Prologue

November 9, this year.
Venice, Italy

“The most important act of my life was driving a jagged piece of ceramic into the throat of the man that put me in chains. And if you do not understand the beauty of that, you do not understand the power of choice.” Albion Ravistelle squeezes the knot of his tie as if pinching the stem of a delicate flower.

“So, what shall we become? It is my favorite question of all.” November sunlight on the Venetian waterway reflects a spectrum of color across the boardroom ceiling. He smiles at the twenty-three gathered international dignitaries. No face in the room smiles back at Ravistelle. “It is my favorite because we get to choose. And to me, this choice is simple. I say we become gods. I say, we survive and flourish—take the next natural step in our evolution. This is why this Board was formed. This is why we will not falter now. As we all know, to accomplish The Board’s goals, we must do two things.

“First, let us eat of the fruit of life. Let us end old age and death and allow the wisdom of millennia to instruct us—not the haste and barbarism a single century teaches. We shall become an immortal race. We will live forever—we will save our planet—we will become gods ourselves. We possess the genetic data, the technology to propel evolution. The fruit is heavy on the bough.

“Second, let us retire and end the false gods that have bred fear and scarcity. Come now, the disease is easy to see. Is it not? The monster that is humankind wallows in pools of its own excrement: religions, monetary systems, geopolitical agendas, war, misguided and irresponsible activity.”

He holds up Loche Newirth’s leather bound Priest Lake Journal as if it were a visual aid, waggles it and then sets it on the table. “Admittedly, your kind have made progress in recent years —easing the pain of the human condition. Famine is not what it once was (though by some monstrous lack of mental function on humanity’s part, it still exists). Medical advances have extended lives and ended plagues, save the ones with the higher financial gains. And even war has lessened. Amazing. Well met, humanity.”

Albion places both palms down on the long oak table, presses and slowly stands. He lifts his fountain pen and waves it in the air like a conductor’s baton.

“But at what cost? The human condition? As if such a thing outweighs all else? While attempting to ease its own suffering, and increase its pleasure and comfort humanity will desolate the ecosystem. Animals, land and sea, subjugated by human progress is holocaust. The destruction of the environment and the killing and/or enslavement of the other inhabitants of this world negates true progress. It is the path that will lead to the destruction of all. The systems of humankind are the disease that we must eliminate. Obvious, I know. Ladies and gentlemen, the pieces are on the board and the time is now. We can create from the ashes.” He waits. His fingers rattle a drum roll on the Journal’s cover.

Andi Hartson, a woman from the British Secret Service, four seats down the table says, “It appears that you’ve already started, Mr. Ravistelle. And without the Board’s approval.” Her tone is sharp with a trace of condescension.

“I have,” Albion states. “And you are all aware of our progress. Let me stress that it is our progress, for all of you have aided in the authorship of this plan.”

“Yes, but Mr. Ravistelle,” Miss Hartson says, “there is research to be done and there are projections to be made. We’ve been through this Frankenstein scenario before. We know all too well that playing god is a dangerous business. Careless gods create monsters.” Albion watches her attractive mouth speak. He has always liked the bright and talented, Miss Hartson, despite her haughty manner. Young, Albion thinks, so very young.

“I concur,” the United States senator seated next to her says, “monsters.”

“Ah,” Albion says, “But who are the monsters, I wonder?”

“We may have been involved in planning stages, but that is all,” Senator Hannazil continues. “No one in this room approved moving forward. And you say that the true saboteur is a psychologist from the Northwest of the United States, a Loche Newirth—”

“Correct. It is feared that Loche Newirth has the ability to undermine everything we’ve worked for. But the problem of Loche Newirth is being dealt with.”

“As you have said many times,” the senator sneers. “Haven’t you had several opportunities to handle him already?”

Albion does not answer. He searches for something genuinely attractive about the middle-aged senator’s appearance. There is nothing, he thinks. Hannazil’s suit and tie are navy blue and his eyes match. His hair style is perfect American politician —a 1950s above-the-collar cut. And his face is a manufactured handsome, white male.

