Donor 23

by Beatty, Cate

  “I know her. I know 23. She has a weakness. She’s got a guilty conscious.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She was one of my informants, back in the ghetto. Well, not really an informant. It was only once, but it was her mother. She turned in her own mother.”

  Duncan was incredulous.

  Nox continued, “My interrogation did it. See what a good interrogator can do, Starr? This is what I try to teach you and the other rookies. It didn’t even take long. She wasn’t hard to crack.”

  Duncan wanted to strangle Nox and pummel his face into the ground. He found it hard to stand. He felt behind him for the chair and sat.

  “And she sat on the podium, front and center at her mother’s hanging, watching it in living color on the big screen. You can see how she has to feel guilty. I’m going to use that against her. She has a couple of friends in the ghetto—two donor men. I’ll have them brought here. She’ll turn herself in, or they’ll get the machine.”

  Duncan’s hands formed into fists. Nox was so excited that he was oblivious to Duncan’s anger.

  “I’m going to go contact Headquarters right now. Have them arrest the two and transport them here. Oh, and the icing on the cake is, after all that, I had one of my informants start a rumor that she was trying to save her mother. He made her out to be a hero. I was hoping to leverage that over her for years to come,” he said as he left.

  Duncan leaned his head back in the chair. Poor Joan, he thought. Interrogated, grilled by Nox. He’d seen Nox operate—the way he would break a person, like a cat toying with a helpless mouse. Nox had made Joan turn in her own mother.

  He remembered seeing Joan at Annika Lion’s execution on the tele-screen. He believed the horrible event caused the sadness that flickered in her eyes. He grieved for her. Surprisingly he saw Joan at the Center the next day. Jack explained to him, “Donors don’t get time off to mourn.” Duncan had spent time with her that day. She didn’t mention the execution, and neither did he. He supported her. He ran with her. Miles and miles they ran together, around the track. Exhausted, they fell onto the grass and watched as the sun dipped behind the Center’s grandstand. He wanted to hold her hand. Instead, he had shifted his arm so their arms were touching. She hadn’t pulled away. They lay next to each other, in the orange-red glow of the setting sun.

  Now he wanted to wrap his arms around Joan. He wanted to hold her, protect her, and guard her. But he couldn’t—not yet. Nox intended to manipulate her again. Nox intended to control her.

  Later, instead of phoning his parents, he called Jack.

  Jack checked his map again, ensuring he had the right directions. He had been to the ghetto a few times to visit Joan, but never to this area. He approached an apartment building, which was supposedly Reck Tyndall’s place.

  A few minutes later, he sat uncomfortably on a chair in Reck’s apartment. The place was sparse, containing a few sticks of furniture. Its emptiness was not out of the ordinary for an eighteen-year-old, single man. Reck, Kaleb, and another man sat across from him.

  Their jaws dropped in astonishment. Jack had just explained that they were to be arrested soon, taken outside Alliance borders, and used as bait to lure Joan to her doom. Yes, Joan was alive and well. Jack had arranged to smuggle Reck and Kaleb out of the ghetto—safe passage for them to the Far West, to Joan. The other man, Morton, was a leader in the ghetto underground. He spoke at the meetings that Kaleb and Reck attended. Morton vouched for Jack.

  “It’s arranged,” Morton nodded his head. “You two meet Jack on Thursday at the shipping depot, lot number twelve at four o’clock.”

  “A truck?” Reck asked incredulously.

  “Yes, supply trucks make deliveries to the forts, and there’s trading between us and communities outside. Believe it or not, there’re paved highways still making their way almost to the Far West. It’s not all wild out there,” Jack explained.

  “I knew it!” Kaleb exclaimed in triumph. “They’ve been lying to us. See Reck?”

  Jack interjected, “But you need to get to the depot separately. Don’t go together. Too risky. Four o’clock.”

  Jack and Morton left the apartment and walked out to the street. Jack motioned to Morton to walk with him.

  After glancing around, Jack leaned his tall frame in and said quietly, “I’m in contact with a new person—someone who wants to help. I don’t mean with what we do, not with the underground work. This person works at the medical center and can inform us of upcoming major donations. So we can warn the donors and give them time to evade. Maybe save some lives. What do you think?”

