Donor 23

by Beatty, Cate

  She planned to save enough to buy a citizenship—the hope of every donor. It was rare, but it did happen. Because of Joan’s situation, the possibility of achieving the coveted status was greater than most. Then she could get her father and herself out of the ghetto and be free from the threat of donation. That was her goal. As she glanced as her co-donors she knew she wouldn’t let anyone, let alone them, prevent her from reaching it.

  On the flip side, if they lost too many auditions or underperformed, they could be cut and windup a solus. The Alliance designed the System perfectly. It offered a glimmer of hope, while at the same time held the risk of catastrophic failure, both in perfect balance. That hope and the fear of failure pressed on the minds of Joan and her co-donors as they stretched out on the grass. It was a masterful triumph of the System: people competed for the opportunity to lose parts of their bodies.

  Joan despondently slipped the jersey over her shoulders. Jack squeezed her shoulder, “Just do your best. They know you recently donated.”

  2

  As Joan stretched and twisted her body, she stole glances at the stands.

  The Governor’s group sat in a box section, with small tables and seats. Joan’s eyes flew to Duncan. He’ll see me, she thought, distraught. Now he would know she was a donor. Joan turned her head away. It was inevitable anyway. He had to find out someday. It’s not like anything could have ever come from their friendship. Duncan was the son of one of the wealthiest businessmen in the Alliance. He was dating Tegan. And of course, Joan was only a donor.

  She often saw Jack and Duncan talking together. Once, Joan worriedly asked Jack what they discussed.

  “Don’t worry, I didn’t say anything about you.”

  She understood what he meant. He meant he hadn’t told Duncan she was a donor.

  “What do you and Duncan talk about? Tegan?” she had asked, in resignation.

  “He doesn’t talk much about her,” Jack replied, matter of fact.

  Duncan and Tegan sat near each other at a small table. In front of them was assembled the Governor and Mrs. Gates, her trainer, and her doctor. A few others, consisting of Tegan’s agents and the Governor’s aides and bodyguards, stood nearby.

  Tegan’s trainer, Dean Garcia, ordered some champagne for everyone and toasted, “Let’s celebrate Tegan’s medal yesterday!”

  Neither Duncan nor Tegan drank. Tegan fixated on her wrist phone, scripting to someone. A waitress set out an array of wonderful appetizers before them.

  “Yes, we’re all thrilled about the medal,” the Governor held up his glass. “Kudos to you too, Dean, for your work in helping her reach this point. There’ll be a nice bonus in your paycheck this week.”

  His wife tasted the food and handed a good-looking bite to the Governor.

  “This’s a nice surprise, the champagne, the food…,” he turned to Tegan’s trainer, “but why’d you invite us here today, Dean?”

  “Yeah, why’d I have to come?” Tegan complained, never taking her eyes from her wrist phone.

  “You’ve never been to an audition. I thought you might like to see one. We want to tax some shoulder muscle from one of her donors down there,” Garcia said.

  Mrs. Gates leaned in and said quietly, “I didn’t know this was what we were going to do. Really, I’d rather Tegan not see her donors.”

  “I agree,” the Governor raised his eyebrows at the trainer.

  “Don’t worry, sir, the donors are down on the field. We’re not going to meet them. Dr. Melnick and I,” he motioned to Tegan’s personal physician, who was sitting next to him, “wanted to broach an idea with you two. Tegan doesn’t have to be here. Her agent thought it would be good for her to get out and be seen today, after her victory yesterday.”

  The trainer glanced at his wrist phone, “They’re ready to start, if we are.”

  He looked at the Governor, who nodded.

  Punching something into the wrist phone, the trainer pointed, “OK, it’s those four girls out in center—in the blue jerseys.”

  Down on the field, Joan and the other girls finished stretching and lined up to begin the audition. Jack stood nearby. A worker roped off a long portion of the field, leaving room for javelin training. Joan’s hand shook as she held the spear. Anxiety always consumed her before an audition. She stood about five feet, six inches tall—shorter than her co-donors—giving them an advantage over her in many of the sports. Her co-donors fidgeted as well. They all realized what was at stake.

