Grand Junction (26 page)

Unlike the Junkville townships, Deadlink specializes in nothing—which means that anything and everything can be found there.

“They’re already there,” Yuri observes.

He can discern several groups of people scattered along the road at first, and as they get closer they see a huge crowd of humans. They are there en masse. There is a lot of capital here. A lot of biological capital. A lot of organs.

They have come from all over Junkville.

He recognizes their uniforms, their logos, their colors. There are the guys from Clockwork Orange County, in orange suits with black eight-branched
crosses on their backs. The ones from Snake Zone, in green uniforms emblazoned with white serpents. He sees the numerous yellow suits of the Triads of Vortex Townships, with their small black-and-white emblems shaped like blocks of public works. There are the characteristic colors of other groups as well, groups that are new on the market, which he has seen only rarely: blue suits with the insignia of biodecontamination printed in red on the breasts and shoulders—the necros from Big Bag Recyclo—and the purple ones, without any visible distinctive signs, of the Autostrada experts. And—where are they from?—men dressed all in black, with yellow hearts on white disks showing on their backs and chests.

Campbell answers his silent question. “They’re brand new in the market. A Triad from Tin Machine.”

“Business is booming, you might say.”

“Yep. The World is booming.”

And as the World of the Thing continues to expand, humanity will be confined more and more narrowly, every day a little more, thinks Yuri.

Every day their chances are less. Every day their hope is less. Every day their will to fight is less.

He knows it; as the weeks have passed, it has practically become mechanical. They are continuing their investigation, but they both know that it is a complete waste.

As long as Link de Nova hasn’t found a way to stop this new mutation of the Thing, they will just be men living on borrowed time, like all the others, going about their daily business.

We really are the Camp Doctors. We have stopped paying attention to statistics. We have stopped paying attention to numbers. We are simply gathering data for the records
.

What they see at Deadlink is repeated all over the Territory. The necro Triads are out in force. The new “digital infection” is no longer only a rumor; the whole south of the Territory is full of new cases, every day, every hour, every minute. The Triads are constantly on call and at work, all the way to Monolith Hills in the north.

During all this time, the breakdown rate of bio-implants and transgenic organs continues to increase.

And to this, the blizzard has added its own morbid count.

Pleurisy, pneumonia, hypothermia, various strains of the flu, bronchitis, serious sinusitis—any of it may swoop down at any moment to convey
you to a body bag, prettily decorated with the colors of the Triad that comes to take care of your corpse.

In the midst of the unmoving dual-toned sand-snow, the multicolored activity of the necro Triads looks like a circus act—like those he saw one day on one of Chrysler’s digidiscs. The necros are everywhere, all over Deadlink, even at the cabin of Yuri and Chrysler’s informant there, a member of the upper classes who lived in a UManHome capsule almost at the very edge of the unfinished highway. Then, in the afternoon, the “Camp Doctors” seek seventeen new cases there. Find eleven. Are able to analyze only nine.

The moving polychromy of these recycling agents of death is nothing less than fascinating. It is like a parody of the whole World in its configuration, like a luminous shadow. Jesters of the King. The Desert King. The Blizzard King. The King Thing.

They feel as if they are the only living beings in that desert of sand and ice.

Maybe they are, thinks Yuri.

The sun is sinking when they take Nexus Road to the north. Chrysler, arriving at the intersection with Row 299, the most direct route to the former city of Neon Park, stops the car, calmly and in utter silence. Yuri does not speak. Chrysler stares fixedly toward the east, toward what was once the city of transformists, the city of body tuning, the acropolis of an electronuclear god.

Yuri finds a Roxy Music cassette,
For Your Pleasure
, in the pickup’s glove compartment. It seems to fit the situation perfectly.

Nights clothed in velvet and silver lamé under the cold glare of neon light; cities illuminated in full futuristic flamboyance; haute couture gowns draping purely filmic creatures; a black panther on a leash; electric guitars crossed on the body of a supermodel.

A world that disappeared long before he was born.

Long before his parents were born.

A world that seems more distant now than the most remote ages of human history, a century that seems to have been bypassed by its own past.

“Do you know why they want to see us?”

