Antenna Syndrome (12 page)

“Don’t you have an ID chip or a QR code?” the
security guard said.

“Sorry, my goggles are in the shop.”

He eyed me suspiciously. “How will you cover the
event?”

“The old-fashioned way.” I showed him a notepad and
pen. He looked at me like I was some kind of nut and waved me
in.

Inside, about 60 or 70 people sat on folding chairs.
A center aisle led to a podium where three people sat at a table.
In one corner of the hall crouched the large vehicle I’d seen
onscreen at the Avatar Clinic. I took a seat. One of the people
onstage, a black woman in a mauve pantsuit, stood and approached a
lectern with a microphone.

“Hello. My name is Marigold Lincoln, Assistant
Commissioner, Department of Sanitation.” She held up her hands.
“Yes, it’s a dirty job, but someone’s got to clean up your
mess.”

Polite laughter rippled through the crowd.

“Garbage disposal has always been a financial and
logistical burden for the city. Traditional methods have served us
well enough, and we’ll continue to use them, partly because of
long-term contracts with service providers, and also because
spin-off benefits serve our community in a larger sense.

“But today I’m happy to announce a contract awarded
to Voromix Industries for the deployment of a dozen autonomous
waste management units. The first two will immediately enter
service for a trial period of one month. If all goes well, others
will come on stream, roughly one a month, in neighborhoods deemed
suitable for such service.”

“Could you tell us more about these units?” asked
someone up front.

Lincoln held up her hand. “Let’s leave that to Dr.
Globik, Director of Research and Development at Voromix.”

A man in a grey suit came to the microphone. He was
of moderate height and walked with a slight limp. His grey hair and
goatee, along with a head that seemed slightly larger than normal,
gave him the look of a distinguished university professor.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentleman.” He had a
voice that sounded almost operatic. “Voromix Industries is
primarily a research and development company. We’re engaged in a
wide spectrum of scientific applications, principally robotics,
nanotechnology and prosthetics. Today I’d like to introduce EDGAR,
the Energetically Diverse Garbage Absorption Robot.”

A reporter called out, “Is that just a nice way of
saying it’ll eat anything in its path?”

Dr. Globik shook his head. “Perhaps you’re referring
to DARPA’s efforts to develop a battlefield robot that will fuel
itself on foraged bio-mass. Unfortunately, some creative journalist
implied the Pentagon wanted to set flesh-eating robots loose in
Iran or North Korea.”

“If you can’t beat ‘em, eat ‘em,” someone in the
audience yelled out.

There was a burst of short-lived laughter, like
someone had opened the door on a raucous frat party, but mention of
the Pentagon quickly sobered the audience. America was once again
in a mess. Our soldiers were dying in Iran and North Korea, neither
of which we gave two shits about, all because the President thought
he’d get a leg over an axis of evil. Now we were in war debt up to
our grandchildren’s eyeballs, and they would curse us long after we
were dead and buried in landfill.

“EDGAR is equipped with an advanced sensor array
that detects suitable bio-mass to refuel its electro-chemical
engine. Programmed to recognize humans and give them a wide berth
during operations, it will shut down rather than place people in
jeopardy.”

“What about cats and dogs?”

“EDGAR will operate only between midnight and four
AM. There will be announcements via radio, TV and local posters
warning residents to keep their pets off the streets during those
periods.”

“But it’s open season for strays or rats?”

“Yes. The exploding rodent population poses a major
health risk. Aside from clearing garbage, EDGAR will reduce the
vermin problem.”

“Rats are smart,” a reporter said. “They won’t stand
still while this monster lumbers up to them.”

“Time for a demonstration.” Dr. Globik nodded to the
other man on the podium. “Although EDGAR would run under his own
program during normal operations, to ensure everyone’s safety here,
my assistant Sergei will control EDGAR for this demo.”

Sergei approached the vehicle. He was small and
pale, with blond hair pasted to his skull, and looked like a
recently-drowned school child. His white lab coat came almost to
his ankles. He looked barely capable of controlling a kite on a
string, let alone a three-ton garburator on wheels, but he wore a
pair of goggles and carried a remote control.

Two men in coveralls rode lawn tractors from the
rear of the media center, each towing a wagonload of garbage which
they dumped in the center aisle. Another man came with a cinder
block and a cable tethering three huge wharf rats. The rats tried
to hide among the garbage, but the tethers kept them from going
far.

