15-SJ-3 was glass and steel and white. The pale anaesthetic verticality patronised. Beneath the ostentatious minimalism, self-described self-made selves strutted through the clean unembellished streets. He watched the grey bulk of the shuttle grind away into the distance, between white cars and white walls.
Randulf & Sons looked smaller than it was. Caleb stood outside briefly, looked up at the plain white sans serif font above the door, and then marched in, trying to look like he knew what he was about. The door gave a little artificial jingle as he entered. Inside, the shop had been carefully sectioned into a series of low-lit rooms, each furnished with an assortment of neutral-toned wooden alcoves in which row on row of crisp smart blazers, trousers and shirts hung. For a business dealing in formal attire, the at-ease mood of the place was almost at-odds with itself. If they’d sold coffee, it would have been cosy.
He breezed in, waved away an attendant, marched to the centre of the first room, and set about inspecting the first thing in front of him, which happened to be a series of blazers he had zero interest in buying. Black ones here, grey there, brown, navy, pin stripe, two stripe… he snatched a quick glance at a general price list on one wall and stifled a reflexive urge to run out of the shop there and then. Nonetheless he pressed on, picked some up and peered at them, pinched a seam, turned them end over end in his fumbling fingers, like an ape man trying to discern the dietary value of a Rubik’s Cube. Having collected himself, he pressed further, meandering through an archway into a second room, which looked much like the first. More blazers and jackets, single breasted, double breasted, dinner jackets, casual jackets, sports jacket. On the far end of the room, full tails. He stood at one end of the room contemplating these strange pieces of formality at the far side. Silk, cotton, velvet, wool… He was unsure how long he had been there when a small polite cough interrupted his dislocation.
He span. He must have looked more wild-eyed than he’d intended. A brief flicker of concern crossed the shop attendant’s otherwise placid face. “Are you in need of assistance, sir?” he was a surprisingly broad man, taller than Caleb with a professional neat sweep of hair to one side of his head, tapered on the other. He was dressed immaculately in a navy double-breasted six-button jacket.
Structured shoulder, extended shoulder, pagoda shoulder… Caleb started to assure the man that he was fine, “Oh, no, I’m uh.. I’m going…” he trailed off. Another quick glance around the room was enough to assure him that he was out of his depth. “I have a business event coming up,” he said. “I need a suit.”
The man nodded. “Very good, sir. Forgive my presumption, but would this be your first visit to our establishment?”
“Yes, it would,” Caleb nodded back at him.
“Very good, sir, welcome to Randulf & Sons. I am certain we can furnish you with a suit to suit your situation. A business event was it? Formal or casual, sir?”
He hesitated, what constituted casual for these kinds of people? Peaked lapel, notch lapel, shawl collar…. “Formal,” he said, deciding to play it safe.
“Excellent. If you would step this way, sir, we will take your measure.” The measurer turned briskly, strode off back into the first room, deftly snatching a reel of tape from a wall as he went.
Caleb followed him through into another side room. This was smaller and contained several racks of plain jackets, shirts, and trousers. “Face me, please, and raise your arms to the side,” he wrapped the tape around Caleb’s back and drew it to the front. He looked down, nodded, drew the tape measure back to himself. Then he removed a small tablet from an inside blazer pocket and tapped something into it. He strode over to the nearest rack full of plain black blazers, rifled through them for a second and plucked one off the rail. “Try this on, please,” he said, slipping the clothes hook out and holding the jacket up by the shoulders. “We’re not going to pick anything yet, I just want to get a rough idea of what we are looking at.”
Caleb shrugged himself into it, turned back to the measurer.
“Stand up straight, please,” said the measurer. Caleb, who had been making an effort to stand up straighter than normal, tried to figure out how to stand straighter still. The measurer seemed to supress a smirk, appraised him quickly, and, as if straightening out a jacket, placed his hands on Caleb’s shoulders, place a thumb firmly at the front of the shoulder joint, fingers around the side, and gently manipulated Caleb’s posture into something he was happy with. Caleb didn’t quite see what the change was, but allowed the measurer to do his job, which he presumed involved mild posture correction. He stepped to the side, placed one palm on just below Caleb’s shoulder blades, and one hand on his chest, and realigned his position. “Breathe out please, sir.”
