Donor 23

by Beatty, Cate

  Not much later, they pulled into a small clearing. Joan took care of her horse, removing the saddle and briefly brushing him down, before she ambled off into the trees. After a short distance, she sat down. A noise startled her. On a branch, not far above her, a white owl sat. Its large, round eyes stared at her. The white feathers around the eyes were tinged with reddish-brown, down-like feathers. A smile came to Joan’s face, as she thought of Old Owl in his pink glasses. Taking a deep breath, she leaned her head against a tree. She thought of her parents, of Kaleb. She didn’t cry. She felt strengthened as she rested there.

  Suddenly the owl took flight. Joan gazed at the magnificent creature while it flew off without making a sound—a silent flight, the dappled sunlight reflecting off its white wings.

  As she made her way back to the others, she perceived muffled shouts coming from their direction. She slowed her pace. As she got closer, the sounds of many harsh and commanding voices reached her. She stopped and hid behind a tree, trying to spy into the small camp. The trees were too thick. She couldn’t get a clear glimpse. She advanced until she could get a better view.

  Her two friends huddled in the center of the camp, their hands held in the air. Around them, holding rifles, stood men in uniforms: Alliance army uniforms. Joan gasped. Except for the knife at her belt, she was unarmed. Her bow and quiver rested near her saddle. Reck had kept the rifle with him when he and Arrow Comes Back had split off. Bash’s two six-shooters lay near his saddle, not too far way from her—but too far.

  She fingered her knife, still in its sheath on her belt. The rough leather handle rubbed against her fingertips. She tightened her grasp. Her throwing arm was good.

  She began sliding the knife out, just as a voice behind her warned, “Don’t do that, lady. Hands up, slowly. Don’t move.”

  Leaves crunched on the ground, as a man came up behind her and reached for her knife. She swiftly jerked out the knife, swung around, and slashed at him. He was fast, though. He wrenched his head back, and the knife sliced across his chin. Blood flew through the air—bright red blurs across her face.

  She didn’t see the second man to her left. He lunged at her, swinging his rifle. The butt end smacked Joan hard on her shoulder, knocking her off-balance. Then he grabbed her hand with the knife and slammed it against the tree. But Joan held on fast to the knife. The first soldier grabbed her around the neck with a stranglehold and flung her over on the ground. She fought to breath.

  She lay face down and struggled briefly to get up, until the second soldier sat on her back, holding her firm and pressing her face into the ground. Dirt caked her face, and she spit soil out of her mouth—all the while still struggling, fighting. Twice he smashed his fist into her back. She winced from the pain and stopped struggling. The first one, bleeding from his chin, stomped brutally on her right hand, causing her to let go of the knife. Then she felt the barrel of his rifle press roughly against her cheek—cold steel. It dug through her cheek and into her jaw.

  “I said don’t move.”

  Seeing she was incapacitated, he shouted to his compatriots, “We found the rider of the last horse. Coming down in a sec.”

  The soldier sitting on Joan’s back grabbed her left hand and pulled it around to her waist. Then they twisted her right hand around as well. He eyed her tattoo.

  “Hey, she’s a donor,” he exclaimed, as he tied her hands behind her back.

  Joan and the others clustered together, hands tied behind their backs and guarded by the uniformed men. Bash sat on the ground, bleeding from a gash on his head. Blood oozed from a cut on Isabel’s lip.

  The soldiers wore Alliance uniforms but had bright red armbands on their left arms. Bash tried to whisper something to Joan, but they were silenced by one of the guards, “Shut up. No talking.”

  A soldier rode in and informed them, “He’s ready for ’em.”

  The soldiers forced the three to walk, keeping them crowded together. After marching about a couple hundred yards, they came into a large clearing that was dotted with many tents. In the center was a spacious tent with a large table and chairs set out in front. One man sat at the table. Officers stood around him. A silver coffee pot was on the table, with china cups around it.

  The soldiers shoved the group to the front, near the table. The seated man didn’t look up, his attention on papers he held.

