Donor 23 (2 page)

Joan followed Tegan’s career. She figured out the blood transfusions boosted Tegan’s energy before a competition. Shortly after one shoulder tax two years ago, Tegan won first place. She set a record for the javelin—a record still standing. Tegan’s best sporting event was the ultimate track and field event: the decapentathlon. It included not only every event of the decathlon, but much more, including archery, target shooting, and rock climbing.

“She’s a great athlete. I’m sure she’ll make a great governor one day,” the physical therapist said with admiration.

Tegan and Duncan waved to the crowd. Joan gazed, thoughtfully watching as Tegan draped her arm over Duncan’s shoulder. Then the two of them, the Governor, and their entourage made their way into the building and out of Joan’s view. The therapist turned away. Joan kept looking out the window.

The therapist punched some information into his wrist phone, “I’m OKing you to return to full work outs.”

Joan cringed. Her leg was definitely not ready for her full, regular workout regimen, but she wouldn’t contradict him.

“You can head down to your trainer,” the therapist said and began picking up towels, straightening up the area. Joan
continued standing at the window, staring at the last spot where she had seen Duncan.

The therapist turned toward her and clapped his hands, “Don’t delay 23—get going. I just scripted him you were on your way.”

Joan squinted as she walked out into the bright sun. She loved this place—the Fitness Center, the premier exercise facility in the Alliance. The Alliance worshipped physical prowess; ironically, however, most citizens never exercised.

She came here six days a week to work out. She didn’t have a choice in the matter, but Joan enjoyed it. It could be worse, much worse. Here young, healthy people surrounded her—running, jumping, throwing, stretching, and all trying to be the best they could be physically. A few of them were donors like her. Most were professional athletes—citizens—who exercised here.

Duncan Starr came to the Fitness Center often. He would exercise a little, but mostly he visited and gave advice to the other athletes. He and Joan had struck up an acquaintance at the Center. The first time they met he initiated a conversation, advising her on her long jump. She was certain he didn’t realize she was a donor; a brace hid Joan’s wrist tattoo, which identified her donor status. From then on, Joan made sure she was either wearing the wrist brace or her wrist phone.

Duncan stood about five feet nine, his height a disadvantage for sports in a world where the average height among the top athletes was well over six feet. He kept his wavy blonde hair rather short but not short enough to hide the curls. His workouts kept his muscular frame perfectly proportioned. At first glance no one would describe him as handsome. His nose protruded from his face—not large, just out too far. In a nation that venerated physical perfection, it set him off as different. He could have corrected the nose with surgery. Other citizens
did. Surgery to correct imperfections was ordinary. This made him, in Joan’s eyes, extraordinary.

Duncan and Joan met many times after that first meeting. Sometimes they ran the track together. Sometimes they grabbed a bite to eat in the cafeteria. Sometimes they stretched together, talking to pass the time. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for Duncan to be at the Center.

Joan saw her trainer in the center of the grass. She paused before crossing the running track, while runners passed by. As she approached, she realized her co-donors were also present. Co-donors shared the same benefactor. Most citizens injected more than one donor with their umbilical cord blood to be safe. Redundancy. The more wealthy the citizen, the more donors they had.

To her knowledge Joan had four co-donors. Three of them lay on the grass, stretching. The fourth hadn’t performed well in the last couple of years and had been cut loose by their mutual benefactor, Tegan. After Tegan let her go, the girl and her family—now without the wealthy benefactor—had to move out of their apartment. They had lived near Joan, but after Tegan cut her, Joan never saw her again. She was just gone.

That was a perpetual fear of the donors: being cut by one’s benefactor, the result being the donor became a solus. A solus was of no use to any citizen, so they were also considered of limited use to the Alliance. Sometimes they disappeared. There were rumors of what the Alliance did with them, but no one was sure.

Then her thoughts returned to the present and to her own problem, for she knew there was only one reason for all of the co-donors to be here together—
an audition
. Joan paused as that sunk in. That’s why Tegan’s entourage was here.

The trainer waved Joan over. “Just heard you’re back for unrestricted workouts,” he said, pointing at his wrist phone.

Jack Findlay was a good trainer. A fair man, he treated Joan and her fellow donors with respect. At their first meeting, she properly called him Mr. Findlay. Joan knew the rules governing the discourse between donors and citizens. Jack told her to call him by his first name. He was tall, at least six feet, five inches, circumspect, and in his younger days had been an accomplished athlete. At the age of twenty-four, a knee injury put an end to his competing days.

When Joan first learned his history, she hadn’t understood how the injury ended his career. As a citizen, he was a benefactor to at least one donor. Why didn’t he take what he needed to repair his knee? She asked him once years ago about that. He looked thoughtfully at her but made no reply. At the time Joan didn’t understand. Now she understood some citizens didn’t agree with the System.

After his injury, he turned his talents to training athletes instead of being one. At forty-five, Jack was a successful trainer.

“What do
you
say about it? How’s the leg feel to you?” Jack asked, skeptical of her physical therapist’s opinion.

“It’s fine,” she lied, “a little stiff, but—”

He interrupted her, “There’s an audition today.”

“But, Jack, I just got back. The surgery was two months ago. It’s not fair.”

“I don’t make the rules, Double T, I just follow them.”

The System formally identified donors with a seven-digit number—not a name—tattooing the number on their wrists. Names were only used among other donors and just in the donor ghetto. For common, everyday usage, people shortened the official number to two or three of the digits. Joan’s full number was 1919723, but she was known as “Twenty-Three.” Jack knew the rules. The System forbid him to use her name, so he affectionately called her Double T. Joan’s father had explained to her that Jack probably had difficultly referring to another person as a number.

“It’s the shoulder being auditioned. Javelin. They want to tax some shoulder muscle. Start stretching.”

“But you use your thigh and leg muscles with the javelin, too,” Joan persisted. She tended to push the envelope with Jack, in a way she never would with any other citizen. “It’s not fair.”

Jack put his arm around her shoulder and leaned in close, “I can’t have you sit out. See who’s up there behind us in the stands? Tegan herself.”

As her trainer, Jack knew the identity of Joan’s benefactor. Tegan’s parents paid his salary. “And Our Governor.”

“I saw them come in. She’s going to watch the audition? Why? And why Our Governor?” Fear crept in her voice at the mention of the Governor.

Jack shrugged, “Yesterday she won first place in the long jump at the southern regionals. Not a huge meet, but she did set a record for it. Did you hear about that?”

Joan shook her head, confused. “But how did she do that so soon after …?” Joan’s voice trailed off. Obviously the high-quality medical care Tegan received enabled her to recover more quickly from the recent transplant than Joan. Of course, Joan lost part of her leg, while Tegan gained leg muscle.

Jack handed her a blue jersey to pull over her shirt as they walked over to her co-donors. The other young women donors wore the same blue jerseys but with different numbers. Joan’s was emblazoned with “23.” They nodded hellos. They were not friends but competitors. Their benefactor was a top athlete. They had to perform at that par. This was their job.

The System required benefactors to aid their donors financially. However, that wasn’t enough to survive. Most donors also worked menial jobs—the sorts of jobs citizens didn’t want. Joan’s job—and that of her co-donors—was to stay in first-rate physical shape. As long as she did, she received a generous stipend, a place to live, plenty of healthy food, and medical care.
Benefactors even paid their donors a bonus if they were called upon to donate. Two months earlier Joan earned a large bonus for donating her leg muscle.

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

A
s 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.