Grand Junction

by Maurice G. Dantec

“Come back with me to the Travelaire and I’ll explain everything to you in detail. But I brought 90 percent of the cabin back with me.”

  Until now, the Ford Travelaire mobile home has been their temporary refuge. Kindly loaned by the community of Humvee, it has been partially opened on one side and joined to the small towable Combi-Cube Yuri brought from Snake Zone with the sheriff’s discreet approval a few days before; they have barely had the time to fit it out. When the parts of Campbell’s newly recovered hybrid cabin are attached to this ensemble, they will have a perfect replica of their place at Aircrash Circle, and even better: an additive synthesis of their two personal shelters. Nothing is created in the Territory, but neither does it really transform. Everything moves. Everything moves faster and faster. Until the inevitable collision.

  Everyone in the expedition is back safely, but Yuri can see that the pair of androids seems profoundly disturbed, while the two cops are conversing as calmly as anything.

  He can guess why.

  “They wanted to see the hidden side of the Territory, and they saw it,” says Campbell, with the cool impassivity so particular to him.

  Oh yes, thinks Yuri, without even knowing the details of what happened. Men died in the Territory this afternoon, and not from the numeric mutation.

  The dark side of the Earth. The androids from the Ring wanted to visit the dark side of the Earth.

  They made a good choice. Chrysler Campbell is in every way the ideal guide for that sort of excursion.

  It is not until the next day that Yuri can hear from Campbell’s mouth exactly what happened in Aircrash Circle. The previous night, he asked Yuri to give him a hand parking the Silverado and unloading it first, so the cops could have it back as soon as possible.

  “What happened to the trailer?” Yuri had asked, by way of beginning the conversation.

  “I’m exhausted, Yuri. Let’s unload their damned Chevy and then I’m going to bed. I’ll tell you everything tomorrow morning when we deal with our pickup.”

  Campbell always keeps his promises, even when it comes to killing a man. And even when it comes to relating the circumstances of that killing.

  The next morning, they are pulling stacks of metal from the Ford Super Duty’s trailer when Yuri says:

  “Did you trap them the usual way?”

  “No,” answers Campbell, his cool gaze fixed on the other side of the pile of cement-and-steel plates. “No, we didn’t trap them.”

  Yuri makes a surprised noise.

  “The Territory itself is a trap, you know, for people who know how to make it work.”

  “What did you make work?”

  “Do the details really matter? Just know that their bodies—four of them—are sunk deep in Lake Champlain, where they’ll have some company. Their cars, two of them, are at the bottom of a ravine near Neon Park, where they’ll have company, too. There, now; that’s what I’d call a tidy summary.”

  Yuri closes his eyes for a moment. Campbell, too, is always learning; Campbell, the human computer. Not only can he beat any man at chess, he has probably surpassed all electronic machines in his ability to kill Homo sapiens.

  Yuri finds out the details soon enough, without even having to question his friend. They come out in snippets as they work. Toward early afternoon the foundations of the new cabin are in place, and Yuri knows what happened, and when, and where, and why.

  “You know Neon Park? We didn’t try to lose them. On the contrary, we played with them; we drove to Row 280 north of the city, and then to Nexus Road and then back, on Row 281, just a block over. The guys followed us from a distance, using binoculars, so we put on some speed to excite them a little, make the chase more plausible.”

  And a few pieces of the Airbus later: “You know the big boulder on Row 281, almost on the lakeshore? It’s to the left of the road and there’s a pretty navigable path just behind it, at the top of a long slope that leads to the western shore, and on the other side there’s a very narrow strip, lightly wooded, and then some deep ravines. It was simple.”

  And after the transfer of several large slabs of Recyclo-cement: “The slope curves slightly there; it’s a dream spot. We stopped just before the bend and unhitched the trailer from the Silverado as fast as we could, and left it right in the middle of the road. Then we took the small path and got behind the butte.”

