Donor 23 (5 page)

“You know who I am, 23?”

Again everyone laughed. He was Our Governor, after all. A huge poster of him hung behind them, over the stands.

“Yes. You’re Our Governor,” she replied without meeting his eyes. Then, to play it safe, she repeated as she had memorized in school, “You are Our Glorious Governor, the son and grandson of heroes. Because of the sacrifices of your heroic family and the sacrifices of all the citizens, the Alliance was formed, mankind’s technology preserved, and the security of our nation assured. Your continued leadership and sacrifices enable security to continue.”

“Very good,” the Governor said.

“I’ve met you before, sir,” she stuttered.

“What was that?” he asked.

“I mean…uh,” Joan stammered, worry and fear cracking in her voice. “I…”

“Speak up,” he ordered.

“A long time ago, I wrote a poem about you. It was for a school contest—for your birthday. I won a prize for it. All of us who won received an award at Our Governor’s palace.”

“Isn’t that nice?” Snapping his fingers, he said with a haughty smile and amusement in his voice, “I remember you.”

The group snickered, but Joan didn’t understand his sarcasm.

“Let’s see, you were wearing a dress, right?”

Joan was stunned.

“Uh, yes, sir. I was, sir.”

“That was a very nice poem. You’re smart, too.” Motioning to the field, “You do very well out there. I hear you’re a hard worker.”

“Thank you, sir. I try to, for…for my benefactor.”

“Yes, and you’re aware I’m your benefactor? Well, it’s my daughter, but I pay the bills.”

Again, laughter resonated from the group.

“Yes, I’m aware, and it’s a great honor.” Joan hoped that was the right thing to say.

“You favor one of your legs. Is there a problem?”

With a touch of pleading in her voice, she said, “No, I didn’t have a chance to stretch out fully today, sir. I can have it better tomorrow. Sir.”

“Look up, 23,” he ordered.

Joan, ever obedient, looked right at him. She didn’t have to crane her neck upward because he was only a few inches taller than she. The Governor had a slim physique. His steel gray eyes, which were the color of a dull knife, sliced right through a person, and she instinctively pulled her head slightly back away from them. He had sharp features, with angular cheeks incongruously ending to a rather rounded chin. He wore his dark hair slicked back; the dark black mingled with a tad of gray. He didn’t mind the gray hair, for he set the standard. Citizens strove to emulate him. His teeth shined a brilliant white, but those in the back were yellow. All in all, though, he cut a fine figure, conspicuous for his smartness. In an unsettling and indefinable way, however, a discreet malice hovered about him.

Joan was used to seeing his visage on the ubiquitous posters, and when she looked at him now, she saw a noose around her mother’s neck. The Alliance executed her mother for breaking his laws. And Joan also saw the part that she had played in the incident—the awful part no one else knew. The memory of it flashed inside her. Her eyes, which had been mute and shy in the face of her superior, now for an instant raged. Then, just as suddenly, the emotion left, and she hurriedly looked down. She felt the eternal conflict again. She must worship him as taught in school—revere him. She hoped he hadn’t noticed anything.

He stared at her, “Keep working hard, 23. Hard work pays off, as I’m sure you know. So keep it up. We appreciate it.”

“I will, sir.”

“You can go now,” he smiled at her.

She turned around to leave, and relief swept over her. They weren’t going to cut her loose after all. She tried to hide her limp, as she ran down the steps. Our Governor smiled at her and told her he appreciated her work—conflicting emotions again.

Gates watched her run off. He noticed the flare in her eyes. It was something rarely seen in the eyes of anyone who stood before him, let alone a donor.

“Is it really necessary for Tegan to get a new heart?” Mrs. Gates posited to her husband. “If anything, we should tax that 23 for her eyes. Beautiful light blue, did you see? They’d look great in Tegan. But her heart? Tegan wins so often already. She won’t be competing for much longer. Her heart’s fine. I mean, how important is it?”

Gates stood silent, concentrating on the glass in his hand. True, Tegan wouldn’t be competing much longer, but someday she would be the Governor. In this rebuilding and fluid new world, a leader needed to project an aura of strength, of power, and of supremacy—not only to impress the citizens but to intimidate and control the donors. Donors outnumbered citizens four to one. There were the other nations to consider, too. Those that managed to survive were rebuilding—and becoming stronger. The Alliance had trading relationships with many of them, but in this ever-transforming new world order, they could soon be adversaries—enemies.