  After a minute or two of huddling there, Bash said, “What is this? What’s—”

  An officer standing near the table motioned with this arm, and a soldier stepped forward and placed the barrel of a gun right up to Bash’s face.

  The seated man still didn’t move, didn’t even look at them. Then he set down the papers, which had held his attention, lit a cigarette, and slowly turned to Joan and the others. He pushed his chair back and crossed his legs. Even sitting down, he had a powerful and imposing presence. His black skin reminded Joan of Kaleb. His anxious and studious eyes gleamed dark brown, and had a venerable air. He had black curly hair, cut short and turning gray.

  While many of the soldiers’ uniforms appeared rag-tag and dirty, his was impeccable, with shiny buttons. The clothing perfectly tailored. Shimmering gold stripes ringed the red armband around his upper arm. His boots seemed out-of-place with his uniform. They were not rugged, black army boots but brown snakeskin boots.

  He inhaled deeply from his cigarette and regarded them, his eyes moving from one to the other. His gaze stopped and remained on Joan. He pointed at her.

  One of the soldiers approached and grabbed her, pushing her a few steps ahead. Bash intervened, and another soldier rushed in and slammed a rifle butt into Bash’s stomach. He doubled over in pain. Isabel tried to help Bash, as much as she could with her hands bound behind her. The first soldier kept hold of Joan’s arm and continued pulling her toward the table.

  One of the officers handed the seated man a piece of paper. He held it up and shifted his gaze from the paper to Joan, back and forth.

  The seated man finally spoke, “You’re 23?”

  She took a breath, “My name is Joan Lion.”

  He seemed confused then said, “Oh, your family name. Of course. We intercept Alliance radio traffic, so I’m used to your number. You’re just the one we were coming to find.”

  He tossed the paper onto the table. It was the Lionheart poster, showing Joan running to jump the gorge, the red, heart-shaped bloodstain on her shirt. This was the first time she’d seen it, and she cocked her head for a better view.

  “They call you ‘the Lionheart,’ too.”

  The seated man had a brisk way of talking—arrogant and haughty, as if everything he said was important and should be considered important by all who heard him.

  When she didn’t speak, the officer standing near the table said, “This is General Lucas.”

  Lucas nodded to the officer—a colonel—who then ordered some soldiers, “Untie them all.”

  Eyeing Joan, Lucas calmly commanded a man standing behind him, “Bring more chairs, 12.”

  A man, not wearing a uniform, hurriedly brought Joan a chair. He was slender and older, maybe in his sixties. His skin appeared worn and weathered but not just from age or the elements. Rather it reflected his heart, his experiences. He had a tattoo.

  Bash angrily said, “Hell of a way to treat us. Thought you were Jack’s friend.”

  General Lucas seemed surprised, and the colonel cautioned Bash, “Watch it. Your tone—”

  Lucas continued nonchalantly, “Accept my apologies. The Alliance Army is in the area. There’re a lot of ruffians around, too. Bad sorts. I wasn’t sure who you were.” A deep breath. “So, you’re the Lionheart? I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “Joan Lion,” she corrected again.

  Joan decided she didn’t like the man. For a moment he transported her back to the Alliance—to the ghetto. He waved his hand at her as he spoke, and he had no donor tattoo.

  Indeed, Lucas was not a donor. He heralded from a wealthy and powerful citizen family. His gre
at-grandfather had been a confidant of the First Governor and was an influential Senator in charge of Alliance revenues and taxes. Since the System was a tax, that gave Lucas’s great-grandfather control over donors. He was dominant in implementing the System in the first place. His father and grandfather, likewise, were central in the System’s growth to what it now was.

  Lucas’s grandfather was the one who wrote the famous—some say infamous—memo. The so-called “Donor Memo.” The Donor Memo sanctioned a vast enlargement of the System, taking away most of the donors’ rights. It explained and justified, in cold scientific and legal terms, why the Alliance had the authority to broaden and extend the System. The Donor Memo validated the disgorgement of donor rights.

