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Just an evening spent with the girls is what she told hubby.

Four of them walked down and approached us.

"Are you the one the Prophet called the Director's Hope?" their leader asked staring at me.

"Yes, he is," Sarah answered. "How did you hear that name?"

"A missionary came," the old man replied. "We have brought you a Gift."

I nodded, and the old man turned to signal the one they had left at the door of the airplane. Children poured down the stairs suddenly; from their energy, the flight must have been tough on them.

"The remaining wealth of our nation," the old man told me. "Our Gift to you."

I signaled the assembled staff to move forward and make sure no child needed immediate medical attention.

"We thank you..." I stopped as someone wearing white stepped out of the airplane. She was young, at least eighteen but not much older, and her uniform clearly tried to imitate David's use of a white Operative uniform to mark him as a Healer.

"She is our Santera," he said. "I believe your word is Healer."

"There are no words to express our gratitude, sir," I said, bowing respectfully at the enormity of their generosity.

"We killed our first Positives," he said reaching out to straighten me. "We have earned no gratitude."

"Where are the parents?" Sarah asked. Usually, a Gift Plane did not include only children.

"A price must be paid for our sin," the old man replied. "They have chosen to pay it."

"The children will be raised by parents who respect your past," Jacob assured them.

"It is unnecessary," he replied. "We destroyed our only hope of survival. We deserve to be forgotten."

The Director turned his gravchair around and went back to the gravlimo.

"It is not your fault," I told the old man when he looked about to shout after him. "Every time he hears of a country that killed off their First Generation Positives he sees it as his failure, not theirs."

"There was nothing he could have done, we would not listen," the old man said desperately.

"You will not convince him," I said. "How can we make you comfortable?"

"A spot where we can watch the sun set over water," the lone woman in the group said. "Our task is done."

"I will sit with you," I said.

"There is no need," she replied.

"I define what is needed differently," I told her. "I know a spot."


It would have taken them longer to die except for the freezing rain; only the old man who had spoken was alive after the third night.

His eyes signaled me so I jacked into him.

Take care of our children

I nodded.

Do you believe God will forgive us?

"Mine does," I said. "I cannot speak for yours."

The missionary, he spoke of your Purpose. Are you strong enough?

I looked at the spot where the sun was beginning to rise; there was no harm in telling him the truth so I did.

Es justo that at my death, my failures be held up in the light of your father's successes.

"The Director is not my father," I said.

No, you would not see him as such. He was truly sent by my God.


"Did they suffer?" the Santera Healer asked, sitting down next to me in the Institute dining hall. Most of the table was covered with the remains of my first meal in days.

"Yes," I said, shocking her. She turned away and sobbed.

"Old bones don't take freezing rain well," I said. "It was a better death than dehydration and starvation."

"My name is Amada," she said.


"I know," she said. "They speak your name like you are..."

"Whatever anyone says about me, Amada," I interrupted. "I'm either much less or much worse."

"You sat with them so you're probably more," she said staring into my eyes. "Everyone I've spoken to here says to be careful with you so you're probably worse."

"You're eighteen?" I asked.

"I've seen a lot of death," she said. "There are more people in the Institute than I saw in my country."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"You're not though," she said studying me. "You don't feel..."

"I don't feel what you feel, Amada," I said.

"It's comfortable to sit with