  With several panels of the Combi-Cube joined to sections of fuselage: “Then, simple. Imagine it—they got out of their Hyundais, engines running, which drowned out our approach, and two of them started looking through the contents of the trailer—I don’t know, to see if it was booby-trapped, maybe. The two others were just standing on the side of the road, by their car, keeping watch—but they didn’t see me or Vernier, even though I can tell you the road is extremely narrow at that point.”

  Another piece of fuselage later, with part of the cockpit still attached: “We attacked from behind. Vernier drove completely off the road, right near the boulder—right up against it; I’m telling you, sparks were flying—and mowed the first two right down; smashed into the trailer on his way. He’s a real master, that one. In the meantime I cut through the little wooded area on the right and bashed into the second car’s rear fender; I got the second two guys out my window when they came out of the car.”

  Panels of sheetrock, parpens, firebricks—and the sound of destruction in Yuri’s ears. Metal Machine Music in the midst of neonature, in the middle of a deserted row, in the middle of nowhere. The shriek of steel scraping on rock, the symphony of tearing sheet metal and Plexiglas exploding on impact and the screaming of tires; the majestic chant of highspeed collisions, the rhythmic percussion of gunfire; powder, steel, sparks. Death, armor-clad.

  “Vernier tossed me his .357 Magnum, the one from L’Amiante County. The two guys got hit by a mass of rubble and caught in a Y-crossfire at the same time. Their chances dropped to less than absolute zero. As for the two Vernier smashed with his pickup—neither of them was in one piece after that. There was one semidecapitation and a forearm we couldn’t find. There was nothing they could do against us.”

  Four men who didn’t have the slightest chance. Four men who crossed paths with Chrysler Campbell and a couple of Territory cops.

  Four men who earned the right to euthanasia improvised to perfection by a Camp Doctor.

  The androids certainly found the dark side of the Earth.

  Campbell looks at Link de Nova as the deep, saturated half-bass hums, nudging the limits of the Larsen effect, and fades slowly away in the static electricity-charged silence. Diodes blink on various machines; the volumeters on the mixing console drop gradually toward zero; the black Les Paul is still vibrating, held by its neck by a boy whose quasi-ecstatic expression suggests that his soul is flying in pursuit of the jets of electricity launched beyond the aluminum walls and into the twilight sky, where the first stars, summoned by the music, are surging from the depths of the Earth.

  Metal Machine Music, thinks Yuri. Link is going to become the loudspeaker for the poetry of the Camp, the secret bard of the Territory, the vector of the electric machine-turned-serious work transcending itself via the infinity of which it is secretly made, the starfire guitarist, the guitarist of the ultraviolet night. Beauty against the Beast.

  “Well, I don’t know if that will help us fight the digital mutation, but at least we’ve got a true sonic weapon now. We can make eardrums explode from kilometers away.”

  No one laughs at Chrysler’s joke but him.

  “Campbell,” Yuri says, “don’t you understand what I told you on the way over here? We’re going to need hundreds—thousands—of radio transmitters.”

  “I get it, Yuri; I’m not an idiot. The problem is that the system hasn’t been tested. And that goes against my ethics.”

  “Tested?”

  “Yes, Yuri, like we did with the old Hells Angel from Electra Glide.”

  “The sheriff won’t let us leave the county for that kind of operation anymore, Chrysler, and y
ou know it. He won’t let us go very far away for any reason.”

  “Of course I know it. That’s why I don’t think this solution will fly.”

  “We don’t have a choice, Chrysler. It comes down to that, really. The sheriff can’t do anything, and neither can the fuckers chasing us on the outside. It isn’t about Link’s physical presence anymore—it’s his music we’re going to transmit. And I can promise you that we don’t need any more scientific tests.”

  “Oh, really? So we’re proceeding in a scientific manner, but without the experimental phase. That’s new.”

  “We’re beyond experimental science, Chrysler. Haven’t you said yourself that it’s through thought that we’re going to defeat this Thing?”

  Silence, static electricity, the final infrasonic vibrations of the wall of amplifiers.

  “Fine,” says Campbell finally, sighing. “Radio transmitters. We’ll ask the sheriff to get them during his next trading session with Junkville. Anything else?”

