Donor 23

by Beatty, Cate

  Irritation raged through Joan, because she didn’t understand why either. She responded testily, “Duncan’s not Rochester, and I’m not Jane Eyre.”

  Bash shook his head.

  Joan continued, “And Reck isn’t St. John Rivers. Nothing’s wrong with Reck. You have to understand. He was a donor. As donors we had to live with certain…,” she struggled to find the right word, “hazards, risks. Everyday. We never knew if…”

  Bash interrupted, “You said he never had to donate. That he didn’t have a, what do you call it, a benefactor?”

  “That doesn’t matter…” She grew angry. “It’s not fair to compare him to Duncan. Duncan was a citizen. He had a different life.”

  Bash grabbed her by the shoulders. “None of that matters because I’m not comparing him to anyone. Forget about the two of them. I’m talking about you. You. About what’s right for you.”

  She broke free from his grip. “We have to play the cards dealt to us, as you say.”

  “But Joan, you dealt these cards.”

  Joan shuddered. She pulled away, hid her emotions, and said her good-byes calmly to the two—but stalked off angrily. What was that supposed to mean? She didn’t think of herself as a martyr. Did she? Was she? She shook her head. She had always done what others wanted. Been what others wanted her to be. First, it was the System. She had been a good, compliant donor. In being with Reck, was she just doing what Reck wanted? What Kaleb would have wanted? What everyone always expected?

  She kicked the dirt. What was she doing? Bash had told her that by freeing herself, she could free others. He meant she had to be true to herself. In his parable, Old Owl also told her she had to find the earth—the person, who would nourish her, and then she would likewise offer strength to that person. But she had to find the one. She would know. Someone, who, like with One Who Sees, would lift a shadow from her and shine a light on his own face and on hers.

  She spied Reck wiping his gun. He glanced up, smiled, and waved. Reck. A good man. She had desperately tried to convince herself she loved him. All these years, she had made him something he wasn’t—made herself something she wasn’t. And she never saw what she really was. The System had branded her wrist, making her into a donor. And she had gone along with it, not thinking whether it was right or not. She never really knew Reck, not really. And he didn’t know her. He never would. A life with him would be a lie. And it suddenly flashed through her brain, that if Reck really understood her—really knew her—he would never have loved her.

  She toyed with the book in her hands and flipped through a few pages. If she was going to be true to herself, she had to be true to her passions and her emotions. They did not reside with Reck. Reck was not the earth that would nourish her, and she could never strengthen him—not with lies. Reck would never know her, but he would—unintentionally—extinguish her passions and her identity.

  Who was she? The Lionheart? That’s what Reck wanted. No. She was Joan Lion. She would be the Lionheart for the Resistance—for all her fellow donors. But not for Reck. Oh, they would fight side by side—defeat the Alliance or die trying. But she didn’t love him.

  Shaking her head, she knew she had to talk to Reck—finally explain her true feelings for him. They could never be more than friends.

  “I’m just about finished packing up.” Duncan appeared, surprising her out of her thoughts. “Here, why don’t you take this?” he offered her his wrist phone.

  She looked at him questioningly.

  He continued, “It has photos of your parents on it.”

  “My parents?”

  “Yeah, I downloaded them from your wrist phone, the one you left outside the sewer when you evaded. Since you don’t have that photograph of your parents anymore and when I get to the cities, I’ll be able to contact my parents…I thought you should have this.”

  “Thanks,” Joan said, moved by the gesture. “Duncan… what happened between us…”

  Just then Reck walked over. He stood next to Duncan. Reck towered a full four inches over Duncan.

  Duncan said, “It’s OK. I wish you the best. Both of you.”

  He still hasn’t said my name, Joan thought. She wanted to hear him say it.

  43

  “They’re good people,” Reck uttered, as Duncan walked off. He referred to the departing trio of Duncan, Bash, and Isabel.

  “Huh? Oh, right. Yeah. I’ll miss them,” Joan agreed, although she wasn’t sure Reck would miss them.

