Fury of the Ancient Gods (Rise of the Ancient Gods Book 5) by Craig Robertson

Author:Craig Robertson
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3
Publisher: Imagine-It Publishing
Published: 2019-05-31T06:00:00+00:00

SEVENTEEN

The was only one Fate in all the multiverse. Fate was a busy force. Why there should be one Fate to service all realities was not clear. The Venerable Order of Contemplative Monks of Graffoss had pondered that mystery for ten thousand generations. Solitary meditation hadn't cracked open the mystery to them. Self-flagellation did nothing to push back the veil. Even round-robin group flagellation was futile in allowing them to comprehend why there was but one Fate. In the end, so frustrated were the monks, that they ended their monastic endeavors in favor of branding a chain of franchised self-service mortuaries. They thoroughly enjoyed the finality afforded them by those transactions.

Fate spoke no languages and did not think in words, per se. But, it understood everyone and everything. From the smallest paramecium to the grandest whale. From subatomic particles to the highest mountain. Fate knew the state of all reality. And all things knew Fate's intentions in a crystal clear manner. Yeah, there was no ambiguity or misinterpretations possible where the dispositions of Fate was concerned. An arrow through the head or erosion by a storm were hard to spin in any other light than what they were.

Curiously, Fate felt no remorse, and directed no malice at anyone. It did what it did because that's what it did. It wasn't its job, it was Fate's only purpose. What was a typical day for Fate? Long. Fate never slept, or rested, or paused. It functioned in one unbroken chain of interventions extending from before time, until after all time, simultaneously. It could know anything it wanted to, past, present, or future, if that knowledge aided its purpose. If not, Fate ignored the information. It was not an encyclopedia or a historian.

How did Fate effect outcomes, fates? If asked, and if Fate spoke, and if it cared to respond to you, Fate would answer it had no idea how it acted. Fate wordlessly decided what would happen to a particular time and place. If Fate used language, it would have referred to these locations as inflection points. That is how it regarded them, in its nebulous way of thinking. A line was heading in one direction, and Fate inflected it into another. Or not.

June 6, 1944, twenty year old Joe Vento hits Omaha Beach amidst a rain of absolute horror. Bullets, body parts, and cries of anguish fill the air. To his right, men—boys mostly—he doesn't recognize are mowed down like they had no value. To his left, more of the same. In front of him, it's worse. Yet Joe isn't hit by as much as a nasty look. He, unlike two thousand four hundred and ninety nine other young men, was not killed. Fate decreed Joe not be number two thousand five hundred, that awful day in June. Why? Don't ask Joe. Don't ask Fate. One has no idea and the other isn't saying.

A man is seen on the security camera of an Oakland, California gas station, filling his tank and paying attention to nothing in particular.

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