On the way to the gym today, I had to detour three blocks out of my way to avoid the protestors at the Smith Augmentaion Clinic. These guys are out there at least once a month, and there's been a spike over the past months. I loke at them, with their sign and their placards, so full of sound and fury, signifying prejudice.

Look, there's a difference between having, say, a few extra features added, and grafting devil horns onto your head, tatooing the Number of the Beast above your eyebrows, and watching "Herbie: Fully Loaded". There are people who just want to have a little extra fun, and end up getting mocked on CSI. Not all of them are furs. It's not that bad, really.

The gym was quiet today. I did some bench presses, with Murray spotting. As I got up, I saw some kid whaling on a punching bag.

Kid. When did late teens start being "kid" to me?

"Kid," I say. "Straighten your right wrist. Bend your knees a little. Follow through."

If you know what to look for, you can see him settling in.

"Thanks, old-timer," he throws over his shoulder. I wince.

After running my old bones through the shower and changing back into street clothes, I head home. The protestors have mostly dispersed, with only a few redshirts handing out flowers. I don't bother with the detour, instead electing to nod in what I hope is a sage manner, befitting for one of my advanced age. I would've stroked my beard, but I haven't had one since the 80s.

When I got home, my wife was waiting, chatting with some detectives from the 27th. There was a good-looking (what? I'm secure in my masculinity) black guy with a gotee and a mustachioed white guy with a moustache, Jack Parr's haircut, silver hair, and a great weariness of life. They had a warrant for that Stoner dude's apartment. I grabbed the key and we went in.

The place was redolent of stale weed. There was nothing in the fridge but the cliched jar of mustard, and the dust was ankle deep. I held my shirt over my face.

"Notice anything off?" said the black guy, muffled through his handkerchief. I shook my head. "Haven't been in here since I rented it to him, two years next week. But I think that HDTV and that brand, spanking-new laptop over there would qualify."

Their heads whirled around. The laptop was sitting between a pair of marijuana plants, its winking lights saying that it was on standby. Moustache used his jacket to open it. He poked at a few keys with his pencil, and whistled.

"Top of the line, Ed." He poked some more. "We're gonna have to confiscate this." He disconnected it and slipped it into a plastic bag I later found he had taken from my apartment. Then he and his partner turned to leave.

"Look," I said, "mind telling me what this is about?"

The younger one paused on the threshold. "Homicide. We'll be in touch."

On behalf of Doc. Wednesday-I'm not saying she asked, I just wanted to find out-I went up to the apartment of the crazy survaillance guy on the second floor. Mr. X., as he signs his checks, is a bit of a conspiracy theorist, and if anyone would know about how spiderbots work, it would be him.

So; I walk down to his apartment, and knock on his door. There is some brief scuffling, and I hear him call "who is it?" In response, I flip off the wall scone. He had the entire floor wired like a Chihuahua after it's third round of espresso within a week of moving in, and I know he knows I know it, and so we're all happy together.

There's a chuckle, and the door opens.

The room is dark, supposedly to confound any bugs. I can make out at least three white-noise generators, and the only illumination is the light from the three plasma screens bouncing off X.'s glasses.

"So," he says, "what can I do yer for?"

"Free. I'm hear to learn what you know about spiderbots. Or, at least, what you're willing to tell me."

He chuckled. "For Doc. Wednesday, huh?"

I wasn't going to look surprised in front of this kid. "Yeah."

"Fair enough." He runs his hand through his short, spiky hair, and I realize for the first time that the room is almost dead silent. Aside from the white noise, and the sounds of us, there was nothing. We should be able to hear a dog barking, a deliveryman knocking down an old lady, something, but he must've soundproofed the room. It's eerie.

"Alright," he says, and I see that he's somehow accesed my Blogger account. I'll just cut and paste what I know into your account and save it as a draft, mmkay?" I can't even hear his keyboard-USB, of course-clicking. Given the speed at which he types, it'd be nothing more than a hum anyway.

"X.," I ask, "What do you do for a living?"

He smiles, and logs out of Blogger. I feel violated, somehow. "I'm tech support for several porn payment sites."

"Ah. Do you get a...cut of the product?"

"Sure, why not? He shows me to the door. "Bye now."

---

I spent the next few hours poring(sp?) over the information. Here's it in a nutshell, Doc.

Spiderbots are small mechanical robots created to perform a variety of tasks. Initially created to assist in industrial and high-risk situations, they were soon developed into tools of voyeurism by, um, voyeurs. SB's are particularly popular on college campuses, where they can be easily concealed under beds, or in a shoebox. The bulk of their popularity is attributed to their low cost; an RC bot can be made or commisioned for under $150, and there are make-a-spider kits for even less than that. The standard spiderbot is usually a digital camcorder with a small HD, a power supply(usually rechargable batteries), and a radio. The more complex versions are waterproofed, slightly more durable, can operate off of their own AI as well as RC, and are capable of acting in the intrest of self-preservation. The expensive one's, in the thousands of dollars, are usually bulletproof and waterproof up to several hundred feet. They can seal their connectors if attacked, and sit around for years, if need be, until they can return home and/or resume their mission. Some even disguise themselfes as briefcases and have optic camoflague. Yes, that GiTS stuff. Kinda sweet, really.

The only thing that all spiderbots have in common is their heat signature. Even in standby, 'bots produce a distinctive pattern of heat emmision visible on any decend infrared sensor, and sometimes felt by people walking by. I'd go on, but I could swear I heard the sound of legs agaisnt carpet and a lens adjusting, and the room seems slightly warmer. I think I'll publish the post right here.

Late thirties isn't so old.

Haloween passed uneventfully, aside from some kids throwing turds at the building and yelling about "Guro no jitsu". I would've heard more, but I was busy digging the baking soda out from under the kitchen sink. Mind you, I have no idea if baking soda does anything to stains or not; I just know I've liked it since I blew up a volcano in seventh grade. We had some real pranksters then. Dogs went missing. On one occasion, a guy fell asleep in his car and woke up, still inside the car, in Kentucky. Kentucky Fried Chicken. That said, today's whippersnappers have nothing on us.

I feel old. The 80s weren't that long ago, were they?