  Yuri smiles, relieved. Campbell is going to help them. He will manage to convince the sheriff. He will give Link a chance to fight for real against the new Humanity.

  “No,” Yuri replies. “Thank you for—”

  “Yes,” interrupts the boy. “There is something else.”

  With Link, Yuri thinks, there is always something else—best not to forget that again.

  “An android? But what android are you talking about, Link?”

  Campbell’s astonishment is visibly mingled with annoyance. It is rare to see him lose his cool. A product of accumulation, no doubt.

  “Campbell, do you know the phenomenon called neuroquantum correlation?”

  “I studied at MIT, Link. Of course I know the phenomenon.”

  “Okay. Well, the android builders never managed to find out where it came from; it was never part of the program.”

  “A by-product.”

  “Exactly. Except that I’m starting to wonder if this by-product doesn’t have something to do with the mysteries of the fourth generation.”

  “Mysteries? What mysteries?”

  “Well—for example, how these androids have individual personalities that have nothing to do with the cortical parameters implanted in the embryogenesis incubators.”

  “You think that’s related to correlation?” asks Yuri.

  “Yes—everything is always related in machines—but also connected by disjunction. Don’t forget that every machine is a network of disconnections.”

  “Right. Now, then, what did you want to tell us about this android threatening the whole Territory?”

  “My mother feels it, Chrysler. And yesterday she told me she’s been speaking about it quite a bit with the androids from the Ring. They feel it, too. They told her they’ve felt its presence since they landed.”

  “Who is this android? Where does it come from?”

  “They don’t know; that’s why they’re looking all over the Territory—as best they can, anyway. They’re trying to track it down.”

  Campbell cracks a smile. He is being looked for by Vegas Orlando’s and Silverskin’s gang, and the androids are looking for another artificial human, and the two chases collided in Aircrash Circle. It is a place destined for such collisions. For all collisions.

  His gaze meets Yuri’s for a fraction of a second—always their instantaneous semitelepathy; evidently, they have the same gift as the androids.

  Of course. It’s obvious. Yuri is right.

  Campbell’s face shows the dawning of a terrible truth, an incalculable danger.

  “The androids can’t be allowed to leave the county at all anymore. I’ll talk to the sheriff about it tonight.”

  “Why not? They haven’t caused any problems yet, as far as I know.”

  Link, in vigorous opposition, looks to Yuri for support.

  But Yuri knows Campbell is right. Yuri knows why they absolutely cannot leave Heavy Metal Valley again. Yuri knows there is no other solution.

  “The androids’ neuroquantum correlation works in all directions, Link. If this artificial human is fourth-generation, as it appears to be, according to your mother and the people from the Ring, then it senses them, too. It can identify them, locate them, track them. Trace them here.”

  “I know, Yuri. My mother explained it to me last night. There’s nothing to be done about it; she told me it would inevitably end up knowing where they are. But it will be reciprocal.”

  Campbell smiles his carnivorous smile. “Nothing is reciprocal in the Territory, Link. Ever. It’s the Law. Nothing can be done to prevent it from knowing where your mother and the astronauts are, but nothing can keep us from finding it and shutting it up, either.”

  With Link, there is always something else. With Campbell, there is always a definitive conclusion.

  Whatever the origins and motivations of this newly arrived android may be, it is not a man of the Territory, a Guardian of the Law of Bronze, a Camp Doctor.

  And, Yuri thinks: That makes it even more dangerous.

  Maybe even more dangerous than us.

  Which borders on the infinite.

  36 > BIG AUDIO DYNAMITE

  It is the Spring of the Thousand Radios. Sheriff Langlois has used his contacts to spread the word all over Junkville. A convoy of two dozen vehicles is descending on HMV for a huge swap, a special promotion, a huge pre-summer sale.

  In exchange for Cadillacs, Pontiacs, Toyotas, Buicks, Subarus, Fords, GMCs, Oldsmobiles, Hondas, Suzukis, Chryslers, Dodges, Plymouths, Kias, and Jeeps, he is asking only radio equipment of all generations—microprocessors, transistors, vacuum tubes, galena tubes, vapor tubes, even radios that are not currently in working order, but are complete in terms of internal components. Corpses, maybe, but with all their organs.

