Destiny

by David Wood

  “Are you so sure?” He pointed to her coffee cup. “Why did you order coffee instead of tea?”

  “I was in the mood for coffee. If I had been in the mood for tea, I would have ordered tea.”

  “And what controls your moods?”

  Avery opened her mouth to answer, but closed it without saying anything.

  “Our moods, not to mention everything else that happens in our brains, are the result of chemical interactions. Chemicals that are made up of elements that were created in stars. Those chemicals react with each other according to very precise mathematical rules. Complex rules to be sure, but not as random or independent as we fool ourselves into thinking. What we call free will is really just us convincing ourselves that we wanted to do something that we were going to do anyway.”

  “No. You’re wrong. I can choose to do something that I don’t want to do. I might order tea just to spite you. Can you predict when I’ll do that?”

  “Not yet. But if I observed you long enough, I’d be able to predict most of your behavioral choices with above average accuracy. It’s easier, of course, when the subject doesn’t know they’re being observed, but even then, it’s not impossible.”

  “You’re really serious, aren’t you? You think that everything since the Big Bang has been leading up to this. You and me, practically strangers, sitting in a coffee shop thousands of miles from our homes, talking about…this?”

  “In a word, yes. Everything that occurs happens because it has to. Because that’s the only way it could have happened. I know that’s pretty mind-boggling, but it can be proven mathematically.”

  Avery shook her head, unconvinced.

  “Well,” Stone went on. “I did tell you it would sound crazy. Just knowing—or I should say believing—something is true does not automatically make it useful. But if you know how to look for it, you can see the evidence for it everywhere. I’ve gotten pretty good at recognizing the pattern, and once you do that… well, it’s a whole different kind of computer hacking.”

  “Tam knows you believe this stuff?”

  Stone made see-saw motion with his hand. “She knows what I can do with it.”

  “Then tell me this. Why bother breaking into the NSA? If we’re really living in a…what did you call it…a predetermined universe, then why bother? If we’re all just slaves to the machine, doing what we have to do, what’s the point of even living?”

  “I can see that this is upsetting you, but you did ask.” Stone rotated his coffee cup in a series of precise quarter turns. “So, I’ve told you about my special talent. Now it’s your turn. What is the Dominion looking for in Vienna?”

  Avery’s expression did not soften. “Don’t you already know? Can’t you predict what I’m going to say next?”

  “It doesn’t work like that. To even make an educated guess, I would have to have a lot more information.” He paused a moment. “What I can tell is that on some level, you know that I’m right. You’ve always believed that everything happens for a reason.”

  “How did…” Avery caught herself and closed her mouth defiantly.

  Stone didn’t need confirmation. “To truly predict everything in the universe, you would need to be outside the universe, which is why the idea that it is all a simulation being run by an extra-dimensional being—God, for want of a better word—makes a certain kind of sense. On some level, most of us already know it’s true.”

  Avery sighed. “There’s only one thing in Vienna, relating to Patton, that the Dominion could possibly want. And it’s even got the word ‘destiny’ right in the name. The Heilige Lanze, also known as the Spear of Destiny.”

  Stone’s hand froze on his coffee cup. “The spear that was used to stab Jesus during the crucifixion, if you happen to believe in that sort of thing.”

  “It’s not the real Spear of Destiny,” Avery said quickly.

  “No, of course not. And you know that how exactly?”

  “It doesn’t matter. The point is, the Dominion thinks it’s real. They’re obsessed with finding mystical relics. If they’re looking for anything here, that’s got to be it.”

  “The Spear of Destiny.” Stone shook his head. “And to think I was worried about sounding crazy.”

  CHAPTER 5

  El Paso, Texas

  Guillermo Esperanza paced stiffly about the waiting room of the University Medical Center, the concern on his face masking the rage that burned under the surface. He had been waiting for nearly fifteen minutes, but while he was not a patient man, the reason for his ire had little to do with the delay.

  “Guillermo?”

  He turned in the direction of the voice, meeting the earnest gaze of his business associate and confidant, Roger Lavelle. “May I see him?”

  “Just for a moment.” Both men were bilingual, but Lavelle, a Texas native, used Spanish in deference to his friend. Although their acquaintance had begun as strictly business—Lavelle’s El Paso-based company liaised with Esperanza’s organization to facilitate both trade and educational opportunities across the border—they had become fast friends over the two years they had worked together. “He’s in stable condition physically, but as you can imagine, he’s quite shaken. And the DHS agents have requested that you not ask any questions about the incident as it might interfere with their investigation.”

  Esperanza nodded irritably. Lavelle led him through the door to the private suite where Juan Garza was being treated, or more precisely, being held in protective custody. Although the horrific crime, to which he was the only witness, had occurred across the border in Mexico, the American authorities were nonetheless being very deliberate in their investigation. Esperanza wondered if their concern stemmed from an interest in seeing the wrongdoers punished, or a fear that the violence might spill over the international boundary as it had in the past.