  She thought of the Governor in the stands. Joan wanted to impress him. Joan always wanted to do her duty, follow his rules, and obey his laws, as she had been taught in school. Photographs of him adorned everywhere.

  But deep inside her existed conflicting emotions, nagging feelings that crept out when she looked at his photo—feelings of awe and admiration mixed with disgust and hatred. Now he was here, standing over her, watching her.

  Up in the stands, Tegan and Duncan tried the food. Mrs. Gates, likewise, ate and fed bits of it to her primly coifed dog sitting in her lap. The doctor gazed at his wrist phone. The Governor and the trainer observed the audition.

  Joan nervously glanced up to the stands—her eyes on the Governor—just as the first donor, number 609, stepped up to throw. 609’s javelin soared through the air and sliced into the grass, swaying to and fro, as workers measured the length. Then came number 18. Her pitch measured much the same. Number 85’s throw was better.

  Joan was last. She paused in concentration and caught her breath, slowing it, cleansing her mind—preparing everything so that her body could perform. She made her approach running, then pulled the javelin behind her back and threw. For what seemed endless seconds, the spear sailed through space, reaching an arc, before it plummeted down and knifed into the soft ground…farther than 85’s. Relief swept over her. She hoped Tegan had seen it.

  “Dad, can I have just one glass of champagne?” Tegan asked loudly.

  The trainer interjected, “Tegan, not only are you not old enough, but you’re in training.”

  “Dad…” Tegan ignored her trainer and pleaded with her father.

  “Half a glass,” Governor Gates nodded to the waitress. “Duncan, do you want a little, too?”

  The Governor turned his attention back to the field.

  “Sure, thank you, sir,” Duncan smiled. No one ever said no to Our Governor.

  The waitress came over to them. She poured the bubbly wine, her donor tattoo plainly evident. She was young and pretty, with black hair set off by striking violet eyes. Two glasses stood on her tray, and she carefully poured champagne into one of them, stopping when Tegan’s glass was half full. Tegan nudged her arm, motioning for her to fill the glass. The nudge from Tegan caused the waitress to lose balance of the tray. The empty glass fell off the tray and broke on the ground.

  “Stupid,” Tegan chided her.

  Duncan tried to calm down the waitress, who was clearly nervous serving the Governor and his famous daughter. He bent over and picked up the pieces of glass, “See, a clean break, only two pieces,” he said, as he handed them back to her.

  The waitress retrieved another glass and filled it for Duncan. Tegan noticed the girl’s eyes when the waitress set the glass down.

  “Cool purple eyes,” Tegan grabbed her arm and bent the waitress’s face toward her. “Surprised your benefactor hasn’t taxed those.”

  On her run for the second throw, Joan felt her leg tighten. When she let go of the javelin, she recognized immediately it was not a good throw. This time it landed behind 85’s spear. Joan tried not to rub or favor her leg while she and the others prepared for the third throw.

  The second in line began her run up for the third throw. Like her other throws, it was a good, strong throw, but still it landed behind Joan’s first throw. Number 85 took her approach and let go of the spear. It went farther than Joan’s second throw.

  Joan stepped up for her third try. As she picked up the javelin, she put all thoughts out of her mind. She needed
to concentrate.

  “That number 23 has nice form. Her first throw was good, but that last run up looked bad,” the Governor said.

  “23 was the donor for Tegan’s last tax—the thigh—two months ago. She may not be back up to par, yet,” the trainer told the Governor.

  The Governor took a sip of champagne. “Tegan just won a medal yesterday. She managed to ‘get back up to par.’ Why not this 23? Maybe I’ll have a talk with Jack. I’m not keeping a donor on board who can’t keep up.” Taking another sip, “Nice vintage.”

  Sensing an opportunity to impress the Governor, Garcia explained, “I ordered it from New Europe. A whole case. It came in on a ship last week.”