  Gathering her thoughts and taking a deep breath, she said, “Reck, let’s go over there. Where we can talk.” How would she tell him?

  “Sure thing, Lionheart,” he smiled. He had taken to calling her that. She didn’t like it.

  A strong voice interrupted them, calling, “Tyndall! Reck Tyndall!”

  It was Colonel Spiller.

  Reck twisted his head. “Here Colonel.” Turning back to Joan, “Colonel needs me. Be right back.”

  Sighing, Joan walked to a shady spot under a tree and waited for Reck—for the conversation she dreaded. She watched Bash, Isabel, and Duncan ride south, with a packhorse trailing behind them. Reck was taking longer with Spiller than she had anticipated. To pass the time, she decided to look at Duncan’s phone.

  Finding a file named “Joan’s phone,” she clicked on it. Inside resided her photos. She sighed to herself and smiled, as she gazed upon her parents. Clicking through the pictures, she stopped when she noticed the ones of Duncan. He obviously saw these. What did he think, knowing she sneaked pictures of him? She chuckled. At that point she was past embarrassment.

  She returned to looking at the photos of her parents. One was of their wedding day. Joan had snapped it from a still on the mantle in their house. She focused on the love in their eyes—his arms wrapped around her, her hand rested on his face.

  While reminiscing about them, her eyes fell on the “message” function of the phone. Duncan’s script messages. She clicked on it. Nothing since he’d been on the road and out of range. In fact, most of the last messages were from the day of her escape. That was the last day she used her phone, too, receiving those two warning scripts from Jack.

  Joan was about to switch back to the photo file, when a realization came upon her. She scrolled through Duncan’s sent scripts that day. There they were: the two messages she received. The two messages warning her to get out. Duncan sent them, not Jack. Duncan helped her in more ways than she knew, not only missing her with the tranquilizer dart but also alerting her to the impending arrest.

  Then came a second realization, more startling than the previous. More critical. The other day Duncan said he had sent two messages to the girl he loved. Loved. She hadn’t understood. She thought he referred to Tegan Gates. Maybe she didn’t want to understand. Those were the two messages. He loved me. Duncan loved her—Joan, a donor. He risked giving up his privileged life, risked imprisonment and possibly worse, to help her, because he loved her. She shook her head. He didn’t just risk it; he did give that up.

  Duncan had been right. She had been hiding from herself all along. She believed her lies were only to others, but they were really to herself. Those are the worst kind of lies. She had many lies to confront. First to Reck—she had to tell Reck the truth.

  Then…Duncan. Every friendship, every love travels a long road, and none was more difficult than the road the two of them had traveled. They’d each built barriers around themselves. Does he still love me? Could he still love me? she wondered. There was only one way to find out. She had to know. She had to confront Duncan. No matter what happened with Duncan, no matter his current feelings for her, she could move on and fight the Alliance.

  Reck stared at her. He couldn’t believe what she had told him.

  “You’re leaving? Going to him?” he spit out incredulously.

  “I don’t expect you to understand. I’m sorry. But I have to talk to him, openly and with honesty.”

  “What about me? You don’t care about me? Did you ever?”


  “Oh, Reck, yes—”

  “I’m a fool. Is that it?” He raised his voice, “I’m a fool?!”

  Some of the others turned to look at them.

  “No, Reck, it wasn’t that way. No. There were days with you when I thought it would be all OK. It was love, or it was going to be. Everything seemed to fit, at times, you and me.”

  He shook his head.

  “I’m sorry. But you deserve to be with someone who loves you truly. I…just don’t feel it that way. The way it should be, that is, or what I think it should be. I can’t be true to myself and be the person you think I am—the person you want me to be.”

  “What do you mean? You are the person I want.”

  “I’m not.” She paused. No more lies. It was time for truth. “I didn’t kill Nox.”

  “What?” The revelation startled him.

  “I let him go.”

