Prologue: In the Dark I & II
Silence, too, has an echo, hollower and longer-lasting than the reverberations of any sound. - Salman Rushdie

11:37 PM, Sep 10 2000
T-minus 2 days

In the dark, Charles Tallman sat on an unyielding metal chair, waiting for death. He knew he was surrounded, and was a little surprised he was being given this little reprieve. Those rat bastards outside the warehouse he was trapped in knew he was a dead man. Charles knew he was dead. He would die, and everything he had done would come apart and fall into ruin.

He would have wept if he hadn't seen his world collapse once before.

Around him were stacked towers of wooden crates, so rough that to run your hand across a surface would be to pierce your palm with a thousand slivers. Charles did not know what was in them, nor did he really much care. They could contain the livelihood of a dozen families, heirlooms, artifacts, one-of-a-kind works, maybe, the back of his mind thought, even the Ark of the Covenant.

Pulling out a cigarette, noticing only one more was left, Charles reached for his lighter in his breast pocket. He was halfway there before he clenched his hand tight, remembering that he had lost the lighter somewhere in Germany. Patting himself down, he tried to find the book of matches he had taken from the last safehouse. He groped past the cold metal 9mm pistol, somewhat disguised inside his bulky tan trenchcoat, past the notes from the dead man which had gotten him into this doomed endeavor, until he finally picked out the small item with his fingers. He took it out and opened it up, revealing three lonely matches surrounded by empty spaces, their heads purple in the dark. Charles pulled one out and struck it on the outside of the book, then touched it to the tip of his cigarette.

The small pinprick of light gave no respite from the shade within the warehouse. Outside it was near midnight, and what little starlight came through the few high windows only made the gloom darker. Silence surrounded him, with not even the noise of the nearby motorway reaching Charles' mausoleum. Charles idly wondered again why he had come into here in the first place. But he realized that didn't matter. He had seen the tail on his way there, and they were going to eventually come in and kill him.

Charles screwed his eyes shut. He had failed. He had failed Takahiro, he had failed Grigory, he had failed Elena. They were dead, and Charles knew that before the sun rose he would be too. It hurt his chest to think about. He wanted to scream, he wanted to cry, he wanted to rage against the injustice of the whole thing.

Instead he took a deep drag on his cigarette, nearly burning his fingers. Holding the cigarette in his mouth, Charles reached into his collar and pulled out the string of beads, looping to a crucifix. He took it from his neck and rubbed the smooth wooden beads with his fingers. In his mind he could see their original owner, whispering her Aves, how she had always wanted him to join her. Slowly he counted the beads by touch, running them over the knuckles of his right hand. He tried to remember the mysteries to think on, but nothing came to him.

Gripping the beads tight, Charles closed his eyes, and thought about how he had ended up in this little slice of Hell in the first place.

In the dark, Lorenz Kiel glanced at the grandfather clock that dominated his study - an old heirloom from the 18th century. It was just past 1 AM. He checked the book he was reading - the Criticón of Gracián- for how much further it was to the next chapter. Deciding it was too far to attempt that evening, Kiel slipped an old bookmark between the pages before placing the book down on his desk. Kiel ran a hand over the embossed leather cover, feeling the valleys and protrusions on the surface of the book, as well as the alien metallic feel of the two clasps on the edge of the cover meant to keep the book shut. He had done it a thousand times to a thousand texts, but each time he felt something new, something undiscovered until that moment. It was one of his few unadulterated pleasures.

Kiel's study was completely shadowed, the only illumination coming from the lamp set to his right. Beyond that the doorway to the cavernous library gaped. The mansion had gone quiet some hours ago, as all the servants except his few guards had left for their homes around Berlin.

Kiel sat up in his chair, his body protesting at the movement. He had spent too long reading, but Gracián had always appealed to him, especially now, in his twilight years. He could appreciate the man's wisdom, his insight into the essentially tragic mode that human affairs operated under. No matter how many preferred comedies, Gracián knew that all mankind rejoiced under the shadow of Death - the One who destroys all Happiness, as that collator of the 1001 Nights called him. But his joy of reading was falling away from Kiel he was rapidly going blind, the world losing its resolution and color day by day, dissolving into a milky whiteness.

It was not the only problem Kiel had in relation to his aging body. It had seemed to him a cruel joke played by what he knew was an uncaring universe that each moment he came closer to his goal, another part of his body would give out. He had already replaced his heart and kidneys, and some of his doctors were even contemplating testing out the most experimental devices from Gehirn to save, or replace, his lungs. He had suffered through the indignities, though. They were nothing compared to the glory he would have in the world without the self.

Kiel picked up a small digital recorder and, closing his eyes, ran his hands over its surface. It brought nothing of the tactile pleasure his edition of Gracián did, but every evening for the last few months Kiel had been performing his ritual on this device, then discussing whatever piqued his interest that night. He did not know precisely why he was doing it, but something in it appealed to him. If everything went well (and why shouldn't it?) there would never be another person to find or listen to it. Perhaps in some distant time a visiting race would find it, and through this machine gain insight into the architect for Man's apotheosis.

Two days. Two days before a sample of his DNA would be combined with Adam. If he had interpreted the Scrolls correctly, Kiel would hold the power of Instrumentality at that point, as his flesh was joined to the Progenitor. Then the world as it was, decaying, dying, fraying, falling apart at every seam, would end, and all things, yes, all manner of things, would be well. Not that he had told any of the council this. They would have tried to make themselves the donor. And he could not allow that.

He placed the machine down on the desk, and pressed the record button. As he pressed the play button for his record player, he thought that perhaps it was his pride that was tickled. The sound of Wagner began to fill the room. Kiel cleared his throat.

"Our civilization is haunted by death. Faustian Man, who has attained the utmost heights of knowledge, is confronted at last with the true face of Mephistopheles, and is struck dumb with fear. He, who has conquered all things, is at last conquered..."