  “Hmm, just shipped in, you say?” Gates murmured. His eyes displayed a hint of irritation.

  Garcia’s mouth dropped—he shouldn’t have anything of better quality than Our Governor has. “I’ll send the case over to you, Governor. Please accept it with my compliments, sir.”

  Behind him, Tegan studied the tray of food, “Bring me more of those cheese puffs,” she ordered the waitress. “Want anything, Duncan?”

  “No, but I see plenty of those cheese things on that table over there. I’ll get you some.” He started to stand.

  Tegan grabbed his arm. “It’s her job. Geez, just sit down. Drink your champagne. You haven’t touched it.”

  “I’m in training.”

  With an angry look, Tegan picked up his glass and poured the contents into her own.

  “I’m going to go down to the gym,” Duncan said. “Some of my old trainers work there, from when I was a kid. I want to say hi.”

  Mrs. Gates glanced up at him, “You’re leaving, Duncan?”

  “Yeah, I wanted to go say hi to some friends. Thanks for the drink and the food.” He turned and addressed the Governor more formally, “Thank you, Governor.”

  Nonchalantly, the Governor queried, “Duncan, has your father been Outside lately? Down south? Does he have any of those cigars?”

  The Governor knew Duncan’s father had been to the Outside. As the Governor, he knew when any citizen left the country and traveled to the Outside. They had to have his permission. He paid particular attention to the many business trips taken by Duncan’s father. He also knew every item Mr. Starr had brought back from each trip. Asking questions like this was a way for him to remind his subjects of his power and his knowledge. He realized Duncan would mention the query to his father.

  Joan threw her javelin for the third time. She put all her strength into her final throw, an excellent throw. The average length of her three throws should end up better than 85’s average.

  After Duncan left the stands, Tegan returned to her wrist phone, and Governor Gates motioned to the waitress to pour him another glass of champagne. As the waitress filled his glass, he perceived her for the first time. She was pretty, very pretty. With his hand, the Governor gestured toward his aide. The aide understood the sign. As he has done on other occasions, the aide would arrange for the girl to be in the Governor’s room that night.

  The trainer looked at his wrist phone getting the results, “They finished the three rounds. 23’s average was the longest, by one inch. 85 was second. The other two were at least three inches behind her. Of course, this is a game of inches.”

  “Oh, right,” the Governor uttered, still staring at the waitress, “but 23 was the one that had a bad approach.”

  The Governor continued admiring the waitress as she poured the champagne, following the curves of her shirt and the smoothness of her hands, taking leisurely pleasure in her. Her violet-colored eyes captivated him.

  Absently he said to Garcia, “Have that 23 take a few more throws.”

  The trainer punched into his wrist phone.

  Jack glanced at his wrist phone and then looked furiously up to the stands, where he saw the Governor drinking his champagne and talking to a waitress. Shaking his head, he walked over toward the girls. They sat exhausted on the grass, relieved they had finished the audition—but still anxious about who among them had passed.

  “Double T,” he called and waved Joan over to him.

  Joan smiled but only briefly; she didn’t want to gloat. 85 dropped her head. 609 uttered in a perfunctory manner, “Congratulations.”

  Joan nodded. This meant another bonus and, also, safety from being cut—safety for now at least. She stood up a little slowly, because the audition took its toll on her leg, and walked over to Jack.

  “You need to take more throws.”

  Joan’s mouth dropped, but before she could say a word, Jack continued, “Come on, get a spear.”

  Joan steeled herself to not burst out crying. That last throw had exhausted her mentally. She walked over to the jumping off point but had to wait for the javelins to be brought back. A worker carried five javelins. Joan thought how much easier it must be to be him. He just had to do what he’s told at the Center, do what was needed. No worries. No pressure. He could go home every night with a few credits on his card. He probably never had a sleepless night. But she reminded herself she was lucky—lucky to have the chance to earn enough to buy a citizenship. This boy would never have that opportunity.

  Turning his thoughts away from the waitress, Gates pointedly said to the trainer, “This is becoming boring.”

