Sam stopped drumming his fingers on his desk when he heard the clock ticking. The office was always so busy that you never really heard it, not unless…

His eyes whipped to the clock. Damn. He stood up and cleared his throat. “Alright, guys, why don’t we pack up? It’s far too late, and most of you should have gone home already: I’m looking at you, youngster, with a baby on the way. You should be home with your wife, rubbing her feet and tending to her whims. All of them.” He looked over his reading glasses at the junior clerk who’d gone pink around the ears but was grinning hugely. He went on, cheerfully. “And the rest of you – and I mean this in the nicest possible way – please get a life. Really. You should never be here this late on a Friday. Overtime on a Friday is for screw-ups and saddos. You all have been on top form this quarter, we’re making great progress on the energy deal and, frankly, having you here this late creeps me out. Go away. Go get drunk. Go be normal for once.” He smiled in a fatherly way at his clerks as they tried unsuccessfully to hide sighs of relief, grinning covertly as they collected papers and briefcases and jackets and hats and ran for their lives.

Sam tugged the pleats in the front of his pinstripe trousers up half an inch and sat down. He loosened his tie, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, stopping to massage the bridge of his nose with his middle fingers.

When he opened his eyes, he was alone in the room except for one of the junior clerks. He was young, and had just been promoted to Sam’s office. He was quick, conscientious, and was sure to be headhunted within the year; Sam just wasn’t sure yet if the headhunting would be literal or figurative. To his shame, Sam realised that it was for that very reason that he’d not bothered to learn the youngster’s name. He fully expected him to be gone for good, and that right soon, so why bother? He’d known them all, once: the bright young things that came through his office, only to be swept away.

“Now lad,” he said gently, wandering over to the clerk’s desk with his hands in his pockets. “You’re free to leave for the day. You’re not a…” His mind backpedalled furiously: he was younger than the other clerks, spoke to no one in the office, had no friends or associates anyone knew of and he was working here. He was, actually, the dictionary definition of a sad case. “…an old fool like me; you should be out enjoying yourself.” Please, he hoped silently, please don’t say you enjoy your work. That really would be sad.

The clerk looked up at him, his damp, pink eyes blinking as they adjusted to this strange world of faces rather than tables of sums. “Sorry, sir?”

“No need to be sorry,” Sam said, gently. “Everyone else has gone home. Don’t you think it best if you followed suit?”

Blinking, the boy looked around. It seemed to Sam that the poor twerp had been so engrossed in his work that he’d genuinely not noticed the time or the departure of his fellows.

“I’m, uh, almost done sir. I won’t be another half-hour.” The clerk said, his eyes darting back to the figures, like a man gripped by an addiction.

“Sorry, son,” Sam said kindly, “but I have some errands I need to run.”

His eyes darting up from his work, the clerk said, “I could stay until you get back. I’ll be done by then, I promise.”

Sam shook his head. “I was planning on going home afterwards. And no, I won’t give you the keys to lock up. On you go, son.”

The clerk goggled momentarily at his boss, his mouth working soundlessly, like a guppy. Finally he stopped, paused and nodded, like he’d taken a moment to reset himself. He stood, wished Sam a pleasant weekend, collected his hat and his jacket and left, walking like a marionette on slackened strings, all dejection and thwarted drive.

As the clerk walked out the door, Sam’s suspicions were confirmed: this kid was one sad sack indeed. He’d send flowers when the inevitable’d happened.

He crossed back over to his desk and sat down, relishing the time alone. In the silence, he let his mind wander, a pastime he used to enjoy but now found… unbalancing. Lately, he found his thoughts wandering to the time before the war, when everyone was on the same side and he knew in his heart that it was the right side. When war was real and defined and he had power and resources.

Heaven knows he tried his best. Hell knows, too.

Now it was a war in name only. It was a time for sneak thieves and cowards, for lies of omission and for undermining by covert action. The energy crisis had created a power struggle – literally –and damnit, they’re better than we are. Stronger. Better equipped. And who needs numbers when you’ve got God on your side, he thought, bitterly.

They call us rebels and traitors. We were just following orders.

He buttoned the topmost button of his shirt, and straightened his tie. As he unrolled his shirtsleeves, he reflected that it was resources they needed; resources and energy. He buttoned his cuffs as he walked to the door. Sam’d had word that they’d got their eye on one hell of a resource, and and with his help, they were going to build a dam. A huge, impenetrable machine for siphoning power, leaving their reserves fat and plentiful, and starving the rest of us. He walked to the door, shaking his head sadly. It was slim pickings he had to choose from, but he was going to find himself some dambusters.

He dropped his hat onto the back of his head, and turned out the light. As he took one last look at the office before closing and locking the door, he wondered if he’d ever see it again.

It was time to do some recruitment.