Chrysler has just started the car again, wordlessly. He gives no explanation for stopping at the intersection of Row 299.

“I got a call from Link de Nova. There’s a big meeting. It’s important. They want to see us, that’s all I know. But it’s about something you have doubts about, apparently.”

The library
, thinks Yuri. That’s it. The library must be nearing Halifax.

“I mean,” Campbell corrects himself instinctively, “that it’s probably about what’s been happening over the past three months in the territory.”

Maybe the Professor has finally heard about the latest epidemic, thinks Yuri. They have been concealing it from him—but now they have stores of analytical data built up. They can conduct an authentic statistical study.

Of course, it might all lead to nothing.

Chrysler answers his unspoken question, as he so often does. “Sheriff Langlois knows all about it, especially what’s going on in Monolith Hills. There have been cases up there—fewer than in Junkville, but enough, I think, that his informant told him about it. He may have kept the secret; maybe not.”

“If they want to see us, it has something to do with the Thing. If by any chance they still don’t know about the second mutation and the epidemic explosion going on, I think we should tell them about it first thing.”

“Yes,” answers Chrysler, simply.

They come into view of the intersection with North Junction Road, which leads to the northern end of the strip and then to a side road connected to Apollo Drive, down near the cosmodrome. An updraft causes swarms of tumbleweeds to whirl among the rows and slopes.

This time it is Yuri who instinctively turns his head in a specific direction, as if drawn by an irresistible magnetic force. He watches the strip for as long as he can, then follows it with his eyes in the rearview mirror until it disappears into the distance behind them.

They cross the border of the county of Heavy Metal Valley. The rocky spine of Xenon Ridge, which marks the county’s southern entry point, rises a few kilometers ahead of them.

Almost immediately, Yuri sees blue-and-white patrol cars sparkling in the sun. Waiting, patiently, for them.

The icy snowdrifts become interspersed with rock, sand, arid ochre earth, patches of skin-irritating weeds, thorny bushes, and a few hardy shrubs.

Hot, cold, ice, fire, desert, ice floes, sand, snow, unnatural nature, dehumanized machines, demechanized humans. It’s all there. All the signs are present.

All the signs indicate that the real Cataclysm hasn’t truly happened yet.

All the signs indicate that it is extremely near.

All the signs indicate that no one will be able to perceive its true form.

All the signs indicate that no one will even know it is happening.

The two patrol cars pull away from the city’s southern entry to let them pass through to the other side of the high wall made of crushed metal carcasses, stacked in steel columns several meters thick.

Slade Orange Vernier, the deputy sheriff, yells out the open car window to them: “Bulldozer Park! The sheriff’s waiting for you there. You know the way, boys.”

They know the way. Bulldozer Park’s heavy metal cracks under the sun, which is reddening as it sinks behind the horizon. The sheriff is indeed waiting for them there.

Everything is in order. Everything is according to procedure. Everything respects the Law of Heavy Metal Valley.

“They’re down there, in Djordjevic’s mobile home. It’s a ‘scientific’ meeting. I’m not formally invited, so you’ll have a break.”

Wilbur Langlois is standing in the center of Bulldozer Park. He gestures vaguely to the northeast of the metallic city.

Chrysler isn’t familiar with the residence of Link de Nova’s parents. Yuri has been there two or three times. “I’ll be able to find it, Sheriff,” he says.

“My status as sheriff gives me the right to invite myself, you understand. But I’ve got a long day ahead of me.”

As if to confirm his words, a noise is heard from the other side of the park. Voices. The sound of an engine. A big engine. A truck. A huge truck, thinks Yuri.

The tanker truck slowly appears from between two rows of concrete mixers, accompanied by several men who walk alongside it, dressed in old firefighters’ uniforms from the city of Grand Junction.

It is a powerful 450-horsepower Kenworth painted in the colors of
the Republic of Alberta, which, like all other nations, has now vanished—but its oil wells have not, nor have its refineries, nor its tanker trucks.