Sergei raised his hand. A light blinked, and EDGAR
rose from a flat-bellied crouch like a gargantuan metal toad. Big
as a tank, it rode on eight rubber wheels with tractor-tread grips.
A pair of translucent hemispheres at the head end contained the
sensor array. Hydraulic arms hugged its sides. From its front end
protruded a double row of metallic teeth, like opposing
ripsaws.

Without a sound, EDGAR positioned itself at the head
of the center aisle. It was creepy for something so massive to move
so silently. It sat waiting, its running lights flickering within
the translucent hemispheres that functioned as its eyes.

The rats huddled behind the cinder block, the only
thing between them and the vehicle.

Sergei thumbed the remote, and EDGAR rolled
stealthily toward the pile of garbage. A gap appeared in its front
end. Something red the size of a 20-foot anaconda shot out, seized
the rats in a curled grip and snapped back into EDGAR’s mouth. It
was so fast I didn’t get a good look, but it might have been a
rubber belt covered in Velcro.

The cinder block clanged against its front bumper.
EDGAR’s mouth snapped shut, severing the cable. The front wheels
lowered, bringing its mouth flush to the floor. The two arms
extended. EDGAR swept the cinder block aside and nosed into the
first pile of garbage. The arms shoveled it in as the mouth
swallowed three cubic yards of garbage. From inside EDGAR came a
shredding roar, like a massive industrial blender.

EDGAR reared back on its hind wheels, bounced once,
then lowered its snout and plowed into the next pile of garbage. In
five minutes it had eaten everything.

“EDGAR’s tongue and arms are feeding mechanisms,”
Dr. Globik explained. “Its digestive system consists of a shredder,
acid chamber and compactor. Once through the shredder, digestible
matter is routed to the acid chamber, indigestible to the
compactor. Bio-mass pulp converts to fuel and powers the
electronics, propulsion and hydraulic systems. Left on his own,
EDGAR could survive indefinitely in either an urban or rural
environment.”

“What happens to the stuff it can’t digest?”

Sergei thumbed the remote. EDGAR turned and came
back up the aisle, dropping several large bricks of varied color
and composition. It stopped, faced the audience and settled to a
crouch.

“Whatever he can’t consume, EDGAR compacts and
extrudes at collection sites,” Dr. Globik said. “These bricks can
then be used for infrastructure construction.”

“It’s a plot to exterminate the homeless,” someone
yelled, “and a crude ploy to steal jobs from New York’s
Strongest.”

A man in a leather jacket ran up the center aisle.
He raised an Uzi and triggered a long burst. EDGAR’s eyes
disintegrated in a flurry of Pyrex and circuitry. The man swept his
stuttering Uzi across the podium. Sergei folded in two, collapsing
like a bloody ragdoll. Dr. Globik and Ms. Lincoln dived for cover
behind EDGAR.

Someone emerged from an alcove behind the podium,
moving faster than seemed human. He was tall and wore wrap-around
glasses and a black jumpsuit like a fighter pilot. He tackled the
gunman and they crashed to the floor. The Uzi skidded among the
chairs of the audience. People stampeded for the exits, fearing
other gunmen, or a bomb.

I stood frozen, my eyes still on the two struggling
men. Although disarmed, the gunman wasn’t giving up without a
fight. He and Jumpsuit wrestled on the floor, and the gunman was
throwing punches at Jumpsuit’s head. Although I didn’t have the
best view I could have sworn that Jumpsuit bit the guy’s hand off
because next thing I knew, the gunman was screaming as blood
squirted from his severed wrist.

Jumpsuit stood, grabbed the gunman by both arms and
flung him at EDGAR. The gunman smashed into the vehicle’s front
bumper. Jumpsuit grabbed the remote that Sergei had dropped. EDGAR
yawned open. Two hydraulic arms pulled the gunman inside. The mouth
closed on a scream and the shredder went to work.

Jumpsuit picked something off the floor and tossed
it into EDGAR’s churning mouth. He turned and looked at me. I
turned and saw I was the only witness who hadn’t fled. Jumpsuit
took a step toward me, but was stopped by Dr. Globik’s call.

“Buzz.”

