He was still missing something. Pulling out a small draw from the wardrobe he surveyed the collection of tie clips neatly arranged in two rows. The silver clip with the three small diamonds matched his cuff-links and so he selected it and attached it to his shirt and tie. Back to the mirror, very nice. He closed the wardrobe doors and strode back across the dressing room and back into his bedroom. The mechanism of the carriage clock on his bedside table continued its lazy whirl of cogs and gears. It was coming up to five o'clock. Having been up most of the night, he'd finally get to bed around seven am this morning. Waking a little after two pm he'd spent much of the mid afternoon attempting to relax, after all, there was little more for him to do until the evening. But it had been difficult to let go. He'd paced around his living quarters, irritably snapping at any of the members of staff unfortunate enough to come across him. The bath he'd taken had helped a little, but he only really felt like himself again now that he was back in one of his expensively tailored suits and ready to get back to work. To finally enjoy the fruits of his labour.
A short passage from the living quarters led back into his office via a concealed door in a large oak bookcase. The door closed behind him with a small click and he was alone in his favourite room of the house. One whole side of it was taken up by the floor to ceiling bookcases. His literature collection was his pride and joy, some particularly rare collections. He didn't read fiction - after all he thought of himself as a practical man - no, these books were written by some of the greatest thinkers of the last 500 years. From agriculture to architecture, cooking to clockwork, woodwork to weaponry.
The rest of the room was panelled in a dark oak, on which hung some choice pieces from his extensive art collection. Some of these were portraits of his ancestors, but most were of the British countryside, including an original Constable. At the rear of the office, standing in the light streaming in from the big bay window was his desk. A deep mahogany topped with a dark green leather, itself edged in gold leaf. Before sitting down he stood at the window looking to the sky. It was a clear day, a gentle breeze unsettling the foliage of the large oak tree at the bottom of south side of his grounds. High ahead a movement caught his eye. It was a scramjet, in a tight turn, before sharply pulling up, as if to attempt a loop. But it was a passenger jet, not designed for aerobatics. The stresses placed by the sharp turns proved to much, a wing cracking, then sheering off.
The jet fell from the sky.
The man smiled, turned and sat at his desk.
In front of him was a small silver tray, a delicate filigree at the edges. A bone china pot stood on it, along with a matching cup and saucer. On pouring the pot his nostrils involuntary flared at the aroma released by the hand ground coffee. He smiled again as he added a dash of milk, silver spoon lightly clinking on the edges of the cup while he stirred. The first sip was a delight, warmth flowing through him along with a new found alertness that only the first coffee of the day can really bring.
Moving the coffee service to one side he turned his attention to the wooden tray that contained the incoming telegrams that he'd missed while asleep earlier. Thankfully nothing too troublesome; he jotted down a couple of replies in his fountain pen before moving them to another tray that his secretary would later collect. At the bottom of the first tray was the newspaper he had had custom printed a few days ago. He licked a finger then started to flick back through it, trying to remember where he had got to. Oh, yes, that was it. The profile of Ho Cheng ahead of the shuttle return. In many ways he had a lot in common with Ho Cheng. Both were successful and both had excelled in bringing together disparate disciplines to serve a common goal. Except Ho Cheng was a dreamer, chasing the stars when he should have been concentrating on problems closer to home. The man smiled to himself for a third time. He had seen those problems and he had done something about them.
After all, he was a practical man.
A knock at the door interrupted his musing, "Enter". On the side of the office facing his desk two double doors opened and his man-servant entered, in his black suit and crisp white shirt. A big white moustache threatened to overwhelm his mouth, while a small pair of (tech-free) silver spectacles sat on top of a large broad nose.
"Young man here to see you, sir"
"Thank you Hislop, let him wait for 10 minutes then show him in"
"Certainly, sir"
While Hislop hadn't been specific in his clarification of the young man, the man knew who was being referred to. After all, he didn't have too much need, or desire, to mix with the youth of today, flawed as they were in the current society. But one or two of them had their uses, skills that he was in need of. And so he had drawn them in to his wider plans, used them as the tools he needed.
He returned to his newspaper, pouring another cup of coffee. Ten minutes later there was another knock at the door. He folded the newspaper, returning it to the wooden tray. Folding his hands in front of him on the desk, he lent forward slightly, face setting into a slight frown.
"Come"
The doors entered again, Hislop entered then stood to the side to let in the young man who had been following him into the office.
"The young man, sir"
"Thank you Hislop. Please take the tray with you on your way out" he nodded at the coffee pot and empty cup
"Certainly sir" the man-servant strode past the younger man, nervously stood in the centre of the office, picked up the silver tray and turned on his heal to head out of the room.
"C-could I get a coffee, maybe?" the aroma must have caught the young man's attention
"I won't keep you that long. Shut the doors on your way out please Hislop" the frown deepened at the presumptuousness of the young man, who had now slumped, uninvited, in the chair across the desk from him
"Uh, ok" the younger man was fidgeting, squirming in his chair, frequently running a hand through greasy dirty blonde hair that lankly hung around dark rimmed eyes. A small diamond shaped tattoo glinted at the corner of his right eye.
"Did everything go to plan?"
More fidgeting, "Mostly"
"Mostly?" his tone signalling displeasure
"We couldn't get the Yank military, kill switch kicked in. But he civilian architecture is under our control. Roads are gridlocked and ARDs causing mayhem" he sniggered "it's a good laugh"
The man rubbed again at his light stubble. Not getting the American's hardware wasn't the end of the world, there'd be enough of a distraction elsewhere. He had hoped to cause the military men at least a bit of a headache though. "What about the Chinese?"
"Yeah, we got their embassy defence in Europe. Missiles also launched on their home turf. Gonna be quite the fireworks display" another snigger
"Very good"
"But, there is, er, something else"
"What?" he snapped, everything sounded within permitted plan boundaries at the moment, what could have gone wrong?
"The civilian tech we've over run..." more fidgeting
"Yes" more annoyance at the fidgeting
"It included the transport networks..."
"As, planned, yes"
"Some guys have got hold of the trains, others scram-jets. They don't know how to manually control those sort of things"
"That was envisioned. Part of the process"
"But, well, er, aren't their, you know, real people on those things?"
"You were aware of the collateral damage necessary to meet our goals"
"I, er guess. Just didn't feel so real before. More virtual"
The man grunted, the disconnect between the real and the virtual was one of the things that horrified himself most in today's world. The thing that needed remedying. Permanently. But this depressing specimen in front of him was never going to understand what was best for him and his peers.
"Is that all?"
"Well, er, my ultranet connection went down earlier. That, er, part of the process too?"
"That is _the point_ of the process"
"Really? Wow. It coming back soon?"
He shook his head. The boy was never going to get it. But maybe one day his child or grandchild would, and then his work would be done.
Sometimes it is necessary to be a monster today, to be a hero tomorrow.
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