Albertus raised his rifle but a swarm of phantoms fell upon him, tearing him apart with ectoplasmic claws and teeth. In seconds he was nothing more than a pile of broken gears, torn wires, and silver bones. One of the ghosts carried Sala’s severed head to the highwayman, who tore off its gold-and-ivory mask. He fitted her face over his naked skull, staring at us through Sala’s stolen visage. Her skull glistened like a silver orb, balanced on his open palm. There was no blood, only a few drops of oil. He dropped the skull into the ashes of the cookfire.
Harmona leaped forward, but I grabbed her arms and pulled her back. It had all happened so fast. Nobody knew quite what to do about it. We all stood there, Beatific and Organic alike. Except Harmona. Tears burned on her scarlet cheeks.
“Do something!” she cried.
“There’s nothing we can do,” I said. It was true.
The highwayman walked into the midst of our camp wearing the face of our dead founder. The Beatifics moved out of his way, each of them surrounded by a halo of spectres. We were helpless, completely at his mercy. Tears filled our soft Organic eyes.
“Come with me now,” said the highwayman, “and none else will perish this night.”
He reached an empty hand toward us.
We said nothing. Moved not an inch.
“Why?” Harmona said. “Tell us why.” She glared at him with more courage than I had ever possessed. Right then I loved her more than I ever had.
“To save your lives,” said the Surgeon. “If you return to the Urbille, you will die. All four of you.”
“You’re a liar,” Harmona said. “And a murderer!”
She would have torn Sala’s face from him, or at least tried to. I held her tightly.
“You must believe me,” he said. His opticals swiveled toward each of our wet faces, one by one. “I’m here to save you.”
“You killed Sala!” Harmona shouted.
The Surgeon shook his head. He removed the gold-and-ivory mask and his silver skull regarded us intently. “She was already dead,” he said. His hand gestured to the helpless Beatifics. “All of us are…”
“It doesn’t make sense,” said Chancey. He sobbed as he met the Surgeon’s stare.
“It will,” said the highwayman. “Return to the Urbille and you will be destroyed. Replaced by an automaton with your lifeless brain inside its silver skull. Oh, you will believe you are still alive, but you will not be. Your brainless bodies will be given secretly to the Potentates of Urbille. They will devour your flesh, as they devour all flesh that grows in the city. A machine will replace you, but it will not be you. It will only be a prison for your immortal soul. One from which you will never escape.”
“How…” I said. “How can you know all of this?” He was telling us the truth. Somehow I sensed it. He had no reason to lie. He could have killed us right then, or have his phantoms drag us away. But he wanted us to come willingly. He wanted us to see the truth.
“I know it,” he said. “Because I used to create those machines. I robbed the living of their bodies to provide sustenance for the Potentates. I transplanted thousands of brains into hollow shells, never suspecting what I was really doing. Not until…” He decided not to finish the last sentence. A great sorrow hung about him like an unseen fog. I felt it as surely as I felt Harmona’s warm body in my arms.
“You…you really are a Surgeon?” Harmona asked. She relaxed in my arms, and I let her go. She too sensed the truth of the highwayman’s words. She felt his aura of mingled sadness and revelation. I saw it in her face. She believed him too. Perhaps it was his subtle magic that bewitched us, as it had charmed the wild phantoms.
“My name is Wail,” said the highwayman. “I used to be called Doctor Wail.” He lifted Sala’s gold-and-ivory face again, stared at it. “Sala North was one of my finest creations. Or so I believed. Now I understand the reality of things. I did not create her. I destroyed her, as I have destroyed so many.”
If his glassy opticals could shed tears, he would have been weeping then. Waves of raw emotion radiated from his slim body. Suddenly I knew why his words rang with truth. He was an empath, a sender and receiver of emotions. Brix and Chancey knew it as surely as Harmona and myself. Our fear had given way to sorrow while he spoke.
The Beatifics stared at us now, awaiting our decision. They could not feel these broadcast emotions. Emotions were wholly Organic things, like body heat and salty tears, and the sharing of bodily fluids. I examined their well-designed faces, imagined each naked silver skull just beneath their masks. Skiptrain stood closest to me. It seemed impossible that he and the rest of the Rude Mechanicals weren’t truly alive — that the entire population of the Urbille were merely machines who believed themselves to be living beings. Yet I knew it was true. The Surgeon’s words, and the rush of his honest emotions, had convinced me. Convinced us.
I touched Harmona’s shoulder, turned her to look at me.
There were no words. We wrapped our arms about each other, our lips pressed together in desperate hunger. We no longer cared if the Beatifics witnessed our merging.
Brix and Chancey embraced beside us. The Surgeon said nothing.
“Where will you take us?” I asked.
“A safe place,” said the highwayman. “Where the Potentates and their gendarmes cannot reach you. Others are already there. Hundreds like you. An Organic army.”
“Why are you building an army?” Harmona said.
“Why does anyone build an army?” said the highwayman. “There will come a day when we storm the Urbille and take it from the Potentates. On that day the living will reclaim the world. A new Organic Age will begin. You will help to build it.”
The irony struck me like a physical blow. A dead man with the semblance of life would lead an army of the living to reclaim a dead city that believed itself alive.
“What are the Potentates?” I said.
“Carnivores,” said the highwayman.
I took Harmona by the hand. “We will come, if you keep your promise not to harm any more of the Rude Mechanicals.”
The Surgeon bowed from his waist and restored Sala’s face to the front of his skull.
I turned to Brix and Chancey. They looked at one another, then at Harmona and me. “We’ve got to stick together,” Brix said. “We frail Organics.”
Harmona picked up Sala’s fallen staff. The green flame re-ignited at its head. She looked at Skiptrain, who nodded. The staff would be our memento of Sala’s generosity, her kindness, and her towering talent. It carried her stubborn power inside its metal.
We followed the highwayman away from the tent, to where his black and steaming steed awaited. He sang a brief incantation and the wild phantoms dispersed, gliding into the shadows of the swamp.
“Can you teach me that song?” Chancey asked.
“That and many more,” said the highwayman. “All in good time.”
The first rays of a golden morning broke over the tops of the willows. The Rude Mechanicals gathered about their silent steam carriage. Their opticals were still fixed on us. I could not guess what they thought of us now. Did they understand? Did they admire our sacrificing ourselves to save them? Did they believe that was all we were doing?
Skiptrain raised his arm and waved goodbye. I waved back at him.
The black horse blew a fresh cloud of steam from its nostrils as the Surgeon climbed into its saddle. It carried him from the road onto a narrow causeway running between the pools of marshwater. Harmona and I walked on his right side, Brix and Chancey on his left.
He led us deep into the green beauty of the marshland, and we followed him across several Affinities, taking routes unknown to travelers from the Urbille.