The enormous oblong vehicle rolls to a stop in a large parking place on the periphery of the park. Chrysler and Yuri then watch several pickup trucks towing small tankers of two or three thousand liters drive toward the Alberta Kenworth. Pumps, pipes, and pressure controllers are quickly extracted from the small trucks, and in a few minutes all the equipment needed to transfer fuel is put in place by the HMV teams.

The Albertans themselves have not lifted a finger; they are rooted in the seats of their vehicles and mostly asleep. They have traveled thousands of kilometers across central Canada with a cargo of refined fuel, and undoubtedly a very strict deadline to keep. It is as heroic as crossing an ocean with a medieval library.

“Gasoline is becoming rare in the territory,” remarks Campbell. “The stores at Reservoir Can in Junkville are already half empty. How are you doing this? What are you paying them with?”

Sheriff Langlois plants his night-black gaze directly on the young bounty hunter’s. There is no animosity in it, but no friendliness, either. Not even indifference. It is simply the eye of the Law of Bronze, Yuri thinks. Just the eye that surveys, that controls, that makes sure all security procedures are respected.

It is the eye that sees everything because it does not focus on any one thing in particular.

The eye of Heavy Metal Valley.

“Humvee is full of resources. All you have to do is look around you, Mr. Campbell. And to know how to choose.”

“Gasoline-powered cars? Are you trading your cars for fuel?”

The sheriff cracks a sort of smile. It is like the firing pin of a gun being pulled up. “We’ve improved a lot of these vehicles since the Fall. Their communities of origin fell back on the basic designs. We often add hybrid systems, ethanol fuel cells, sometimes hydrogen or deuterium engines, when we can find them.”

“That gives me a better understanding of how you created your sacred brigade of patrol cars,” says Campbell dryly. “Tell me—aren’t you doing business with Junkville?”

The sheriff’s face closes a little. “Why the question, Campbell? Are you buying?”

“There’s been an influx of gasoline-powered and converted cars for the past two years or so into Junkville, Sheriff Langlois. Especially in the
rich townships. Vortex, Little Congo, Tin Machine. You’ll even see red Buicks from the very beginning of the century in perfect condition.”

Oh, shit
, thinks Yuri. Chrysler has just hit the nail on the head, as usual. The sheriff himself is trafficking, like everyone in the territory. He’s trafficking for his community, for Heavy Metal Valley. But he’s trafficking.

Trafficking for the Law.

Wilbur Langlois shifts his gaze to Yuri. “You know how to get to Djordjevic’s?”

Yuri nods.

“So quit wasting time. They’re waiting for you.”

The odor of high-octane gasoline wafts through the fresh, still evening air. The pipes pump their hectoliters of fuel, emitting groans and sighs from their giant mechanical esophagi.

Wilbur Langlois observes the scene, immobile as a statue. He is simply monitoring to ensure that the procedure goes smoothly.

He is monitoring the Law of his city.

And the Law of the city is monitoring him.

When they have gathered in the central section of the Winnebago, Chrysler and Yuri take careful stock of the situation according to the same mutual, instinctive impulse, each of them knowing the other is doing the same thing. We work together, with a shared system, thinks Yuri, holding back a smile as he sits down in an old, scavenged armchair with a faded, barely discernable pattern of Scottish tartan on it, worn by several generations of users.

Milan Djordjevic is there, and his son, Gabriel Link de Nova.

The mother is there: the baptized android, Sydia Nova.

Professor Zarkovsky is there.

And there is a pair of almost-violet eyes, a simple glance from which can melt you like a dirty iceberg on the side of the road.

Judith Sevigny.

Goddamn, she’s beautiful
, Yuri cannot stop himself from thinking. He turns his head quickly away from her. A little too beautiful, maybe.

Chrysler maintains the appearance of a living computer, but Yuri’s practiced gaze can pick out dozens of tiny details proving that he, too—despite his glacial irony and his cool, mechanical reason—he too, yes, Chrysler Campbell, the Territory’s premier bounty hunter, is melting like
a snowball beneath the extraordinary beauty of this face, this form, this aura.

She’s barely seventeen years old, Yuri muses. When she’s my age, the man who manages to seduce her will be the happiest one alive. Even if all of humanity vanishes into a global desert, it would be a blessing just to live with her, alone, in the middle of nowhere, anywhere.