  “Can you trust the guy?” Morton queried.

  “I won’t let this person in on any of our work or plans. Like I said, this person may be able to help us save some donors.”

  “I ask you again. Can we trust him?”

  Jack shrugged, “I’m checking her out. I asked her why she wanted to help.”

  After Jack didn’t say anything else, Morton prompted, “And?”

  “She told me, ‘I couldn’t stop counting.’”

  “We’ve made close to twenty-five arrests in ghetto 4. It’s calming down there,” the aide, Biggs, informed Governor Gates.

  The two of them sat in the Governor’s busy office one afternoon. Three other men stood behind Biggs at a table, shuffling papers and folders and typing into wrist phones. Occasionally one marched out of the office, replaced by another.

  “How about ghetto 6? Anything else there?” Gates demanded.

  “Still a few of those posters—the Lionheart posters. They keep popping up. But no trouble, other than that. We found and confiscated a printer, so that should slow it down.”

  He slid one of the posters across Gates’s desk.

  “What about the girl—23—the so-called Lionheart girl? Any word on her?” Gates queried.

  Biggs called to a man behind him, “Hassan?”

  Hassan turned, “Sir? Yes, sir. 23 has made it quite far west.” He pushed a button on his wrist phone, and a map appeared on a large screen. “Not the big cities in the Far West, not that far. She found refuge with a nomadic group of people. The TEO has a couple officers on it. The boy, Duncan Starr—you know him Governor. He’s one of them. They’re still following her and trying to get her back.” Hassan glanced at Biggs, who nodded to him. “They’ve asked for permission to arrest a couple of her friends—donors —to transport them west and use them. They want to use her friendship with them, that is—to get her to turn herself in.”

  The Governor rubbed his neck, in thought, staring at the poster in front of him.

  “No.”

  “Sir?” Biggs queried.

  “No. We’ve wasted too much time and resources on her. She’s a dying fad, Biggs. Forget her.”

  “Very good, sir,” Biggs agreed.

  The Governor rubbed his neck, “That’s all for now Biggs. Violet, my neck’s a little stiff here.”

  Biggs and the remaining aides left the room.

  Violet, who had been listening to everything, took a deep breath, “Yes, sir.” She walked over to him.

  She had been “requested” by the Governor to be his personal servant that day at the Fitness Center. He called her Violet because of her eyes. It wasn’t her name. He named her, as if she were his pet. At nineteen, she had just become engaged. The System rated her and her fiancé with high rankings, and expecting a large bonus upon their wedding, the two had picked out a nice apartment and made plans. Now those plans were on hold, until the Governor tired of her.

  She’d seen firsthand what happens to those who displease the Governor. When he ordered someone to death or to a labor camp, he waved his hand, brushing it in front of his face as if he were brushing away a fly or a gnat. Perhaps someday he would dispose of her with just the brush of his hand.

  As she massaged his neck, she stared at the Lionheart poster with a touch of envy. Not just envy. If Gates hadn’t had his back to her, he would have seen something else in her eyes:
hope.

  25

  Up until the visit by Nox three days earlier, Joan had been learning to relax and live.

  She’d been with the Children for three weeks. A singular moment had occurred one morning. It was a simple act—uneventful really—but for Joan it was extraordinary, maybe because of its plainness. She had filled up large water pails at the river and walked up the hill to the tent. People usually carried and filled one bucket at a time, for they were large and heavy. Joan still felt the pressure of having to perform. That she had to overachieve to prove her worth—to prove she deserved to live. So she carried two. She struggled that morning, in the fog with the buckets. Suddenly, out of the mist, a hand appeared and grabbed one of the pails, lifting it out of her hand, taking the burden from her. She looked up and recognized the broad shoulders and muscular back of Arrow Comes Back as he continued on with the large pail. She hurried after him. At the tent he put down the bucket and walked off without saying a word. He never even glanced at her. She realized later—with gladness—that her first reaction when the unknown hand had grabbed the bucket was not one of fear.