  Esperanza’s interest in the young man’s well-being was deeply personal. Although he did not know Garza, he felt a kinship with the young man. Esperanza had come up in the same rural environment, faced the same challenges and ultimately conquered them to become one of the richest men in Mexico. His maquiladoras—manufacturing facilities operating in the Free Trade Zone, exporting industrial equipment across the border to the United States—had not only made him a fortune, but were helping to revitalize Juarez, lifting it out of the cycle of drug violence that threatened to utterly destroy, not only the border region, but the entire country. Esperanza had made a promise to himself, many years earlier, that if he ever found success, he would make it his goal in life to share his good fortune with young men and women who, like him, dreamed of being something more, and to that end he had created special educational programs for his workers and their children which would, he believed, stimulate a new era of prosperity for the nation that he loved. The attack, the brutal murder of twenty-two of those young dreamers, was an attack on him as well. Worse, he felt a measure of responsibility for what had happened. His act of kindness had resulted in their deaths.

  Garza’s hospital bed was surrounded by people—hospital staff and American law enforcement agents wearing rumpled suits. Lavelle had assured him that Garza was not being treated as an illegal and that the young man was safer in the American hospital than he would be back in Juarez, but Esperanza nonetheless sensed an air of hostility—directed both at the young man, and at himself.

  Esperanza approached the bed and took the young man’s hand. “I’m so very sorry this happened,” he told Garza, speaking in Spanish. “I will take care of everything. Make sure that your family is well cared for. All the families.”

  Garza’s eyes were red with grief, but he managed a wan smile. “Gracias señor.”

  Esperanza’s gaze flitted briefly to the American agents before returning to the injured man. “Was it the narcos?”

  One of the agents cleared his throat, signaling that such inquiries were not welcome, but Esperanza pressed on. “Did they want a ransom? I would have paid anything to keep you safe.”

  “I
t was the police.”

  “The police?” Esperanza was more disappointed than surprised. Police corruption, particularly at the local level, was widespread. But why target these students?

  “They never asked for anything,” Garza went on, miserably. “They just…”

  Esperanza felt a hand on his arm. It was Lavelle. “Guillermo, that’s enough. We should go.”

  Esperanza squeezed Garza’s hand again. “There will be justice. I promise it.”

  He could feel the harsh stares of the American agents like a physical force, pushing him out of the room. He was not the sort of man easily cowed into submission, yet the oppressive atmosphere in the room had reminded him that the violence perpetrated by the drug cartels was only a symptom of the real problem—the disease—that had afflicted his country for too long.

  Lavelle caught up to him. “He’s in good hands, Guillermo. He’ll be okay.”

  Esperanza made a cutting gesture. “This has to stop.”

  “I know,” Lavelle said sympathetically, and then, as if he had been waiting for the cue to speak, added. “But there’s only so much you can do as a private citizen.”

  It was not the first time Lavelle had told him something like this. The Texan had often encouraged him to seek public office, leveraging his success as a businessman in the political arena, perhaps even seeking the presidency. Esperanza had always demurred, believing that he could do more for his country as a successful businessman than by wading into the morass of government service. This time, however, Esperanza’s response was more measured. “Do you think I could really make a difference, Roger? The government is broken. It cannot be fixed. Not by one man.”

  “If anyone could fix it, it’s you. You have widespread support, both in the congress and the general population. Not to mention a lot of friends on my side of the fence. President Mendoza knows it. It’s possible that he engineered this incident to send you a warning.”

  Esperanza’s eyes went wide in disbelief. He stopped in his tracks and faced Lavelle. “Surely he would not do something so terrible.”

  Even as he said it, he knew he was wrong. Mendoza had a reputation for ruthlessness, and even if he was not personally responsible, it was not unthinkable that one of his cronies might have taken the initiative.

  Lavelle did not answer the question directly. “You may be right though about the state of the government. Perhaps the time has come for a different solution.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Lavelle looked around as if to ensure that they would not be overheard before answering. “The free trade agreement has served us well as businessmen, but political instability could ruin what we’ve accomplished. Our prosperity will evaporate if Mexico becomes a failed state. There are many people, on both sides of the border, who believe the time has come for something more…permanent. An end to the corruption and violence. There is a way to make it happen, but it will require great sacrifice.”

  Esperanza’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You are not just talking about a presidential campaign.”

  “No,” Lavelle replied in a grave voice. “Becoming president is only the first step.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Vienna, Austria

  The Heilige Lanze, or Holy Lance, Avery explained as they left Café Sperl and trekked through the snow in the direction of the Ringstrasse, was housed in the Hofburg, a vast palace complex that contained over twenty museums and galleries, featuring more than a thousand years’ worth of art and historical treasures—everything from jewel-encrusted crowns to royal furniture—artifacts from the Holy Roman Empire and the Habsburg dynasty. The Lance was part of the Imperial Regalia, sacred items used in the coronation ceremony, and was housed in the Schatzkammer—the Imperial Treasury, situated just off the Schweizerhof, or Swiss Courtyard, in the oldest part of the Hofburg. Avery had spent several hours in the palace, both in the Treasury, staring at the relic, and in the Austrian National Library, situated in another part of the palace, researching its history and provenance in an effort to determine exactly what the Dominion might have planned for it.