  His frustration and hurt emerged as anger. “How could you do that? How could you let him go? He killed your parents. He brought Kaleb out here and killed him. Oh, wait, Nox was your partner, wasn’t he? You worked with him, informing, didn’t you?” The words stung her—sliced her. “What is it with you? You inform on your own mother, but you won’t kill Nox? Why didn’t you let me do it?”

  “I can explain—”

  “No! There’s no explanation. You should’ve done it. Or you should have at least let me.”

  Colonel Spiller and a few soldiers approached them.

  “What’s going on?” Spiller asked.

  “She’s leaving,” Reck blurted.

  “Leaving?” the Colonel questioned, surprised.

  Joan spoke with determination, “Yes, right now—”

  Spiller shook his head, indicating no, and motioned to the soldiers. They rapidly stepped around her, surrounding her. One of them was the soldier whom Joan had cut with her knife. The scar glistened across his chin, as he pulled his handgun out of its holster. Instinctively, her hand flew to the knife at her belt.

  “Don’t move,” the scarred soldier said, relishing this opportunity for revenge. This time, she didn’t move. He reached over and took the knife from the sheath on her belt.

  Reck reacted with anger. “What are you doing? Leave her alone. Don’t you threaten her.”

  He moved toward the soldier and grabbed his arm, forcing the two of them to the ground. Another soldier drew his gun.

  “Reck, don’t!” Joan pleaded.

  The Colonel stepped in and broke up the minor fight. Joan made a move to get her knife back, and Spiller grabbed her arm, shoving her slightly.

  “You can’t keep me here,” Joan complained, in disbelief.

  Spiller said, with an incredulous laugh, “Of course we can. You can’t just leave. What do you think? You signed up.”

  “Actually I didn’t.”

  “Technicalities.”

  Spiller took Joan’s knife from the soldier’s hand, as the others tightened the circle around her.

  Spiller ordered, “I think the General would—”

  “Want to see me. Fine. I want to see him,” Joan countered.

  44

  Lucas sat in the shade under a tree, while his men packed up the campsite. He read a book and sipped from a china teacup he perched on an end table. As usual he was immaculately dressed, wearing a tan uniform, which contrasted brilliantly with his dark skin. Conrad walked away from him, carrying a silver coffee pot and an empty plate. It was an incongruous sight, there in the desert.

  Still surrounded by soldiers, Joan and Spiller approached him. Spiller held his arm against Joan, making sure she stopped a few feet away. Then he walked up to Lucas, bent over, and whispered in his ear. Lucas’s eyes darted to Joan. He closed his book slowly and waved Joan to him.

  Joan did not move. Look at him, she thought, sitting there like that. How arrogant! Lucas was a citizen. Her anger at him, at the Alliance, and at the System welled inside her. Then she recalled what Duncan had said. She was no better than the citizens because she held her own preconceived notions about others.

  She took a deep breath and said in a robust voice, “I need to see Duncan Starr. But I’ll be back. I intend to fight with the Resistance. I will. I promise, sir.” Her voice began to crack, and she stopped speaking to swallow. She didn’t want to falter. She wanted to be strong.

  Lucas took Joan’s knife from Spiller and examined it, pondering what she said. He wanted the Lionheart in his Resistance. Yet he could understand people. Joan was a fighter, but he couldn’t force her to fight. As a natural leader, he wanted her to want to follow him. He stood up.

  “Lionheart,” he said, sympathetically but firmly, “walk with me.”

  The two of them strolled along a creek, neither speaking for a couple minutes. Spiller and the soldiers followed them at a close distance.

  Lucas calmly counseled her, “Look around you. Most of the soldiers here left the Alliance for a better life. They chose to leave it.

  “You and I, we have something in common. We were forced to leave our homes. We had to escape. Make our way alone. Leave people we loved. My parents were killed, like yours. Life isn’t just full of challenges. Life is a challenge.”

  He was remembering, recalling twenty years earlier, when he fled from the Alliance. He was thirty years old at the time. Many of his family members had been killed. His wife was killed.