Caleb had not realised he was holding his breath. He breathed out, slowly, trying not to let the breath leave in one exaggerated rush. The measurer pretended not to notice. “Very good, sir. Turn to the left, please.” Caleb turned. The measurer took another measurement. “Turn back to me, please.” Caleb turned. The measurer hooked his fingers into the front of the jacket, then pinched the shoulders, then fiddled with the cuffs, and finally fussed with the lapels. “Turn to the side, please.” Caleb turned. Another measurement. More patting and prodding. “Turn away, please.” Caleb turned. He stood facing the corner, awaiting more pressing and poking and measuring.
“Some men do not measure up to their suit, sir.” Said the measurer. Caleb did not know how to respond. They continued in silence. “Try to relax sir,” said the measurer, doing something with a cuff.
“Hmm? Oh.” he cast about for a suitable response. “Sorry, I’m just a bit distracted. Please, continue,” he said, attempting something between calm and authoritative.
“Very good, sir, I see.” More pinching and prodding around the shoulders. “Anything you can tell your measurer? Someone in my position hears a great deal, learns a thing or two.”
“No, it’s nothing.” he said, imitating a laugh that would have made the Monopoly man proud. “Just some broker complications. Thank you all the same.”
“Say no more, sir. May I ask who you are with?”
He froze. Then he remembered the measurer telling him to relax and tried to unfreeze. He threw out the first name that came to mind. “Oh, Nine & Montgomery.” It seemed stupid as soon as he’d said it. The most mass-market institution available. There was a long pause. He was sure he could feel the measurer smiling at his neck.
“You heard about Harold Walton, of course?”
Even though he had his back to the measurer, he had to make a conscious effort to stay relaxed and keep his face serene “Oh. Yeah. A real… really something.”
“Indeed. Very much so. Still, I suppose you get up to The Orange Room, so I won’t bore you with the day-to-day gossip. I imagine you’re already quite aware.”
“Thanks.” There was a small crack beneath the pale wallpaper in the corner. He could see the ragged edges starting to puncture the surface and rip their way free, as if the crack was trying to escape the corner. He imagined the paper rupturing, revealing the crack. The crack would spread, up and down the corner, along the ceiling and across the walls. It would devour Randolf & Sons, spread through to the stacks.
Another long pause. Some fiddling with the folds and seams. More measuring. Tapping something into a pad. Finally, “A suggestion, sir?”
Caleb considered this. Paused. Shrugged, “Sure.” The great metal plates would buckle and tear just like the wallpaper. The great struts and pillars and supports that kept the whole artifice standing would creak and crumble, and finally they would collapse, unable to support its own weight any longer. The ocean would swallow the stack and leave no trace.
“Don’t mention Nine & Montgomery amongst the company at your function.”
He wandered along a street. Clouds rolled in. The light began to fade. Fog followed the clouds. Scattered lamps illuminated ad hoc pools in the dimness. The world took on a strange ethereal tone. The wind came in harsh off the ocean far below and chewed through his clothes. He buttoned his new jacket. It didn’t help. He gritted his teeth against the chill and tried to suppress the onset of shivers.
At the corner he stopped and looked around. Nothing wrong. No one around. But he had that pricking sensation on the back of his neck. Something off. He kept walking. A road over he passed an Astral Doe. Closed. Unusual – it was early. A bank. Closed. Someone had smashed a front window panel and spray painted in bold red above the hole ‘leave’. A bland office block. A small supermarket. More faceless glass and chrome. Closed.
On the next corner he worked out what was bothering him. No one around. It was deserted. No people. No cars. Nothing. The wind off the sea, waves far below, occasional creaking or tapping and structural ambience. Nothing else. Not even seagulls screaming. He headed over to a doorway, perched under it and waited for a taxi to round a corner. Ten minutes later nothing had passed. The road was still empty. He took out his phone, pulled up the Str8Line app. Nothing. All the way up here? Unreal. A shuttle would have to do after all.
