater panels. The Parks line starts just north of the Chiswick wetlands, and this high up, the views are superb. I’m so grateful I don’t have to travel underground, the way Mum did, like some urban mole. Imagine being trapped in the dark in the Great Flood, water rushing into the tunnels. All the pumps in London couldn’t keep out that amount of water, not after the Thames Barrier failed. There was no stopping ONE after that.

My portable pings.

Sorry, darling, Grannie’s such a pain, I know.

Don’t worry, your dad and I can cut back on a few showers, don’t you take the hit.

Love you x

Typical Mum, taking the rap for everybody else. She’d rather die than see me go without. Not every child is so lucky.

As we pass Hammersmith, ONE Party holograms flicker across the high-rises, freshly coated with solar paint: atmospheric methane levels are reducing; national carbon emissions continue to fall; migrant resettlement targets have been exceeded. The prime minister beams as he delivers the good news, like a jovial Father Christmas. We sail through the royal parks, dropping down Constitution Hill onto Birdcage Walk. The horse chestnuts in St James’s Park are in full flower, their confetti blossoms bobbing amongst the leaves. As the train slows for Great George Street, I hoist my bag over my shoulder and edge to the doors.

I cross to Parliament Square, a breeze rippling my hair. I approach the statue of the Mother and pause, along with others, to pay my respects. Her accusatory stare is fixed on the Houses of Parliament Museum, that gaze as resolute in stone as it was in flesh. One of her first acts when she swept to power was the construction of a new eco-complex in Victoria Tower Gardens to house her government. Solar-powered, flood-resistant and cloaked in carbon-guzzling plants, it was a powerful statement: a clean sweep of the previous regime’s lavish inefficiencies. Rumour has it that when the old guard kicked off, she threatened to reallocate the footprint of those mouldy, river-soaked buildings to their personal resource quotas.

As the Mother always said: actions speak louder than words.

It’s a good five minutes to get through security. Next stop: the spit zone. That’s what we call the DNA scanner. A quick swab of saliva, a green circle, and I’m in.

Even at this hour, the office resembles an industrious hive: worker bees tapping away in softly lit cells, just the occasional beep or low voice. Two huge golden hands hang above the entrance, encircling a seedling that curls up, to the light.

As I reach my cubicle, Aisha swivels round and cups her hands in the Party salute. ‘Good morning, Ministry Representative Houghton.’

I cup my hands. ‘Good morning, Ministry Representative Osundo.’

Aisha joined the MPFP two years ago. Sponsored by the Party under the resettlement programme, she escaped Nigeria, but had to leave her family behind. Decades of drought have devastated that country; the militant sects are running rife. According to the reels, millions have starved or been killed.

‘Beautiful sky – did you see it?’ She smiles. ‘Such a deep red… ’

The bloodied sheets ambush me, and I shudder. Hopefully that man is already in Steener’s clutches.

I pull out my chair and give my keyboard a wipe. ‘Busy schedule?’ I prefer to keep things on a professional footing.

‘Another bolter: seven weeks along. Didn’t show up at the clinic.’

‘Have you tracked her?’

‘Yes: some village in Sussex. My travel quota is haemorrhaging. I swear our areas are getting bigger.’

I glance at the other cubicles. Aisha can be a little reckless. ‘It’s because they have to switch them around, remember? It’s for our own protection.’

My screen fires up, its soft blue glow reminiscent of childhood visits to the aquarium. I used to love basking in that azure light, watching the pale bodies glide past, razor teeth feigning indifference. But the aquarium was too resource intensive, so the Ministry shut it down.

I give my population vitals a quick scan: 1,671 births yesterday, all authorised. The bots have only flagged a couple of families in my area: second marriages, they always cause problems. The one-child rule applies, whether you change partner, gender or sexuality. I don’t know why that concept seems so hard to grasp.

A notification suddenly swoops in:

Excess birth, unregistered

Female

Age range 24–26 (DNA estimate, unverified)

My eyes widen.

I swing round and gawp at Aisha, but she’s busy on a call.

Even before smart medical devices were introduced for remote health monitoring the Ministry caught the majority of second pregnancies before the baby was born. At the very latest, directly after.

This is an adult.

I drill down further. A new profile, entered at a wellness centre near Oxford. Looks like a clumsy attempt was made to erase it afterwards. How on earth can it have evaded the system until now? All profiles are registered at birth.

I only know of one family that managed to conceal a grown excess child. The Ministry hushed it up, but it’s become the stuff of legend.

The penalty was severe.

I tap my screen and the DNA map slides in: genetic fingerprints lined up like a family tree.

My heel drums the floor. And stops.

I cannot breathe. It’s as if my pod has been sealed in a vacuum.

I race down the profiles: grandparents, parents … I recognise them all.

Bar one that shouldn’t be there: an illegal sibling’s.

Next to mine.