  “Quite,” Mrs. Gates agreed.

  The Governor’s voice exhibited annoyance—the sort of annoyance no one ever wanted to hear from him, “What did you want me here for anyway, Dean?”

  Dean Garcia nervously pointed to the doctor, “Dr. Melnick should explain. It was his idea.”

  The doctor gathered his thoughts, “After the last transplant, in my tests on Tegan’s new muscles, I observed something… interesting. The donor muscle—the muscle from number 23 down there—accumulated less lactic acid than Tegan’s other muscles. This made it more efficient, much more efficient. That’s one reason Tegan performed so well yesterday.”

  “So 23 has strong muscles? Is that what you’re saying?” Gates stated the obvious.

  The doctor nodded faintly.

  “Well, that’s why we tax them. So, once again, why am I here?”

  Meanwhile, down on the field Joan challenged herself to the limit, steeling herself, focusing, and heaving the javelin as far as she could. She had to impress them.

  The doctor’s hand shook, and he nervously tapped his foot. “I wondered why 23’s muscle accumulated less lactic acid. Lactic acid forms when the muscle doesn’t get enough oxygen. The heart pumps oxygen to the muscles. So I took a look at 23’s heart records taken during the last operation.”

  He paused, most likely for dramatic purposes.

  “She has a remarkable heart. Its resting heart rate is about thirty-two beats per minute. The normal is anywhere between sixty and one hundred. I’d have to do more tests, but I imagine her heart is also larger than the normal.”

  Gates looked interested now.

  Melnick continued, “When 23’s sprinting as fast as she can, her heart’s not pumping much more than a normal athlete, but—and this is the important part—it’s pumping out more blood per beat. So she can go farther and faster since her muscles are getting more oxygen. It takes longer for her to fatigue. Her lungs are probably larger, too.”

  “How did this happen? What causes it?” Gates asked, gazing at Joan down on the field.

  She had just thrown the last of the javelins.

  “Who knows? Some of it is genetics. I reviewed her training regimen—that 23 works hard.”

  Silence.

  Finally Gates said, “Go on.”

  Dr. Melnick took a deep breath, “We’re recommending a heart and lung tax from 23.”

  3

  The group said nothing. There was silence for a moment. It was broken by Tegan, who was scripting and not paying attention to the conversation.

  “Mom, some of us are going to that new nightclub that’s opening tomorrow night.”

  Garcia said to the Governor, “Actually, after this auditi
on today, we should decide which donor to tax for the shoulder. Then, the doctor and I think we should schedule the shoulder operation for tomorrow. There’re the eastern regionals in two months, and I think we can improve her for the javelin, discus, and shot put.”

  “Oh,” Tegan whined, “but I really wanted to go to the opening of the club.”

  “We’ll do the shoulder surgery tomorrow,” her father said authoritatively.

  Tegan knew when she could change his mind and when he wouldn’t budge.

  “These operations are ruining my social life, Dad. You just don’t understand,” she breathed heavily and rolled her eyes.

  She stood up and stomped off. Two bodyguards followed her.

  The Governor turned back to the men, but Mrs. Gates interjected, “We need to think about this heart and lung tax, honey. Is it the right thing to do? If we do it, the donor, this number 22—”

  “It’s 23,” the trainer interrupted.

  She glared at him, “Whatever. My point is that this donor,” she frowned at the trainer, “number 23, will be…dead. Is that something we want? I mean, what if Tegan needs her muscles or something else at some later point?”

  “Well, there’s nothing wrong with Tegan’s heart and lungs. We could always switch the organs. Give Tegan’s to 23. People who have only one donor do that occasionally,” the doctor said.

  “But there’s no need to do that here. Tegan has three other donors,” Gates said, his gaze on the four young women on the field.

  Tegan would not be a professional athlete for much longer, so she would not need as many donors. She had to begin learning her political responsibilities and preparing to take over the reins of government.

  Gates mused aloud, “You’re doing the shoulder surgery tomorrow…is it 23’s shoulder we’ll tax?”