New York City, December, 2077, Thursday…

Sergio Battaglia looked down from his office window, deep in thought. On other days he would have savored the view over the cold East River. Especially the sunrise as its blood-colored light streamed between the skyscraper forest. The high dike, which had been constructed to keep rising waters from encroaching upon the network of highways and maglev rails between his office building and the river, cast a deep shadow over the whole scene.

Until a few years ago, the waters had generally risen a few centimeters or so every year since the turn of the century, primarily due to the shrinking polar ice caps. Recently, though, they hadn't raised much. Global warming had peaked, or so his scientists told him. There were even some data that suggested that the Arctic ice pack was coming back.

He believed that the turn-around was probably due to the scarcity of oil. The light crude was nearly all gone. Heavy crude and petroleum from tar sands and shale operations still kept most refineries working, at least the ones that had been retrofitted to do the heavier refining, but they were almost too precious to be refined as gasoline anymore and far too expensive to be used in home heating.

You can't pollute if there's nothing to burn. The world had quickly turned to alternative sources of energy except where there was no substitute. Many plastics and other products still required petroleum or petroleum substitutes derived from coal, for example, or garbage. It made what little oil that was left all the more valuable.

Whatever the reason for the global warming turn-around was, he didn't really care. He had never had any use for environmentalists nor industrialists and politicians who pandered to their demands. There had been too many times in his life when do-good scientists got in the way of his plans. Sometimes he had managed to prevail, others not.

But he also didn't care because he was sure that human beings were stubborn and inventive enough to ensure their survival in the most desperate of climates, environmental or political. He counted on it. He exploited it.

He was so deep in thought, he basically ignored what was going on the street below. A mugger had left a little old lady sprawled on a street corner, crying for help. She was lying amidst her groceries, her hip broken. Passers-by looked at her with curiosity until the cops came. Their quick response was only due to the fact that they were already close by attending to a crash involving a delivery truck and a car stolen by three teenagers on a joy ride. On almost every block there were hookers displaying their wares; many, with their silicon implants and collagen enlarged lips, were almost caricatures of the female anatomy. It was a typical New York City dawn, the kind the nihilistic poets liked to write about.