  The same power that Lucas’s father wielded would have passed to Lucas one day. But as often occurs in totalitarian regimes, powerful people become targets. Rivals accused Lucas’s father of treason. Whether or not there was evidence didn’t matter. Whether or not it was true didn’t matter. There was no trial. The Alliance labeled him and his family as enemies of the Governor. The Governor ordered the entire family executed. Some managed to escape, including Lucas. That was almost twenty years ago.

  Lucas’s desire to rebel against the Alliance was not motivated by the donors and any desire to free them. As a product of his environment and his upbringing, he considered donors inferior. Though he’d never articulate that nor ever admit to it, it seeped through in his manners and in his actions. Lucas, for his part, would have adamantly denied any prejudice.

  As they sat, Lucas went on, “It’s good to see you’re alive. The Alliance is spreading propaganda that you’re dead. Killed by barbarians. You know who I am, I presume?”

  He asked it in a way presupposing she did. It reminded her of the Governor.

  “I heard there’s a Resistance. You’re the leader?” Joan spoke in a strong voice, although she was dismayed to hear it crack. She coughed, as if to clear her throat of an obstruction.

  Lucas’s eyes narrowed, studying her. “That’s right. This’s my adjutant, Colonel Spiller. My officers.” He waved his hands. “And my soldiers. We have a large group of ex-citizens—”

  “I never heard of any Resistance back in the Alliance. What exactly do you do?” she challenged, trying to exhibit courage as she rubbed her wrists.

  He chuckled and looked knowingly at his associates. “We’ve done a lot. We do a lot. We sow discontent among the citizens. Sabotage things.”

  “Never heard of any of it,” Joan said.

  Patronizingly he said to her, “They make it out that it’s barbarians attacking. You’re aware of barbarian attacks, aren’t you? I know most donors don’t pay attention to the news, but it’s us—the Resistance not barbarians.”

  Joan cringed inwardly.

  “Of course I know about the barbarian attacks. I just wasn’t aware of the Resistance.”

  “Yes, we’re hoping to free our people.” He caught himself and added, “By saying ‘our people,’ I mean everyone. Donors and citizens.”

  “What do citizens need to be free of?” she argued, with irritation.

  He looked at her with a surprised looked on his face. “We’d all like to be free to voice an opinion without fear of arrest. Free to think what we want. Write what we want. Read what we want. Love whom we want. We can’t. No one in the Alliance can. Donors or citizens.”

  She had difficulty thinking of citizens as not being free. “Citizens always seemed happy to me,” Joan countered.

  “The government always told us we were happy. They never asked us if we were,” Lucas explained.

  “Well, at least they cared enough to tell you that you were happy. They never bothered with us,” Joan said sarcastically. “So, what do you want with me?”

  Colonel Spiller warned her, “Watch your tone, 23. You should be honored. The General doesn’t normally—”

  Lucas held up his hand to silence the man. The general was an intelligent person with keen observations. One of the greatest attributes of any warrior is patience, and Lucas had plenty of patience. As a leader, he knew how to use people, and he definitely wanted to use her. But her hesitation and anger were evident. She wasn’t a compliant donor anymore. Pushing her—pressuring her—wouldn’t work. At least not now.

  Lucas said matter-of-factly, “We just wanted to offer you our help. Jack radioed me to look out for you. We’re on our way to Pax City and then on to Seaton. We can all go together, Lionheart.”

  Instead of calling her Joan, as she requested, he used the nickname. He did it for a specific reason. It gave him power over her to call her what he wanted. If you name something, then you own it, his grandfather had taught him.

  37

  Back at the camp of the Children, Joan expressed no interest in talking to Lucas. She kept quiet about what transpired at the canyon. One Who Sees and Old Owl knew what happened. None of them asked her about it or even tried to talk. From personal experience they understood silence is sometimes best for a while. One Who Sees noticed Joan spent time in the forest, surrounded by the trees.

  Duncan heard the story from Bash. He had been aware of what happened with Joan’s mother, but now everyone else would know. He couldn’t imagine what she was going through. He approached Joan one afternoon, as she cleaned clothes at the river, and sat next to her so he could wash his socks. Like the day after her mother’s execution, he said nothing and just offered quiet support with his presence. He let his arm brush against hers. She didn’t pull away.

