Donor 23 (23 page)

Nox excitedly interjected, “You must give her—”

The officer seated next to Nox squeezed Nox’s arm hard. Major Henworth had been quite clear with Nox that he, Henworth, would do the talking.

As the discussion under Talking Tree continued, Joan’s gaze returned to Duncan. She watched the back of his head, the nape of his neck. He tilted his head for a second, toward the area behind him—toward Joan. Joan kept watching him—his neck. She remembered the stairwell. He caught her in his arms, and she had grasped his neck, feeling his muscles and the warmth of his skin.

A moment later, Duncan moved his head again, turning to his right. His chin almost touched his shoulder, and he held it there for a few seconds, as if sensing something behind him. Joan held her breath. Abruptly he swiveled his head around and looked right at Joan. Their eyes met for a second or two, and he turned back.

One Who Sees witnessed the incident and eyed Joan. Joan motioned she was going back to the tent and left. Returning her attention to the circle, One Who Sees noticed the man in the black uniform—the one with yellow hair—was breathing heavily, his shoulders heaving up and down. His strength was evident to One Who Sees, even with his back to her. It reminded her of a wolf’s power—lithe and agile, yet concealed. The real power of a wolf is not in its mighty jaws, its formidable shoulders, nor its jagged fangs—but rather in a wolf’s innate knowledge of its own strength—and knowing when to use it.

“Would it be possible for us to see her? To talk to her?” Henworth asked Crooked Arm.

Crooked Arm pursed his lips in thought for a moment and shook his head. He stood up, a signal the meeting was over.

“She is our guest. No harm will come to her while she’s here.”

It was a pronouncement.

“Of course, of course. We understand the rules,” Henworth assured him.

Joan stumbled back to the tent, shivering, even though it wasn’t cold. Duncan’s presence stunned her.
Why was he here?
she wondered. Was he helping Nox hunt her? Did he mean to catch her—take her back? She was certain he missed her purposely with the dart that day. Was he helping her again? She didn’t need his help. Why didn’t he stay back in the Alliance with Tegan?

24

D
uncan lay on the bunk bed, thinking of Joan. Seeing her the other day, his heart almost exploded out of his chest. It was all he could do to not defect then and there and seek safe haven with the Nomads to be with Joan. The anguish of her attack with the rock had waned, and he felt certain he could explain his actions and the plan he had for them. He wasn’t sure what Henworth might have done, though. Anyway, he wanted to phone his parents before he defected. The army limited and rationed time on the fort’s phones. He had time scheduled for later. He’d call his parents and say good-bye. A plan to escape the fort began formulating in his mind.

Nox walked in, interrupting Duncan’s thoughts.

“I’ve decided how we’ll get her,” he said triumphantly.

“What? Sir, you heard Major Henworth. We can’t do anything. We can’t disturb the peace with the Nomads by—”

“I’m not going to go get her, Starr. She’s going to come to us,” he crossed his arms and smiled.

“I don’t understand,” Duncan said, trying to conceal the worry forming in his mind.

“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

U
p 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.