part0005

From a high point on the interstate overpass, Corazon Santos squinted through the ripples of heat coming off the concrete for her first glimpse of their destination. It wasn’t much to look at, just a blur of buildings in the distance.

Fort Hood, Texas. Home for herself and the hundred thousand plus refugees who streamed out behind her in a two-kilometer-long accordion of people. She shot a quick glance over her shoulder. A sea of swaying, bobbing head coverings stretched as far as the eye could see.

The temperature indicator in the corner of her data glasses told her it was 110 degrees Fahrenheit—the measurement had shifted automatically to Fahrenheit when they crossed the border from Mexico—but under her own head covering she was cool and comfortable thanks to the chill collar she wore. Everyone in her migration had one, she’d made sure of that. The loose-fitting collar cooled the blood in her neck just enough to keep the rest of her body comfortable.

“Is that it, Corazon?” asked Maria. Her acolyte’s slim body was lost in a huddle of loose-fitting robes.

Cora studied the height of the morning sun. “We should be there by midafternoon. Let’s call a ten-minute rest period, Maria.” Only a few more hours until I meet the one on whom rests the fate of the Child.

The girl hurried away to pass the word. It wasn’t easy to stop a group that large, but eventually the mob ground to a halt and spread out in the dust on either side of the interstate. Civilian aircars passed overhead, some of them swooping lower to catch a glimpse of Corazon Santos and the great Neo migration.

The newsfeeds called her the leader of the migration movement, but the reality was nothing so grand as that. One day, after services at the local Temple of Cassandra in Panama, where she was living at the time, she started walking north. She was the medic at an orphanage, and she took a few of the young men and women with her, staff and children alike.

She had no money, no transportation other than her own two feet, and no destination other than north.

But she had conviction. In retellings, the story grew to say she’d had a vision from Cassandra that inspired her to start the migration, but that also was not true. The visions started later.

Cora halted in place and sank to the ground. The heat from the concrete roadway radiated through her robes into her backside, soothing the aching muscles. For the last six months, she had walked at least thirty kilometers every day, hardening the flesh of her thighs, calves, and back into ridges of muscle.

A three-year-old boy ran to her and threw himself into her lap. His smile was bright and his dark eyes danced. “I walked the whole time all by myself, Corazon,” he said.

He responded by snuggling deeper into her layers of robes and dragging Cora’s arms around him. She was doing this to give the children a better life, she told herself. But the truth was harder than that. Corazon Santos’s life was not her own. She was in service to a higher cause.

Visions compelled her. It was all she could do not to scoff at the absurd thought. She was a nurse, a mother, a sensible woman, not some magical mystic caught in the throes of religious fervor.

“Excuse me, Corazon.” The two men who approached were twins, Chaco and Lito. Together they formed the head of her security team. She hoisted young Juan off her lap and took the proffered hand from Chaco to get to her feet. The identical twins were dark-skinned, with straight, coarse black hair and quick eyes. They were shorter than her by a head.

Chaco was two minutes older than his brother and usually served as the designated spokesman for the pair. “Yes, Corazon.”

The US military had placed a young man in the migration just before they crossed the border. He looked and spoke like a native, but he was clearly a military man and asked a lot of questions. Further digging had shown him to be a United States Marine and close to General Graves.

Cora blew out a breath of exasperation. She had yet to make up her mind how she should think about General Graves. He had put a spy in her ranks, but he was supposed to help her save the Child. Cassandra worked in mysterious ways, but that combination seemed a stretch even for Her.

“So you think he left to report in to his superiors?” Cora tried to keep the impatience out of her voice. The twins were just doing their job.

“Yes, Corazon,” Lito spoke, probably trying to emphasize to her how important the request was to them. His voice was lower than his brother’s and husky from lack of use. “We think it is wise to have security near you at all times now.”

Cora chuckled. “There is no way you can make me safe, Lito. No matter how hard you try. If the Americans want me dead, I will be dead. I serve Cassandra. If it is Her will, then it is so. The spy will tell his superiors we are a peaceful migration of poor refugees.”

“Has the spy seen any weapons?” she asked. It was easy to hide a few dozen small arms amidst a hundred thousand people. Another look flashed between the brothers and Cora drew in a sharp breath. “The jamming device.”

“It is a hunch only, Corazon,” Chaco said. “The spy was seen near the bus where we have the device. It may be a coincidence, but we are being cautious.”

Cora cursed to herself. Weapons they could steal, but the jammer was irreplaceable. Without it, any attack would be a bloodbath—on her side. They’d searched the spy’s belongings on multiple occasions. If he had a scanner with him, it was tiny, and he would have to be close to the power block of the jammer to detect it. Still, if the jamming device had been discovered…

“Maria,” she called out. The acolyte appeared at her side. “We’ll stop here for lunch. Bring up the buses.”

A caravan of ancient, mismatched, gas-powered buses followed the migration. They carried the infirm, the very young, and the supplies needed to feed a hundred thousand mouths twice a day.

“We planned for this,” Cora snapped at the twins. “Disassemble the device and spread the pieces among the designated carriers. Bring the power block to me.”

“As you wish, Corazon.” Lito held out his hand. On his opened palm sat a black cube about three centimeters to a side. When Cora picked it up, it was much heavier than it looked and slightly warm to the touch. The bottom side held an array of bright gold contacts.

“I will keep it safe,” Cora repeated, more gently this time. “They will not search me.”

Reluctantly, the twins walked away. She could hear the buses moving closer now, the roar of their diesel engines breaking through the white noise of a thousand conversations.

The cube weighed heavily in her hand. She had refused air transport from the US–Mexico border all to conceal this tiny power source, the key to her entire plan to take over the army base. She looked at the smudge of a town on the wavering horizon, feeling the tension growing in her shoulders. There was a reckoning coming. She could feel it.

If I am worthy, take me, Cassandra, she prayed. She had lost so much already. Her husband, her child, her free will. Some days she just wanted to lie down on the hot pavement and never get up.

Faith . The word rang clear in her head. She was the anchor for these people and the millions—billions—of Cassandra’s followers the world over. She had been chosen to show them a new path to the future. If she lost her faith, what about them?

The little boy with the bright eyes was at her side in a flash. She knelt down to his level, taking one hand in hers while the other worked open the zipper of his yellow and red backpack and slipped the cube inside.

“Yes, Corazon?” he said, his mouth parted like a puppy. He danced with energy, making her laugh.

Cora stood, still holding his hand. “You have to promise to stay right next to me for the rest of the day, especially when we get to the army base. Do you promise?”