The same deserted business district of the city is still silent at dawn. Then a single road-sweeper turns into the street. Window-cleaners set to work. Office cleaners appear beyond the windows, pushing vacuum cleaners across floors. Fluorescent lights flicker on. The pistons of business slowly rise and fall. The great engine of the city is coming to life.
Now an astonishing mass of commuters pours from trains and buses, over bridges, across roads, densely packed and determined, a civilian army on the march. People in stations, at bus stops, weaving between each other as more and more arrive. Yawns, coffee-cups, rubbed faces, snatched cigarettes. Workers through train windows, alighting on platforms, heading to work in their thousands. The crystal citadels unlock their doors as employees filter in.
It is the height of the rush hour. Through the commuter crowds on the platform, a young man called Ben Harper makes his way to work. He smooths his sticky-up hair, too alive to his surroundings to be a typical member of the workforce, too open and innocent and obvious. It’s his first day, but you can tell that just by looking at him.
Ben’s suit is too new. His shoes are too shiny. He grimaces and pulls a pin out of his shirt collar, then peels a price sticker off his briefcase. The shoes hurt because he’s used to trainers. He has never worn a tie before in his life. It took him twenty minutes to do the damned thing up.
Ben stands looking at the awesome SymaxCorp building.
Crossing the gleaming, black marble lobby floor is an act of courage in itself. The entrance is vaulted and vast, shafted with angles of light, modern gothic, Sir Christopher Wren crossed with Tim Burton.
Behind him, a uniformed janitor follows with an electric cleaner, wiping away Ben’s footprints as quickly as he leaves them. The building’s impersonal atmosphere is already at work on him. It does that to people – you don’t even notice it’s happening until you’ve changed.
Ben feels out of place, bogus, an interloper here under false pretences. His collar feels as if it’s choking him. He coughs, asks at the desk where he should go, and is directed to the elevators.
He manages to enter one of the daunting steel lifts, but has trouble getting the doors to shut. The buttons won’t respond to his touch. He has had little experience of technology. Just before the doors close, a girl steps in. She wears the corporate armour of high finance, black slacks and a black top. A gold neck-chain. Cropped blonde hair with muted highlights. Pretty, in an unattainable way. Ben reaches across her and tries the doors again, but nothing happens.
‘Here.’ The girl reaches down and removes her shoe, then smacks the destination panel with it. ‘It always does this.’ The elevator jerks and starts up. ‘Technology. Just ’cause it looks good, doesn’t mean it’ll do what you tell it to do.’ She smiles absently at him, then stares ahead.
Ben stands uncomfortably beside her as they wait for their floor. He goes to speak, then changes his mind.
The lift stops and the doors open. The futuristic reception area of SymaxCorp beckons. Black smoked glass, polished steel, underlighters; a cross between a Fred and Ginger dance set and a Mayfair car showroom. Flat- screen monitors display the caring side of the sharing corporation; waterfalls, rainforests, sunsets, horribly soothing music that sounds like an Enya rip-off.
Ben approaches the receptionist, a tousle-haired and frazzled-looking woman with visible bra-straps. She’s wearing a name badge: THOMPSON. She can barely be seen over her desk, which is finished in grey granite. He listens as she complains on the phone to someone, half-heartedly trying not to be overheard.
‘Right across the top of my head, like a red-hot knife sawing into my brain, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. And then I bring everything up.’
Ben coughs. ‘Excuse me?’
Ms Thompson covers the phone as if caught selling state secrets. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Ben Harper. I’m starting work here today?’
The receptionist replaces the phone and does something extraordinary. She drops her head hard onto the counter.
Ben is understandably alarmed. ‘Are you all right?’
‘It’s nothing,’ she mumbles. ‘Just a headache. You’re expected. Please take a seat.’ She keeps her head down as he walks away.
Ben seats himself on a huge, squeaky leather sofa.
‘NOT THERE!’
Ben jumps up in alarm.
‘That one’s got – something wrong – with it,’ the receptionist explains.
He studies the skinny identikit corporate drones passing through the reception area and realises that, outwardly at least, he has nothing in common with them. He watches the video monitors. The thoughtful transatlantic voiceover intones good things about SymaxCorp – something about ‘The Environment You Deserve’, and, ‘Wouldn’t it be good if everything was this easy?’.
After five minutes he is collected by another name-tag. This one reads: FITCH. No first name. It belongs to a thick-waisted, thick-ankled, efficient young woman with dry ginger hair and an intimidating manner. Ben rises and goes to shake her hand, but she just clips a clearance card on his lapel. She does it with a little gun, and he has a feeling that the card won’t be removable.
‘Glad to have you on board, Mr Harper. This contains a chip with your security clearance. Code 7.’
‘Is that good?’
‘Codes start at 100 and go all the way down to zero. You get the idea.’
Ben nods. ‘I think I do.’
‘It means there are six levels below you, but they’re …’
‘Primates?’
‘Not far off.’ She points to his badge. ‘You’re required to wear it at all times on the premises. Try not to drop it down the toilet, as replacement cards will be docked from your salary. Come with me.’
‘Please, call me Ben.’
‘We don’t use first names here, Mr Harper. I don’t favour the personal touch.’
‘Nice.’
‘It’s not meant to be cosy, I’m not your mother. Your OOC is me, then Mr Clarke.’
‘OOC?’
‘Order Of Command. You are familiar with corporate terminology. The supervisors prefer electronic exchange over face-time.’
‘We’ll probably all get to be pals over a fag break,’ says Ben, then bites his tongue.
‘This building does not have a cancer verandah. Smoking is a dismissable offence. Think of this as a military operation.’
‘Do we get uniforms?’
‘You’re already wearing it. Remember, all commerce is war.’
‘You issue firearms as well?’
‘I so wish.’ She hands Ben a DVD in a steel slipcase embossed with the word SYMAXCORP. ‘Think of this as a holy bible with stiffer penalties for rule-breaking. Please run it and memorise the key points. You may be required by law to answer a questionnaire.’ She stacks hard copy documents into his arms. ‘You’ll also need to read these. As Health and Safety Officer, you may talk to staff only about health and safety issues directly affecting your department. Your first report will be due this Friday.’
Ben tries a tentative smile. It usually works. ‘Well, I’m happy,’ he tells her.
‘Don’t waste a smile on me, Mr Harper, you won’t be the son I never had.’ Fitch turns on her chunky heel and stalks away.
Ben looks around. The offices are dark, silver-grey slate and cherrywood, the new colours of corporate cool. The work-floor is futuristic, ergonomic, designed to prevent time-wasting, a mix of odd perspectives that sometimes curve unexpectedly around corners. There’s even a burbling fountain surrounded by grey pebbles and Japanese plants. Fierce little spots of light pinpoint the workstations like static prison searchlights. It’s elegant but weirdly