Jumpsuit thumbed the remote. EDGAR sagged back onto
its belly, but I could still hear the blender going. Jumpsuit went
to help Dr. Globik regain his feet. Accompanied by Ms. Lincoln,
they hurried into the alcove from which Jumpsuit had emerged.

I’d come here intending to confront Dr. Globik, to
ask him whether Marielle was a patient at his clinic, but now I was
afraid to follow him. His bodyguard had freaked me out. Had he
really bitten off the gunman’s hand? What kind of teeth could do
that? I didn’t know the answer and, frankly, I didn’t want to get
close enough to ask.

Chapter 20

Outside the media center, the press corps
had regrouped. Journalists were filing on-the-scene reports to
accompany whatever video clip of the shooting they’d captured
inside on goggles or mobiles. I didn’t hang around. I’d seen much
worse than a shooting.

Although the city was full of conspiracy theorists,
today’s gunman was just another example of what regularly popped
out of the woodwork. Every CEO in the Fortune 500 wore a flak
jacket and traveled under security escort. Voromix would probably
emerge unscathed.

I drove up to Chelsea Park and lapped the block
until Dachshund made himself visible. He approached warily and
crouched beside my window as he passed me the goggles.

“My guy scrubbed them clean,” Dachshund said. “But
just so you know, an hour after you were here, a couple of
plainclothes came around asking about you, probably wondering how
come you fell off the grid.”

I asked him what they looked like. His description
fit Boyle and Mundt.

“Damn. I’d powered off as soon as I got out of
jail.”

“Gotta pull the battery or they’ll still find
you.”

“Shit.” I told him about the bug Anastasia had
found. “Maybe you need to warn her.”

“Not to worry. Her son’s ex-KGB, runs a technical
crew. They’ve got a jammer that cloaks the whole block. The cops
won’t even know you got a car wash.” He slapped the fender. “Good
to go.”

I went, but I didn’t go far. I parked on 27th, put
on my iFocals and had a taste of vaporizer KavaKat. To make sure my
goggles were working properly before I left the neighborhood, I
searched for background on Dr. Globik.

Born in Switzerland, he’d attended university in
Germany and England, earning doctorates in medicine and biophysics.
He’d been on the surgical staff of several prestigious European
hospitals. He’d come to America on a teaching fellowship at Johns
Hopkins, later accepting a research post at the Mayo Clinic.
Shortly thereafter he opened the Avatar Clinic and gained a seat on
the Voromix board.

His list of published articles ran several pages.
The majority were on neurosurgery and prosthetics, nanotechnology,
biochemistry, entomology, hallucinogens and behavioral
conditioning. In his spare time he played violin, composed
classical music, edited an operatic review and wrote poetry. He was
a polymath, a Renaissance Man.

I stared out the window. Tuesday evening and still
no closer to finding Marielle than 24 hours ago. I didn’t see a way
of finding her via Globik and the Avatar Clinic, so I’d concentrate
on Eddie Crabner. Find him, maybe he knew where she was.

I drove back up to Hell’s Kitchen, encountering
nothing more threatening than a gang of squeegee punks blocking an
intersection. There was a red light but no cross-traffic so I held
the horn down and matted it. The gang parted like a wave of piranha
and turned as one to spit on the car as I drove through.

I left the Charger at Mr. Kim’s and walked to my
office building. As I approached, I saw an unmarked car parked
further down the street. I did an about-face and ducked into an
alley. I jogged to the rear and followed a service lane to access
the rear of my building.

The door was locked as usual. Before I could punch
in the access code, the lock buzzed and the intercom squawked.

“Evening, Savage.”

I saluted the camera above the door and entered.
Major sat as usual behind the desk of an alcove office adjacent the
service entrance. A 12-gauge automatic shotgun lay on the desk, the
remains of a taco dinner beside it. Major had his feet up, with a
view of four screens on the wall: front door, service entrance, the
roof, and a ball game in Houston.

Major was the building’s superintendent, responsible
for utility maintenance, pest control and garbage removal. He was a
gentleman and a scholar, a good chess player, and a former major
who’d done three tours in Iraq. He wore military fatigues with a
Beretta M9 in a leg holster, and usually a copy of
The
Economist
in one of the ammo pockets. He had the reddish
complexion of a man for whom scotch was a daily staple, but his
eyes were clear and on constant alert.