Antenna Syndrome

by Alan Annand

  A receptionist in her twenties monitored my approach. When I got closer I saw she was actually staring at a wall of glass that separated her workstation from the waiting area. Closer still, I saw it was a see-through display panel on which a daytime drama was playing.

  I recognized a B-list actress from LA who’d hired me two years ago to find her only brother who’d gone missing in the Brooklyn Blast. A real-life soap opera with a happy ending, since I’d eventually found the brother in a Brooklyn mass burial complex, his name misspelled in a bureaucratic typo that had never been corrected on his driver’s license. Closure in the end, and exactly what my client had prayed for, since there’d been a sizable family estate swinging in the wind, and her brother’s corpse delivered the icing on her inheritance cake.

  “May I help you?” The daytime drama evaporated like smoke.

  “I’m looking for a young lady.” I pressed a printed photo of Marielle up against the glass.

  She shook her head. “I don’t recognize her.”

  “Her name’s Marielle, but she might have used a different name.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “She’s underage and doesn’t have parental consent to do whatever she’s thinking of having done here at your clinic.” That was at least half true, and if she didn’t have Marielle’s file on hand, she had no way to disprove the other half.

  She slipped on a pair of goggles and rested her chin on her fists a moment to study me. Suspecting she was filming me, I smiled for the camera. She didn’t smile back. She was one of those blondes whose skin tone was white as country snow, with blood like ice water. She brushed her hair back, dipped her head and tapped her fingers across a touch-screen keyboard. She could have used voice-command to do whatever she was doing, but she probably figured this was more secure, since I had little hope of following her upside-down keyboard strokes.

  Her fingers paused a moment, then danced again. Finally she turned her face up to me, and this time she did smile. I saw white teeth so perfect I suspected she’d never smoked a cigarette or drunk a cup of tea. This generation, some of them got all their fixes from patches.

  “Sorry, Mr. Savage, the young lady in question is not under our care. And incidentally, we do not entertain inquiries from the public, no matter whether family members or their private investigators, unless accompanied by a subpoena.” Letting me know by name and profession that she’d pegged me with facial recognition.

  “If you don’t entertain such inquiries, why tell me anything?”

  “I’m doing you a favor. Save you the stress of thinking we’re hiding something from you.”

  I refused to be shooed away so easily. “Who’s in charge here?”

  “Aside from me, you mean?” She smiled again. Apparently, she’d gone to Miss Meanie’s School for Rude Girls.

  “Your Director of Operations. Chief Surgeon. Sawbones-at-Large.”

  “You mean Dr. Globik? He’s not in.”

  “How do I know you’re not just stonewalling me?”

  Her fingers tickled her keyboard. She jerked her chin to look over my shoulder. The picture of bees in the waiting area was actually a flat-screen monitor. I saw some people on a podium. The view switched to what looked like a gargantuan painted toad on snow tires. The camera continued a slow pan around a conference room with about fifty people in attendance.

  “What’s that about?”

  “Dr. Globik is giving a news conference at the MediaTech Center.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Pier Twenty-Six.” She extended her arm east and hooked her hand south. “Just a few blocks away. They’re due to kick off on the hour. If you hurry you can probably just make it.”

  The daytime drama appeared like a translucent curtain between us. Three actors, my half-naked former client one of them, cavorted on a bed. The receptionist stared at it, and therefore, through me. Even I couldn’t compete with a threesome, so I left.

  Chapter 19

  I drove to Pier 26. A display at the media center’s front door said entrance was limited to City officials and holders of valid Press cards. As one of my covers, I carried business cards that said Keith Savage, Hudson Howler. The Howler was an online tabloid for whom journalism was little more than dumpster diving to identify the drinking habits of public figures.

  “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.”

&nb
sp; “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.