  Once inside the palace, she led Stone to the treasure room and straight to the glass case where the Lance rested on a red velvet pedestal, alongside the Imperial Cross, an enormous golden cross-shaped reliquary, which had been designed to hold both the Spear and the other object in the display case, a length of wood purported to be a piece of the True Cross.

  “So that’s the infamous Spear of Destiny,” Stone remarked, peering through the glass. “Not what I expected really. It looks like something from a hardware store. What’s with that gold foil wrapping?”

  Stone was not wrong. The iron spearhead was in nearly-immaculate condition, naturally black, without a trace of corrosion. It was about nineteen inches long, bound with a web of wire wrappings every inch or so of its length, around a central shaft. The middle of the blade was covered with a six-inch long band of beaten gold. A close examination revealed tiny crosses and doves adorning the spearhead, but it did not really look like a two-thousand-year-old killing weapon.

  “The spear has been an object of reverence since at least the tenth century,” she explained, “so it’s been well cared for. The gold band was added in 1350 by Charles the Fourth. There’s a Latin inscription on it: Lancea et clavus Domini. ‘Lance and nail of the Lord.’ That may be the source of the confusion about this spear being the one used at the Crucifixion.”

  “It’s definitely not?”

  Avery shifted uncomfortably. There was more to the story of the Holy Lance, but now was not the time. “A metallurgical analysis conducted in 2003 indicates that it probably dates from about the seventh century. It’s old, but not quite old enough, although many believe that it may have been recast from a much older blade, so who knows. There is an iron pin affixed to the spearhead which does appear to be an actual nail from first century Rome. It may be that the spear was meant to serve as a vessel for carrying what was believed to be a nail from the True Cross, and over time, this spear became confused with the actual Holy Lance.”

  Stone continued to stare at it thoughtfully. “So if this definitely is not the spear from the crucifixion, why does the Dominion want it?”

  “Regardless of its true provenance, there are a number of legends associated with this relic. It reputedly gave Charlemagne clairvoyant powers which he used to win dozens of campaigns on his way to becoming the first Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire. It was widely believed that an army led by someone carrying the Spear of Destiny, as it came to be called, was invincible, but that if the king lost possession of it, he would die soon thereafter. Napoleon sought to possess it, as did Adolf Hitler. In fact, the Spear inspired Hitler’s rise to power. He lived in Vienna as a young man and would come here to work on architectural drawings. He wrote in Mein Kampf that one day he overheard a museum guide recounting the legend of the Spear, that whoever claimed it would hold the destiny of the world in his hands. When he finally seized power, he removed the Spear from the Hofburg and moved it to Nuremberg.”

  “I guess that whole invincibility thing didn’t work out for him.”

  Avery shrugged. “The Emperors of old would carry the relic into battle, so maybe there’s a literal component too. Regardless, the Allied armies captured Nuremberg on April 30, 1945 and secured the vault where the Spear was being kept at 2:10 in the afternoon. Hitler committed suicide the same day, less than ninety minutes later.”

  Stone said nothing.

  “The Dominion’s interest in the Spear may be merely symbolic, just as it was for the Holy Roman emperors. And for Hitler, for that matter.”

  “Why would they identify it as relating to Patton?”

  “Patton was passionate about history. He believed in reincarnation and claimed to have vivid memories of fighting on ancient battlefields. He became obsessed with the Spear and did an extensive study of its history before returning it here. He believed it was once wielded by Emperor Constantine. In fact, a lot of what I’ve been ab
le to learn about it came from one of Patton’s diaries here in the library.”

  Stone made a thoughtful humming noise.

  Avery frowned. Had he spotted some connection that had eluded her? Was there some mysterious pattern that only he could see? “What?”

  Stone shook his head. “It seems to fit. So we think the Dominion is going to try to steal it, right?”

  “I don’t think the Treasury is going to sell it to them.”

  He turned to face her, a mischievous smile softening the haunted look in his eyes.

  “What?”

  Stone turned away, scanning the crowd of people in the room until he spotted one of the uniformed attendants. Without waiting for Avery, he approached the man. “Excuse me, do you speak English?”

  The man regarded him warily. “Ja…Yes.”

  “My friend and I work for the American government. We need to talk to the head of museum security. It’s very urgent.”

  Avery gasped as the words left Stone’s mouth. She grabbed his arm, trying to silence him, but there was no shutting him up.

  “What is this regarding?” The attendant’s manner of speech suggested that his grasp of English might not be as good as he thought.

  “We think someone may be planning to steal the Holy Lance.”

  The man blinked as if waiting for the punch line.

  Avery thought about trying to slip away, but what then? Should she call Tam?

  Or should she play along?

  “That’s right,” she said, stepping forward. “I’m Dr. Avery Halsey with the International…umm, Society for the Protection of—”

  “What my colleague is trying to say,” Stone interjected, “is that this threat is very real and very immediate. There’s no time to lose, so if you could just put us in touch with your director of security, we would be ever so grateful.”

  The attendant mumbled something—probably “wait here”—and then moved off. When he was gone, Avery punched Stone in the arm. Hard. “What the hell was that?”