around a community of “greasers,” those irrepressible amateur lovers of gasoline-powered vehicles whose presence was just barely tolerated by the UHU. He brought order, justice, and law to them. He brought power and its counterpart, freedom. Of all the residents of the Territory, those who lived in HMV had suffered the least from the attacks of the Metastructure as it broke down.
He had eventually told himself at the time that it was probably due to the Christian communities whose presence he accepted, putting himself outside the law with regard to Grand Junction’s Mohawk authorities and the faceless police of Human UniWorld. He had turned from a Protectorof Social Law into a Resistor of World Order, and yet at the time, it had been like a revelation; he had continued his job as sheriff, even amplifying it somewhat; he had remained the armed hand of Justice while welcoming these refugees from the Invisible onto his soil. When, after the end of the Metamachine-World, the wars and guerrilla fighting of all types had broken out again everywhere on the planet in a final struggle for the honor of History, he had organized the city’s defense against the renegades coming from various holdover Islamic emirates, from Ontario, from Illinois, and from certain parts of Quebec. He had become head of the City Council; then, one fine day, he had decided to have himself baptized by Father Newman.
He is now a sheriff in the Post-World, harder than flint, with the inflexibility of a soldier of lost civilizations.
Shortly after his baptism, Milan Djordjevic and his companion—the android former prostitute who had discovered the baby under the Dead-link interchange—the two adoptive parents of little Gabriel Link de Nova, had come to see him, and they had brought the little boy with them.
And they had explained to him what was really happening.
Wilbur Langlois had held to HMV’s democratic procedure. The City Council had met; its members were brought up to date, and the most absolute secrecy decreed concerning Gabriel’s powers. Wilbur Langlois had done everything he could during the years since then to ensure that the secret remained as well protected as if it were sealed in a strongbox welded shut with an oxyhydric torch.
But the World is full of holes now. Nothing can keep the truth from coming out, like lava erupting from a volcano. Nothing can change the fact that the only materiality in this world now comes from lying and its confrere, betrayal.
For Wilbur Langlois, it means a single imperative:
immediate reinforcement of security procedures
.
Wilbur Langlois. A Mohawk. A mixed-blood, in fact, originally from southern Quebec. A barely human block of stone. A man who is usually laconic, and who at first seems slow and awkward, but who, they say, can hit an old one-dollar coin with a .223-caliber bullet from more than fifty meters away. And that he can do the same thing to a human skull at the same distance, without a twinge of guilt.
Link is facing him. He is nervous.
Wilbur Langlois looks at him without kindness. He stands straight,but without any sign of tension. With him, it is calmness that indicates anger; quietude points the compass needle toward the “danger” pole. It is ice that signals the presence of flame.
Here, he is the Guardian. The Man of the Law.
What remains of it.
And he is utterly pitiless.
“We made a deal. It’s called a contract.”
Link doesn’t reply. He shrinks in on himself slightly, barely looking at the sheriff in his midnight blue uniform, his silvery badges, his Canadian Mounted Police–style gray hat. And his steely black eyes, harder than bullets about to be fired.
“Everything has to go by me, at least everything important. And even what’s unimportant,” Langlois continues.
Link huddles in on himself even more tightly. The whole City Council is there. And even Judith.
“And it seems to me that this information is of the very highest importance.”
Link de Nova does
He had eventually told himself at the time that it was probably due to the Christian communities whose presence he accepted, putting himself outside the law with regard to Grand Junction’s Mohawk authorities and the faceless police of Human UniWorld. He had turned from a Protectorof Social Law into a Resistor of World Order, and yet at the time, it had been like a revelation; he had continued his job as sheriff, even amplifying it somewhat; he had remained the armed hand of Justice while welcoming these refugees from the Invisible onto his soil. When, after the end of the Metamachine-World, the wars and guerrilla fighting of all types had broken out again everywhere on the planet in a final struggle for the honor of History, he had organized the city’s defense against the renegades coming from various holdover Islamic emirates, from Ontario, from Illinois, and from certain parts of Quebec. He had become head of the City Council; then, one fine day, he had decided to have himself baptized by Father Newman.
He is now a sheriff in the Post-World, harder than flint, with the inflexibility of a soldier of lost civilizations.
Shortly after his baptism, Milan Djordjevic and his companion—the android former prostitute who had discovered the baby under the Dead-link interchange—the two adoptive parents of little Gabriel Link de Nova, had come to see him, and they had brought the little boy with them.
And they had explained to him what was really happening.
Wilbur Langlois had held to HMV’s democratic procedure. The City Council had met; its members were brought up to date, and the most absolute secrecy decreed concerning Gabriel’s powers. Wilbur Langlois had done everything he could during the years since then to ensure that the secret remained as well protected as if it were sealed in a strongbox welded shut with an oxyhydric torch.
But the World is full of holes now. Nothing can keep the truth from coming out, like lava erupting from a volcano. Nothing can change the fact that the only materiality in this world now comes from lying and its confrere, betrayal.
For Wilbur Langlois, it means a single imperative:
immediate reinforcement of security procedures
.
Wilbur Langlois. A Mohawk. A mixed-blood, in fact, originally from southern Quebec. A barely human block of stone. A man who is usually laconic, and who at first seems slow and awkward, but who, they say, can hit an old one-dollar coin with a .223-caliber bullet from more than fifty meters away. And that he can do the same thing to a human skull at the same distance, without a twinge of guilt.
Link is facing him. He is nervous.
Wilbur Langlois looks at him without kindness. He stands straight,but without any sign of tension. With him, it is calmness that indicates anger; quietude points the compass needle toward the “danger” pole. It is ice that signals the presence of flame.
Here, he is the Guardian. The Man of the Law.
What remains of it.
And he is utterly pitiless.
“We made a deal. It’s called a contract.”
Link doesn’t reply. He shrinks in on himself slightly, barely looking at the sheriff in his midnight blue uniform, his silvery badges, his Canadian Mounted Police–style gray hat. And his steely black eyes, harder than bullets about to be fired.
“Everything has to go by me, at least everything important. And even what’s unimportant,” Langlois continues.
Link huddles in on himself even more tightly. The whole City Council is there. And even Judith.
“And it seems to me that this information is of the very highest importance.”
Link de Nova does
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