  Joan cleared her throat, “General…”

  She wasn’t sure what to say. Back in the Alliance she never had to reason with anyone. She never had to analyze or rationalize. The System didn’t allow it; it offered no ambiguities. The System was clear-cut. Life had to be different out here, she thought. Lucas had to be different.

  “I’ll come back. I have to do this, sir. If I don’t…then I don’t think I’d be any good for you or the Resistance. I can’t explain it.”

  Lucas pursed his lips, as he fingered her knife. He learned more about her each time they talked.

  “Try,” he said kindly, but it was an order.

  They continued the conversation for a while longer. Finally, he put his hand on her shoulder, in a comforting manner, and handed her the knife. Joan glanced behind them—at Spiller and the soldiers. Then she briskly walked away.

  Lucas watched her go. He was glad he had the foresight to take those photos of her. He hoped his people in Seaton had made them into posters and transmitted them to their contacts in the Alliance, as he instructed. He would get her to do what he wanted eventually. He was certain of that. Even so, part of him hoped she found what she searched for. And he knew, in order to do that, she would have to return to him.

  Nox staggered along the forest. Every few feet he stumbled. His chest pained him. His legs buckled under him. He couldn’t reconcile the image he now had of Joan with the one he had throughout the last year—the donor, the informant, the evader, and someone guilty of assaulting a TEO officer. Could she be a good person? Could any donor be a good person? Equal to a citizen? If so, the laws he lived by all his life—the System—were wrong. No, it was not possible. The law declared Joan a donor, so she must have the immoral qualities that go along with that status. But her actions in letting him free contradicted the law. Her actions contradicted what he knew of donors. His father, for one. Memories of his father swinging his belt—the pain when it reached its target—flooded into his mind. Nox squeezed his eyes against the recollection.

  A pounding sound invaded his thoughts and eardrums. He lurched into a clearing and fell to the ground at the crest of a waterfall. The river raced by him to the ridge of the falls, cascading over the sheer drop of eighty feet.

  Water. His fear. Water brings death. She gave him water—the donor did. Number 23. Joan Lion. But she gave it to help him—to bring him life.

  He stared at the cataract, at the torrent of water. In any person’s life, there may be another who enters it and destroys it. He was one of those people, a destoyer—a thief of sorts. He thought of the kidnappings. He took those five people from the Outside, never
knowing what happened to them afterward. He’d heard stories of a special underground prison—of constant interrogations, threats, and years of confinement. Before he stole them, they had lives and families. He never felt comfortable with the kidnappings. He couldn’t rationalize them with his fervent belief in the rules. So he had requested transfer to the TEO.

  The TEO and its reliance on the System fulfilled him. There were no questions, no gray areas. The System spelled out everything with clarity. The System was perfection.

  But what did it all mean? What’s left for a man who’s lost the basis of his devotion?

  Tentatively he stepped into the river near the edge of the falls. He waded until the water reached his knees. The surge grabbed his legs. The cold seeped into his bones, but strangely enough he felt calm. He steadied himself in the flow. In a moment the current would grasp him, drag him over the edge. Free him.

  Suddenly, over the din of the raging water, a voice called out, “Nox!”

  Nox looked around with uncertainty. Did the voice come from the heavens?

  “Captain! Over here!” Henworth yelled from the other side of the river, waving his arms. Two soldiers stood by his side.

  “Don’t cross there, Nox. Come upstream a ways, and we’ll string a rope across,” he shouted.

  Nox stared at him, not comprehending. He looked back at the water—at the torrent. Henworth called to him, but the water called to him as well.

  The Governor’s aide, Biggs, held the poster for the Governor to view. Gates wiped his mouth with a napkin, as Violet took a plate away from his desk.

  “This was hanging in ghetto 4 this morning. All over the place. We had a few disturbances,” Biggs informed him. “I just heard they also found some in two of the other ghettos.”

  Staring at the poster, Gates held out the napkin but said nothing. When Violet didn’t immediately take it from him, he dropped it on the floor.

  Violet returned to pick it up, saying “I’m sorry, sir.”

  He ignored her. “Let me see that, Biggs,” anger seeped into his voice.