  The sheriff is displaying a caravan of twenty-four vehicles. He is asking the techno Triads for one thousand radios per car.

  “We’ll never be able to find so many transistors in the whole Territory in so little time. Most of them are incomplete, recycled.”

  One man shows a stock of transistors piled in several pickups. “Since your announcement we’ve been able to gather a little more than five thousand. But our townships are empty.”

  “You won’t believe this,” answers Langlois, “but HMV is ready to give credit. How much time would you need?”

  The head of the Union of Techno Triads consults briefly with his colleagues. “We think we can get the twenty-four thousand radios in about sixteen weeks. Frankly, to do it in any less time would be very difficult. Let’s say six thousand per month. Will that work for you?”

  Langlois cracks a wide smile. “If you have six thousand radios with you in four weeks we’ll consider it a done deal. I’ll give you six complete vehicles for your first delivery, as a little present on the house. HMV might give you credit, but not philanthropy. I hope I’m making myself perfectly clear to everyone.”

  The sheriff has been so clear that a field mouse could understand him, or a stone lying on the side of the road.

  The Spring of Waves, the Spring of Electric Flowers, the Spring of Living Machines.

  The Community of Heavy Metal is growing its own jungle against the ever-expanding desert. Only steel can stop the sand. Only metallurgy, only the science of fire can fight the ice. Only electric waves will be able to combat neonature.

  Here is the weapon. Zoo Station, as Link de Nova has nicknamed it, after an old U2 song.

  Zoo Station: I’m ready, I’m ready for the gridlock, I’m ready, to take it to the street, I’m ready for the shuffle, ready for the deal, ready to let go of the steering wheel, I’m ready, ready for the crush.

  Yes, we are ready. Ready to let the car go until the collision, ready for the great Brownian movement, ready for the global roasting, ready for the final crash. Radio Heavy Metal, Radio Territory Fortress, Radio Free Americanada, Thousand Roll-ins Radio, Grand Dynamite Audio, the Station of the Human League. Beep beep, beep beep—the royal Sputnik orbiting above the des
olate Earth, subject to the dialectic of the desert of sand/desert of ice; yes, listen to that fuckin’ noise, listen to that beat, the squadron of sonic Stormoviks razing the tanks in flames above the horizontal/total universe of the War of the Worlds, the War of the Plans, the War of the Numbers, because we are Zoo Station, Radio Free Territory, Grand Dynamite Audio, Survivors Radio, the Radio of What Lives in the Camp, the Radio of What Is About to Kill Death.

  The Black Death, Death reversed in an act of Justice, Justice that is going to lodge a bullet in the skull of the Grim Reaper.

  We are ready. We are ready, dirty bitch.

  Night broadcast: Here is the Resistance of the stars in the ultraviolet sky. The Living talking to the Living.

  There are now more than six thousand working radios distributed throughout the Territory.

  Against all expectations, Link has managed to find a unique method of individuation for the simplest electric machines; he can now heal them in blocks, by “species,” in only a day or two. All they have to do is transmit from the station on the right wavelength, and his music does the rest in a few seconds, two or three minutes at most; the radio crackles and spits out some interference, then adjusts to the frequency, and the sound miracle occurs. Now they know it, their plan of action.

  It is the Strategy of the Territory, the Strategy of the Law of Bronze, the Strategy of Starfire.

  Radio Free Territory, Zoo Station, has now been transmitting for almost a month. The results have exceeded all their hopes. There is talk of thousands of remissions, the alphanumeric devolution is stopping, and, even better, it appears that Radio Free Territory is able to efficiently combat the still-sensitive effects of the second mutation on programmable machines and bionic systems.

  Link de Nova’s solution is working because it attacks the root of evil directly; it cuts not only the heads of the Gorgon but also what produces them; it cleanly severs the spinal cord. It does not simply strike off the heads, it slices into the spirit of the Beast; it divides the Great Divider.

  Oh yes, listen to that fuckin’ noise, listen to that beat, dirty bitch.