"That's a good kitty." Lincoln Mattix extended his hand to the tawny cat, which sniffed at his fingers and peered at him with mistrust. Yellow feline eyes met steel-grey human ones and the duo engaged in a standoff before cat released the dead mouse from between its teeth and snatched the morsel of raw tuna from Lincoln's grasp.
How the fuck both a cat and a mouse had made their way up to his one hundred and twentieth-floor Century Apartment balcony, Lincoln had no idea, but for the mouse, the descent would be shorter than the ascent. Collecting it by the tail, he tossed the rodent's corpse over the railing. After it disappeared from sight, Lincoln surveyed the city.
A sea of neon lights flickered below, bathing the buildings and rain-slicked streets in a red and green glow. Situated in the centre of the commercial district the gleaming back-metal monolith of Century apartments was a much sought after location; surrounded by clubs, bars and underground establishments in which every service imaginable, and many unimaginable, could be purchased by those with enough credits.
Skyscrapers dominated the landscape for a mile in each direction, then as the eye travelled further the height of the buildings lowered. At the edge of his vision, Lincoln could barely discern the flat, featureless terrain of the badlands. Well outside the city limits, apartments and houses were replaced by shanty towns and shacks forged from materials scavenged for or stolen by the residents. It's where Lincoln had been born forty years previously and have vowed never to return to.
Hearing a meow, he turned to the tabby, which sat on its haunches, staring at him in the hope he'd produce more food.
"Fuck Off."
Warned by the tone of his voice, the cat arched its back, stiffened its tail, bared its teeth and released a hiss that swallowed up the sounds of rain. Already on the move before Mattix launched with his foot raised, the animal scurried up the drainpipe and disappeared from sight. Lincoln was a dog person.
"Stupid damn thing." The episode having brightened his mood, he reentered his penthouse. Double-glass doors slid automatically closed behind him when he stepped onto the plush living-room carpet. An eight-piece red leather sofa stood as the centrepiece of the area, and images blared from six high definition monitors built into the walls. All except one was tuned into the cameras placed around the exterior of the building, capturing the activities outside, and showed the State-run news channel. He'd turned the sound down. Violence, beatings, drug-overdoses, death and destruction. Same shit, different day.
"Your drink, Sir."
"Thanks, Siri." Named as an ode to the past - Corporate greed had sent Apple the way of the Dodo in the 30's-, he took the bourbon on ice from the tray extended by his virtual assistant.
"Lincoln, you have a call waiting."
He raised his head as a second feminine voice interjected. Siri number 2. She and Siri number 1 were part of the same engineering organism.
"Who?
"Viki Donovan. She's...."
"Stop. I know who she is." Oh, indeed he did. Lincoln had been wondering if she'd call.
"Patch her through."
"Yes, Sir."
Lincoln belted his silk bathrobe and dropped onto the sofa to wait for the faint radiance that had appeared in the corner of the room to coalesce into a three-dimensional holographic image of Vikki Donovan. When it had, he reclined in his seat, raised his glass in greeting and shot her a smile. "Well, well, Viki, you look ravishing as always. To what do I owe this pleasure?"
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