The Surgeon stares again at the immense blanket of rotted flesh encasing the Avenue of Copper Lungs. When all this rots away there will be nothing left that might answer the why of his son’s death. How long before all this spazmal flesh is nothing more than muddy pulp to be swept into the sewers? He must take a tissue sample. Get it to the laboratory. Maybe he will find an answer…some clue as to why the flesh appeared…why it decayed…why it took Alain. With the scalpel he carves a rectangular piece of oozing, blackened flesh from a defunct gaslight, wraps it carefully in a silken handkerchief, and tucks it into his coat pocket.
As he turns to go, a blast of white light assaults his opticals. The sound of a steam engine grinds near somewhere behind the lights. Tall, dark shapes rush forward pointing rifles. Gendarmes. They grab him and hustle him toward a six-wheeled lorry, ignoring his pleas.
“I’m a Surgeon!” he shouts, but their grip is tighter than iron screws. They shove him into the back of the wagon and slam the doors. Two of them sit inside with him, the barrels of their rifles pointed directly at him. Below their black, stove-pipe hats their faces are little more than clusters of dark optical lenses, each of which swivels independently in various directions. They wear trench coats and gloves the color of midnight. The lorry rumbles across the fleshy street, through a barrier gate, and into the streets of the Western Quarter.
“I was only doing research,” says the Surgeon. They ignore him. “Where are you taking me?”
“To the Tribune,” one of the gendarmes finally speaks. His voice is a transistorized buzz, as if broadcast on some distant wavelength. “Do not attempt to flee. We will shoot to kill.”
The Surgeon sits quietly, his fist wrapped about the handkerchief in his pocket and the decaying evidence wrapped inside.
Deep inside the Ministère de Justice gendarmes haul the Surgeon before the golden bench where Tribune Anteus sits in judgment. The crimson and black banner bearing the Sigil of the Potentates hangs on the wall. The Tribune’s official robes are white, as is the long veil that obscures his face. His ruby opticals gleam faintly through the fabric, twin points of rosy light. Above the veil a powdered wig hides the rest of his thin skull. His fingers are long and sharp, covered in jeweled rings, and one of them points directly at the Surgeon.
“You entered a zone of prohibition,” says the Tribune, his voice deep with power. The Surgeon recognizes it from a hundred transistor broadcasts over the years. It carries far more weight in person, seeming almost to vibrate the walls of the chamber. “How do you plead?”
The Surgeon can only speak in a rasping whisper, thanks to the damaged gear in his throat. “I was doing research—”
“How do you plead?” asks the Tribune again. “Guilty or not guilty?”
“I had a reason…” begins the Surgeon.
“Your reasons are of no consequence,” says the Tribune. “You broke a Tribunal Decree. This court serves the Potentates’ Justice and that Justice will be served.”
“Not guilty then,” says the Surgeon.
The Tribune lifts his gavel. “The plea is noted. This court finds you guilty of criminal trespassing and sentences you to death.”
“Wait!” A new voice rings through the chamber before the gavel falls. It is a voice the Surgeon recognizes. The Supervisor of the Ministère de Science stands nearby, escorted by a pair of private gendarmes. “May I approach the bench Your Honor?” asks the Supervisor.
The Tribune nods and the two personages confer in whispered conversation. The Surgeon stands anxious before the bench and wonders why the Supervisor is here. His hand clenches the rotting flesh encased in his kerchief. He still has the scalpel in his pocket as well. The gendarmes did not search him. Perhaps they have no fear of a mere Surgeon. Six of them, heavily armed, line the chamber walls.
Finally the Tribune nods his veiled head and speaks again: “Doctor Wail, you are hereby remanded to the custody of Supervisor Guillaume. Your sentence is indefinitely suspended, pending further reports. Do you understand?”
The Surgeon nods. The gavel falls upon the golden bench with a sharp crack, and the Supervisor leads Wail into an adjoining room where only his two personal guards are present.
“How did you know I was here?” asks the Surgeon.
“I have friends among the gendarmes,” says Supervisor Guillaume. “You are very lucky.”
The Surgeon would smirk if his porcelain face allowed it. He blinks instead.
“Forgive me,” says the Supervisor. “You have suffered a terrible loss. But I believe in you, Dr. Wail. I believe in your talents.” The Supervisor’s face is a grim ceramic expression; a serious mask meant for entertaining serious discussions. His top hat is red, with a black velvet band.
“I am grateful,” says the Surgeon. “But why did you intervene?”
“Because,” says the Supervisor, “I was wrong in asking you to take a leave of absence. You’re not that kind of man. I have a job for you.”
“I’m a Surgeon.”
“No longer. Now you will be so much more. A scientist.”
“I don’t understand…what happened to my son?”
“Come with me,” says the Supervisor. “I will explain everything. You will see that there is hope…for you and your family. For us all.”
“Where are we going?” asks the Surgeon, pacing behind.
“To the palace,” says Supervisor Guillaume.
A carriage waits outside for the Supervisor, driven by a third private gendarme. Inside its opulent interior the Supervisor offers Wail a glass of transparent lubricant. The Surgeon refuses, but Guillaume insists. Wail lifts his porcelain mask and drinks the liquid down quickly. The carriage trundles along the cobbled lane, heading into the Good Hills and the great prominence at the center of the Urbille.
“Good for the gears and cogs,” says the Supervisor, finishing his own glass.
“What is this all about?” asks the Surgeon.
“As you may have guessed by now, I am far more than a Supervisor,” says Guillaume. “I work for the Potentates. Special Sciences Initiative.”
“Why are you taking me to the palace?”
“To show you our latest experiment.”
The coach travels up a long and winding incline. Through the octagonal window the Surgeon sees the twisted silhouettes of mighty trees, the Interior Forest surrounding the massive walls of the Potentates’ citadel. Soon the vehicle leaves the moonwashed forest and enters a tunnel-like gate leading to an inner courtyard. The obscure shadows of iron statues pass by the window. At last the coach comes to rest, and the Surgeon steps out into an immense yard of mossy flagstones. The Palace of the Potentates rises before them, a sleeping leviathan of gray stone dressed in tapestries of moss and ivy. The size of those stony towers dwarfs even the steel spires of the Ministères. Inside this colossal conglomeration of granite there might exist a second city, one more ancient and mysterious than the Urbille itself.
The palace is a carven mountain at the center of everything, and the Surgeon stands humbled in its inky shadow. In the gloom ahead he sees a vision of those stone faces from his nightmare, looking out at him from the very walls of the palace. They speak to him again. Neither the Supervisor or his guards seems to notice.
The Potentates have bound you in a web of illusion.
To see the truth, you must look beyond…