  But then Nox came, and with him came her old fears. Her nightmares returned—the same dreams, but also a new one intruded upon her sleep. Her father was falling. She tried to reach him, running to him. He stretched his arms out to her, but she ran in slow motion. And she couldn’t get to him. Joan knew the others heard her when she cried out during the night. All seven of them slept together in the tent.

  The last night was exceptionally fitful, and Joan wept quietly. Old Owl, sleeping near her, slid over closer and cradled her head to his shoulder. She nestled her head deep into his neck and wept uncontrollably.

  The next day, Old Owl and Joan sat at the riverside, watching Quiet Snowfall play at the water’s edge. Red Lilly braided Old Owl’s hair. Quiet Snowfall ran up to them excitedly, holding something in a cup.

  “Look—a tadpole!” she exclaimed and held up the prize.

  “You’re splashing me. Step back,” Old Owl complained.

  She laughed at the old man, ran back to the river, filled the cup, and started throwing the water on Old Owl. Red Lilly stopped braiding his hair and joined in the fun.

  “Girls, stop! Now!” he grumbled. “Ah, I’ve had enough. I’m going back to the tent.”

  He struggled to stand up and wavered. Joan jumped up to steady him.

  “It’s hot in the sun. Let’s move to the shade,” she said and guided him to the nearby Talking Tree.

  They stopped there, and Old Owl rested, leaning his wrinkled arm against the large tree and catching his breath. Half of his gray hair was neatly braided, the other half hung loose and straggly.

  He pensively stared up at the branches and murmured, “Years ago, when I was young, lightning struck Talking Tree. It split it apart, like a great sword. We thought it was destroyed, never to recover. But it healed. See, look there.” He patted the tree and continued, “You can still see the scar. But as time passed, it healed. Some say it’s even stronger.”

  Joan rubbed her fingertips along its scar. She yanked away and shook her hand. For Joan, the blemish marred the great tree’s magnificence. It was evidence of the tree’s hurt and injury.

  As if he read her thoughts, Old Owl rubbed the scar. “Scars show the strength of those who carry them, Lionheart, not those who caused them.” He turned and faced her. “I wouldn’t want to have lived without any scars.”

  Joan thought of the citizens. Perfect. No scars. No disfigurements. They were pleasing to look at. She had wanted to be like them. She had worked towards that goal. A vision of Arrow Comes Back flashed inside her—his disfigurement, his strength.

  He started to walk away, and she held his arm, helping him.

  “Ah, I’m fine. I don’t need help,” he grumpily pulled his arm away. “Women.”

  Joan chuckled and watched Old Owl as he ambled away. He was a peculiar man, A special man. She’d never met anyone like him back at the Alliance. One morning Joan had been making up her bedding when Old Owl bumped her arm while he rummaged around his area of the tent, mumbling to himself. Digging under the blankets, he extracted a long, thin object, wrapped in cloth. He carefully unwrapped it. It was a rifle. Joan recognized it as a bolt-action—a .22-caliber. She practiced with one at the Center.

  “A .22 bolt-action,” she blurted out.

  Old Owl, Arrow Comes Back, and One Who Sees looked at her, surprised. For a second she regretted saying it, letting them know too much about her. She had to protect her clandestine reserve, fenced in place—she had to protect it and herself.

  “You know about guns?” Old Owl asked.

  They were watching her. She swallowed and nodded. Old Owl narrowed his eyes.

  Arrow Comes Back said admiringly, “Ah, don’t be so surprised. You should see her with a bow and arrow.”

  “Here,” Old Owl handed the weapon to Joan. She took it in her palm and ran her hand along it. The blue-black barrel was well oiled. The bolt-action shined bright silver. She rubbed her fingers together, feeling the oil.

  “Bear fat,” Old Owl explained.

  “It’s in beautiful condition,” Joan complimented, handing it back.

  “That gun is his second child,” One Who Sees joked.

  “Ah, it doesn’t talk back,” he replied.

  “Yes, my Noshi, but it doesn’t cook for you. Or love you back,” she said, kissing him, while the old curmudgeon feigned pushing her away.

  “That time of year again?” Arrow Comes Back said, knowing the answer.