  When she had finished, she gathered the clothing but dropped a piece. Duncan picked it up promptly and handed it up to her.

  “Thanks.”

  Duncan nodded.

  As she walked away from the river, he called quietly to her, “I’m sorry about what happened.”

  Joan walked on. She wasn’t paying attention as she trudged back to her tent with her arms full of clothes. She didn’t notice when four uniformed men surrounded her, blocking her path. One of them was Colonel Spiller.

  “The General wants to see you, Lionheart.” He said it as an order.

  Joan realized she’d have to confront Lucas eventually. She couldn’t put it off forever. But at this moment she experienced a minor bit of intimidation—a little of the old fear crept in her, as it did back in the Alliance when a citizen gave her an order. It wasn’t much, but it was there. And she was weary. She nodded feebly at them, and they all walked off together.

  Lucas sat at his table, laughing with his aides. Reck hovered nearby. Bash had seen Joan walking in the company of the soldiers and had run up to join her. Bash squeezed her arm, and the simple gesture gave her strength. Joan and Bash stood, as Lucas kept her waiting.

  He eventually turned his attention to her. Regarding her arms full of clothes, he ordered the donor, 12, whom Joan discovered was Lucas’s personal servant to take them. “Go help her with those, will you, 12?”

  He took the clothes out of her arms, placing them on a nearby chair.

  “I was hoping we could talk, Lionheart,” Lucas smiled benevolently.

  She didn’t reply.

  He became more business-like. “We’ve a place for you in the donor contingent. Your friend here…,” Lucas paused and snapped his fingers.

  Colonel Spiller interjected, “Reck Tyndall, sir.”

  “Tyndall, yes,” Lucas continued, “joined up. He’s told us a lot about you. You have experience fighting the Alliance army. I heard you had a run in with them in a canyon.”

  She glanced at Reck. How much had Reck told him? Joan surmised Reck hadn’t divulged all of what transpired in the canyon. At least not about her mother—about the fact she’d been an informant. Is he embarrassed?

  “It’s nice to find someone with experience. A donor, I mean—like you and this young man, Tyndall. I’d like to put you two in some sort of leadership role in the contingent. We can use your help. You’ve caused quite a stir in the ghettos. We’re looking for something to start the fire, so to speak. The two of you
, together, could be just thing to get the donors up in arms.”

  “What can we do?” Joan dared him, as she crossed her arms.

  “Instead of just sabotage, we’re planning to attack the Alliance—a full-out assault. We’ll wait for fall and winter to pass, and then hit them next spring. We’ve many people on the inside. As Tyndall knows, there’s also a movement among the donors. He has connections in the donor underground. With you and him, it could grow.”

  “I’m not a soldier. I don’t see how I could help by going back to the Alliance,” Joan said.

  “I’m aware. But for every donor who comes out of the ‘barbaric wasteland’ ready to fight for freedom, there will be ten in the ghettos who’ll join him. And for you, the great Lionheart, even more would join.”

  Joan rolled her eyes.

  A supportive—almost kind—look appeared on his face and his voice exhibited understanding, “One person can make a difference in the lives of others, Lionheart. One person.” He reverted back to an efficient manner. “We’d like for you to come back to Seaton with us. There’re thousands of us, both citizens and donors. See what we’re about.”

  Over the next couple weeks, she spent her time around the tent, with the family. Joan didn’t know what to do. She didn’t give Lucas an answer—avoided him and kept him waiting. This was where she wanted to be. She was happy here. Content. Safe. But the Children planned to move south soon. Autumn was here, and it was time to start the trek to their winter camp. One Who Sees wanted Joan to stay with them.

  She sought Bash’s advice, pouring out her heart to him again and explaining she didn’t want to be part of any rebellion. She wanted to stay with the Children, to forget about the Alliance. All she wanted to do was live, but she couldn’t get the thought of her fellow donors out of her mind. It always came back to what happened to her and what was happening to them right now.