He hoofed it all the way back to the shuttle station. It was empty. The lights bathed every crevice with a piercing whiteness. His footsteps were dull clicks through the intense fluorescence. He hunkered in the best shadows he could find next to a stop and waited. Half an hour later there was no sign of a shuttle. No surprise there. He pulled up his phone, checked a timetable. Blank. He frowned down at the screen. A bug? It seemed like the world was bugged. He got back to his feet and headed to the exit. Outside, feeling uneasy, wondering where the nearest pods where, he looked up with an exasperated sigh. The sky was empty. Just an unbroken sheet of blackening grey haze. Like the void had swallowed the stars. How did that happen?
He went back inside. Stood for a couple minutes. He needed to find a pod. Get some rest. There had to be one nearby. A good one, too. With hot water. With a good bed. Time to get moving. Half an hour later he saw his first people. Three guys and three girls. All the guys were tall, light brown hair, crew cuts that cost too much, white shirts, black trousers, brown shoes. The girls were blonde, hair loose to their shoulder blades, wide hips, good tits, white shirts, blue skirts, red heels. They passed by. Their synchronised everything threw him off. He shrugged to himself – company event? Fancy dress party? He pivoted, yelled down the street to them.
“Hey!”
They turned. The middle guy responded, “yeah?”
“Where are you going?”
They looked at each other. A collection of shrugs. “Nowhere.” They turned and walked off.
A drizzle started up. A cold monotonous film of moisture that lacked the virility of rain but persisted in spite of its anaemia. It seemed to hang around in the air for lack of anywhere else to be. Something metal clattered in the distance. People emerged from the drizzle. Grim faces and downcast eyes, umbrellas and hoods, trudging along slick paths and walkways and then fading back into the rain like sodden phantoms.
Clusters of 24-hour cafes and fast food outlets beamed inviting yellow light into the darkness. Bored staff slouched behind counters, staring out into the streets like damned souls in purgatory. Just waiting, endlessly waiting to move on. He ducked into one. Six grey slabs ran from floor to ceiling, small screens playing in-house ads on loops. He choose the nearest, jabbed at the over-bright buttons and waited for it to grind out his order receipt. He joined the semicluster of individuals watching the overhead monitors and waiting for the girl behind the counter to yell their numbers. One by one their orders came, they went up, collected their cheap greasy food, and shuffled off. His number came, she handed him his burger, he mumbled something even he wasn’t sure could have passed for a statement of gratitude, and picked out a stool near the window.
He checked the Placement argument between the rebel and the obedient. Their spat had blossomed, more people had chimed in, and the comments had descended into some kind of ideological flame war. What coherence there had been had died quickly as attempts at reason gave way to hysteria and wild vitriol. He smirked, put his phone back in his pocket.
He sat there looking out into the fading semi-darkness, watching people shuffle into the pools of lamplight and then disappear into the murk again. Sometimes you could start to believe none of them were even real. Just figments of your mind, made up to reassure you of your own existence.
Someone shuffled past behind him, sat down in the next seat. He glanced their way, but found a plastic panel between him and the person. He frowned at it – he had barely registered it when sitting down. Now it seemed a curious thing to overlook. He turned in his seat. The seats around the windows had been sectioned off into tiny single-person cubicles. People were dotted all around, chewing their burgers or chips and staring out into a faded world. The little kiosks and tables were like urinals. Without exception there was a space of one or two seats between every individual. The central tables were no different. Half of them occupied, all by lone figures, chewing into their phones. Caleb leaned in his seat, peeked around his dividers. The kiosks either side of his were empty.
A guy in his forties wearing a grey jacket with an apple seed motif on the left breast, entered. Caleb watched him examine the menu, then look around at the tables. He stood and squinted and shuffled his feet. His mouth worked at the corners. Finally, the man turned on his heel and left. Did that guy exist? Sure. Why not?
Getting back to his pod by shuttle and train would be long and tedious. He debated the optimal route with himself for ten minutes and then hit on a better idea, one that he’d have never considered before. He flipped through his phone and found the nearest air taxi. The marketing renders of a sleek chrome tri-rotored mini-helicopter seemed promising. He saw the price, reflexively shuddered, and shut off the phone. He stood and looked down at the briefcase at his feet, and then out of the window in the darkness. Then he sighed, sat down again, and opened his phone.
Words and Chaos 
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