“And the mistakes of Ravistelle keep on coming,” the senator continues. “Since the Uffizi debacle, the political maneuvering and media favors that were needed to cover up the—”

Albion interrupts and points his pen, “Joining us all the way from Washington DC, Utah Senator Hannazil. We all know his conservative and cautionary stance when it comes to changing policy. Senator, the Uffizi official report and the media coverage married into the terrorism chorus without fail—in fact, I found the tune to be rather sublime.” He opens his arms and welcomingly asks, “Wasn’t it someone on your staff that spun the biological weapon piece? What was the headline, an American Islamic Extremist detonates a biological weapon at Florence art opening… or something of the sort? Certainly not the first time you have used such a story. Killing and maiming in the name of Allah never seems to lose its ratings appeal, nor does it weaken your grip on a frightened public—your America is not only getting used to it, they crave the fear. Quite the story, Hannazil. Making Newirth a terrorist was quite an ingenious twist. I appreciate your talent as does the Board.”

“Someone had to do something to repair the damage you’ve done, Ravistelle. It is a marvel how a simple story can change the fate of an endeavor.”

“Indeed,” Albion muses. “I think Dr. Newirth might agree. Stories are powerful.”

The senator smiles. He sighs at Albion. “Do be careful, Ravistelle,” he says. “We control the mechanism. The Board holds the strings—you’re well aware. The Board has been put in place to make sure our collective goals—human and immortal—are met.” Hannazil appeals to the group, “And what else were we to say about the Uffizi events? Those that survived seeing those paintings or whatever they were, could not explain—Christ, they couldn’t speak. You have overstepped your bounds without consulting us. You promised transparency. Now my people tell me there are some kind of underground experiments taking place. Something to do with the suicide victim, that painter Basil Fenn, or rather, his art? Monsters? Frankenstein? I dare say Miss Hartson has a point. This is moving too fast. Too fast.”

All the dignitaries mutter their affirmation. Albion’s focus moves from face to face.

The British Secret Service’s Andi Hartson says, “I’m afraid, Mr. Ravistelle, that the senator is justified in his trepidation. As a body we have discussed the Melgia Gene and its significance. Packaging immortality will take some time, as will preparing the strategies and forward progress of humankind. But the ramifications of implementing our plans are still unclear. I move that we suspend operations until we have the transparency we’ve agreed upon—and the research to support the stratagem—from all levels, social, political and scientific.”

Senator Hannazil says, “The sweet lady from Britton is right. Ravistelle, you’ve gone too far, and you’ve made too many mistakes. I second her motion—and I suggest new leadership from here on out.”

The room is silent. Albion Ravistelle lets his stare rest on Andi for several, long uncomfortable seconds. He is delighted and surprised that she holds eye contact with him. Impressive, he thinks.

“A first,” he says releasing her. “Never have I been accused of being hasty. Of course there is a difference between impetuousness and the hazards of briskly executing a plan long in the making.” He laughs, lightly, “A plan conceived well before many of your countries were founded, I might add. My lady,” he says to Andi, “research, you beg? Transparency? How will we capture Loche Newirth? Some reassurance our path is provisioned and properly lit? That it is all going to be okay?”

Albion stands and starts a slow circle around the seated board. “Success does not spontaneously combust, ladies and gentlemen. We must set ourselves on fire.

“Many of you know the man seated next to Senator Hannizil. Not only is he one of our Board’s top advisors, but his research and personal experience in our long story are perhaps the reasons we are gathered even now. And there is nothing quite as accurate as saying that he has been around since the very beginning.” Albion stops and places his hand on Nicolas Cythe’s shoulder. “Mr. Cythe has agreed to demonstrate one side of the dynamic that we face in moving forward. But we need a volunteer to give the demonstration its full weight.” Albion waits a moment until he moves his hand to Senator Hannazil’s shoulder. “Thank you, Senator.” Hannazil twists and looks up at Albion standing over him. His expression is amused with a tinge of impatience. “The kind Andi Hartson from the Queen’s England is correct. We do not want monsters among us, but distinguishing monsters from men is of the upmost importance. As a body, we agreed to retire monsters and, with this experiment, all of you shall judge which is the monster. Please observe closely.”

Albion twirls the fountain pen in his fingers like a drummer might spin a drumstick. With lightning quickness he stabs the point into Nicolas Cythe’s windpipe. Jets of blood surge from the wound and splash heavily upon the oak table. Andi reels back with a cry. The senator, his eyes horror wide, freezes at the sight. Hannazil watches Cythe’s glittery irises darken as his body slumps forward. Albion then twirls the pen between his fingers again and lifts it high in the air.

