He got out of bed, much to the annoyance of his S-cat Sycho, who had been using him as a heated cushion. She hissed at him and ran over to the food bowl in the adjoining bathroom expectantly.
�So you yell at me and decide that I�m going to feed you?� he asked laughingly. Sycho, his �nice way� of naming his S-cat psychotic, was a Russian blue with a serious attitude. Her eyes were a rather startling shade of amber, especially in her grey face. She was a slim, pert cat, with a long tail and delicate features. Her long ears were always perked up, as if she were paranoid that something was coming to get her. Like all S-cats, or Smart-cats, she had the advantage of genetically-altered ancestors to breed a more intelligent species of domestic feline. No messes, a quick companion, and someone that at least seemed like they understood you when you spoke. Not that they anywhere neared human intelligence or speech; or like those few Psions brave enough to speak out in public thought, telepathic, they were twice as smart as their original counterparts, and larger, too. The old house cats, the ones who hadn�t had their DNA tinkered with, had basically become extinct about seventy years ago . . . The S-cats, and S-dogs too, had bred successfully with very few �throwbacks� in any new generation, and you couldn�t even find a stray that wasn�t a smart-pet. Most S-cats were of mild temperament, but Raeh suspected that Sycho had more than a passing wild streak in her. Thus far, he alone of all his companions, male or female, was the only one to remain relatively unscathed by the wrath of the psychotic feline. She was a one-man cat.
�And that�s the way it�ll stay, huh? Maybe I should just start dating you, eh?� He chuckled and picked her up. She cooperatively went limp, dangling from his arm like a grey dishrag. Sycho knew when food was coming.
Raeh was dressed and finished with his daily routine by nine A.M. He had almost forgotten about the night before when he caught sight of his answering machine flashing. He hit play and listened. It was Caravohl.
�Hello. You are to go to the M. Maraconn building today at four-thirty P.M. for your physical. You will be seeing Doctor Benjamin Almost. Don�t forget to take your identification.� There was a pause and a laugh. Evidently Caravohl had forgotten that Raeh technically didn�t exist, and that his ID was a nicety for an invisible. �Dress nicely, eh?� There was a soft beep when Caravohl terminated the communication.
�Bastard,� Raeh replied halfheartedly. He already despised this guy, and desperately hoped that he wouldn�t be forced into working with him. He gave Sycho a last despairing glance.
�Mmrrrow?� Sycho cocked her head, watching him, and scratched her ear.
�Eh . . . I�m going, I�m going. Did you see anyone here last night? You know, big ugly assholes in black fatigues or something along those lines?� Raeh asked, pulling on his grey leather jacket. The thing had been expensive as hell but Raeh thought it was worth the trouble.
Sycho turned around, tail held high, and trotted back to her food dish. She blinked at him wisely and then began washing her forepaws.
�Yeah, thanks.� Why had he been expecting an answer again? Oh, yeah. Because he was a psychopath himself.
Raeh made it from the gym in the A-District to the outskirts of the Governmental District in fifteen minutes flat, pedal to the metal in his silver-grey LS-1 Lexus. It was used, and about ten years old, but it ran and that�s all he cared about. Not to mention the killer stereo system one of his band-mates had installed for him. Never mind the fact that the thing was totally illegal, along with his CD player and the radio receiver that picked up stations put out by the Underground that were hidden beneath his arm rest console.
He pulled himself into the only free parking in the whole G-District for non-state-sponsored citizens. The G-District was an almagam of older architectural styles; arguably the most beautiful part of the city, even though at its core beat a rotten heart. Most of the old buildings had remained intact here, where old courthouses and other functioning buildings that had been renovated. Other buildings had cropped up, of course, but they mimicked the same official architecture . . . Seemed so familiar to him, like he had seen it a long time ago.
Raeh walked three blocks to the Maraconn building, head down and for all the world looking like a naughty child. The G-District made him nervous; after all, wouldn�t it please them immensely to capture one of the Underground artist-idols? Especially if they could make him �confess� and reveal others in the organization.
The entrance to the Maraconn building was literally infested with marble. Red Italian marble steps led up to six white marble pillars and through a grand set of double doors. The building itself was only twelve stories; the columns only reached to the second story. Raeh walked in and shivered as he passed through the U-scan. He was getting some nasty feelings from this place . . . Like pain echoed down the halls with sorrow.
He walked up to the front desk and handed his ID over to the elderly receptionist. She pursed her lips, looked from him to the photo and back again, flipped it around, held it up to the light, and finally gave it back to him and nodded. Creepy old bag.
�Sixth floor, suite one-eighteen,� she said in a thin, high voice. Her face was pinched in and sagging; the woman reminded him of a melting wax statue.
The two armed guards in grey parted and allowed Raeh into the elevator, their faces cold and unreadable. Definitely not friendly-looking fellows. He hit the sixth button and stepped out of the elevator gratefully when it stopped. Riescht wie schiza in a big way.
This floor was tiled in light yellow marble, with plain, whitewashed walls and flourescent lights. Definitely an odd combination. The hall Raeh stood in led past six doors, three on either side, and down to a single door at the end. One-eighteen. He walked the eleven yards with steadily increasing trepidation. His bad feeling was steadily increasing as he went. Opening the door, he had a sudden urge to turn and bolt.