  Old Owl nodded, a poignant look on his face. Years ago when he was just a young man, Old Owl killed the owner of the rifle. It was not the first time he had taken a human life. He had been brave in many battles, but Old Owl was a gentle soul. This had been in person and up close. For all the stories he told Joan, he never told Joan that one. Each summer, around the anniversary of the battle, Old Owl took out the gun and fired it, only once. Once each year to remind himself.

  He poked the blankets and extracted a bag. Emptying it, many .22-caliber bullets scattered. He took one cartridge and replaced the others into the bag. In resignation, he stood up with the rifle and the bullet and left the tent. They all watched him go.

  One Who Sees said to Joan, “He’ll be back soon. It’s his way.”

  Violet paused for a moment, not moving. Her heart pounded in her chest. She struggled to keep her breath in check. Glancing around and hearing no one, she continued. She sneaked along the hallway, staying in the shadows of each consecutive doorway, as she passed. The underground passageways in the Governor’s palace were confusing, even though she had a map. She had given the same map to Jeff, her fiancé.

  She stopped at a doorway and studied the map again. This was it—their arranged meeting place. She took a nervous breath. She and Jeff were going to evade. She had heard the Governor talking about the Lionheart girl the other day—about the fact the girl had made it to the Outside. Violet hadn’t thought it possible. After that news, Violet and Jeff hastily planned their own escape. Perhaps too hastily, Jeff had warned her. He had wanted to wait and plan their evasion a bit longer. But she couldn’t wait—she didn’t want to stay with the Governor any longer. She wanted to be with Jeff. She persuaded him to evade now.

  She wiped her sweaty palms. Taking one last glance down the hall, she tentatively turned the doorknob and entered. The darkness enveloped her, and she waited until her eyes adjusted.

  “Jeff?” she whispered. “It’s me.”

  She fumbled around, touching the walls and trying to find a light switch. The lights switched on. Violet raised her hands to shield her eyes from the bright lights. What she heard paralyzed her—she froze.

  “Violet.”

  It was the Governor.

  “Yes, your boyfriend is here. We are all here,” Gates continued in a calm voice.

  Violet blinked and looked around. Gates sat coolly in a chair. Jeff stood nearby, bent over at the waist, propped up by each arm by t
wo guards. He held his hands to his stomach, as if in pain. Blood dripped from a wound on his face and pooled on the ground beneath him.

  She started toward him. “Jeff.”

  More guards appeared, and two grabbed her by the arms, stopping her and holding her firmly.

  Gates slowly stood.

  “I’m disappointed in you, Violet.”

  “Irene!” Jeff interjected.

  Gates glanced at him with a questioning look.

  “Her name’s Irene, not Violet,” Jeff spit out angrily at the Governor.

  A guard slapped his face, sending blood flying in an arc across the room.

  “No, please, don’t hurt him,” Violet begged, struggling against the guards restraining her.

  Gates turned back to her.

  “As I said, I’m disappointed.” He walked close to her and tenderly brushed some hair from her face. With a hint of bewilderment in his voice he told her, “I took you out of the ghetto, away from waiting tables for athletes and cleaning up other people’s messes…to work here in the Palace. In comfort. I would’ve—”

  “Sir,” she interrupted him, “please. Let me explain—”

  A sharp look from him and his raised hand caused her to be silent.

  “I’m disappointed.” He stared at her. “But, I forgive you. I don’t think it was your fault. He told us everything.” Gates motioned to the bloody Jeff, who moaned. “How he thought if that Lionheart girl could make it in the Outside, then the two of you could, too. He told us how he convinced you to evade—that you really didn’t want to. I don’t blame you, Violet.”

  To the guards holding her, the Governor ordered, “Take her up to my room.”

  As they dragged her out, Violet struggled and pleaded, “Please don’t hurt him, sir.”

  Gates approached Jeff, studied him for a moment and shook his head.

  “That was stupid, boy.”

  With great effort, Jeff raised his bruised head to face him.

  Gates continued, “I wouldn’t have kept her much longer in my…” he paused and raised his eyebrow, “employ. She would have been back living in the ghetto soon. But now, she won’t have anyone to go back to. You won’t be there.”