Hannazil’s eyes tick from Cythe to Albion’s raised arm. Albion suddenly punches the pen three times into Hannazil’s throat. On the fourth, Albion angles the weapon downward and leaves it embedded deep between the man’s ribs.

The room fills with the sound of choking. The senator’s fingertips dig at the final insertion point. A moment later he topples to his left, crashes down into Andi Hartson’s lap and then collapses to the floor. The torn fissures gush blood in throes, as the dying man’s heart stops. Albion’s assistant hands him a white towel. He wipes a small amount of blood from his fingers—dabs at a tiny stain on his suit jacket. He sighs and shakes his head. “Must improve my speed,” he says. The assistant moves behind him and removes the jacket, folds it over his arm and exits the room.

“Both are dead in my estimation, Andi. What do you say?” No answer. Andi’s hand is over her mouth and her eyes are encased in tears.

“What shall we become? The theme of this experiment… Should we, do you think, remain on the floor there with good Senator Hannazil? For that is where humankind and the world hurtle toward—finality, death and destruction. Shall we continue to be like dear Senator Hannazil with his corrupt policies, his appetite for sordid pleasures—his failure to understand longevity, his ignorance? Or, I wonder, should we join the likes of Mr. Nicolas Cythe here?” Albion gestures to the slumped figure face down on the table in a pool of blood. “Andi, what do you think?”

She is weeping, looking at Cythe. Her body is rigid. Fear fueling her sobs. Over the side of the table, blood drizzles. The tap, tap, tap of heavy drops on the wood floor.

“Mr. Nicholas Cythe?” Albion says. “Are you quite all right?” Cythe’s hand twitches and he pushes against the table lifting his torso back into the chair. A thick, white foam is caked around the stab point. He does not answer. With delicate movements he gingerly rubs at the visibly closing wound. He nods a moment later and smiles. “Judgement!” yells Albion. The Board flinches at his voice. “I say we join Mr. Cythe. I say we live the life immortal. We will carry on what we have started—we will weather the storms we have summoned.

“All roads lead to Dr. Loche Newirth, ladies and gentlemen. I assure you that if he is allowed to live, we risk not only everything we’ve worked for, but our very existence. Why did I not eliminate him when that opportunity knocked? I suppose that is a justified question. I did not kill him because, at that time, I shared the same perspective as my colleague here, Mr. Nicholas Cythe. Nicolas still believes that Loche has the potential to be made to create what we want him to create. And that strategy has been supported and augmented by none other than Loche’s mentor and psychologist, Dr. Marcus Rearden.” Albion’s lips break a grim smile, “Rearden… If we give Rearden his way, he will deliver a tortured poet beyond our wildest dreams.” He shakes his head. “Dr. Rearden is our best chance at either killing or capturing the Poet. I have given him access to our collected knowledge and resources—what’s more, I have allowed him access to the paintings of Basil Fenn. He assures me that he has laid the groundwork—a kind of authorship of his own—that will solve the problem we know as Loche Newirth. Now, for my own part, I feel that we’ve positioned ourselves to complete the task we have begun without the supernatural hand of Dr. Loche Newirth. I believe he should be eliminated. Our genetic experiments have taken fruit, literally. Basil Fenn’s paintings have torn a breech in the fabric of Heaven, and we are sending the sickness that is humanity into a dimension that cannot combat its presence. We shall be victorious. We do not need, nor should we risk what he may eventually write.” Ravistelle nods at the journal, “Make no mistake—the Poet’s gift is terrifyingly complex and much more powerful than imagined.” His eyes rest on the worn leather cover for a moment. “He started this whole affair, but we shall end it. If there is such a thing as endings…”

Albion’s voice picks up a trace of comfort and ease, “So fear not! Loche Newirth will be killed or he will be made to do what we ask of him. As I’ve said, the pieces are on the board. We will find him, so be comforted. Our greatest weapon against Newirth is Dr. Marcus Rearden. Dr. Rearden assures us that he knows every weakness there is to know within the Poet. And he tells me that when he finishes with Newirth, we will need only ask, What shall we become? and the tortured Poet shall write it, and it shall be.”