The Governor took a deep breath. After the Impact his great-grandfather had saved this segment of the continent. He
had bravely taken the remnants of the civilization—the damaged states, cities, and communities—and formed them into the Alliance, bringing stability, legality, and safety to its citizens. The Alliance stretched for over a thousand miles, along almost the entire eastern seaboard of the continent, and extended westward for more than five hundred miles.

It was the Governor’s responsibility to maintain and continue what his great-grandfather had begun. It was his responsibility to protect the citizens, his responsibility to keep the massive donor population under control, and his responsibility to prepare his successor. The security, safety, and future of millions rested on his shoulders.

How important is it
? his wife had asked. He recalled what his grandfather had told him—something a poet or philosopher had written: “Empires have been built and destroyed by one strong heart.”
One strong heart
.

He looked again at Joan, as she jogged across the field with her ponytail bouncing to and fro to match her gait. Whenever the Governor issued his pronouncements, gave his orders, and made his decrees, he used three simple, declaratory words.

Popping an appetizer into his mouth, he uttered them now, “Make it so.”

4

J
oan sat on the bus to the ghetto, with her leg throbbing. Her head pounded, too. The day exhausted her.

Tele-screens everywhere incessantly blasted out Alliance propaganda, and one at the front of the bus made a racket now.

“OUR GLORIOUS ARMY FORCES IN THE NORTH HAVE BEATEN BACK YET ANOTHER ATTEMPT BY THE BARBARIANS OF THE OUTSIDE TO INVADE OUR HOMELAND…”

As usual she tuned it out. Well, she tried to tune it out, but some always got through.

She didn’t understand what happened today. Jack told 85 to report for shoulder surgery the next day. Then he told Joan privately to report to the medical center, too, for tests. She initially thought this was a good thing, but she perceived
apprehension in Jack’s voice—maybe even something more than mere apprehension.

More people boarded the bus. Shifting carefully, she gingerly balanced herself on the seat, which sat precariously on two bars—only a couple of screws held it in place. There were no windows. Instead plastic sheets were taped and nailed up, but they flapped in the wind, blowing her hair as the bus drove.

The Alliance had worked hard to get factories up and running, but the goods they produced were not to be wasted on donors. Factory products—steel, iron, textiles—were mainly for citizens, and any extras were traded with other nations. Donors and poorer citizens had to make do with using old cars and trucks, from the time before the Impact. They were held together and kept running by improvising, jerry-rigging, and cannibalizing other cars and trucks.

A man on crutches hobbled down the aisle and sat next to her. Joan tried to relax and leaned her head against the window jam for the long ride home to the ghetto—back to the real world. The real world—a donor’s world—was one in which many people limped, used crutches… She thought ruefully that the poor condition of the bus was just like that of the donors.

The System arranged it so that a donor lived a life of safety, contentment, and work. And most importantly, survived to be of use to their benefactors. Joan was lucky—lucky for a donor, that is. In Joan’s case, the doctors ensured none of her taxes had any permanent, debilitating effect. Because Joan’s benefactor was an athlete, Joan had to stay healthy and active. That way she could keep exercising and making donations to Tegan.

This was not necessarily the case for other donors, who simply had to remain alive to keep up their donations. Even so, all donors wanted to earn the large monetary bonuses for each
donation and even more importantly—wanted to avoid getting cut loose and made a solus. The main way to do that was to stay in good physical shape and successfully pass auditions. Life for donors was not easy, but Joan didn’t expect it to be—that was a donor’s lot.

Joan’s wrist phone vibrated. She pulled back her sleeve and glanced at the script message. The medical center informed her of the time for her appointment tomorrow. Her seatmate stared at her. Across the aisle, another person glared as well.
The wrist phone
. Citizens used wrist phones as the main mode of communications. Hardly any donors owned wrist phones. Some had landline phones, but most had to use the community phones spread throughout the ghetto. It was an excellent way for the Alliance to restrict and monitor communications.

Joan’s benefactor required her to have a wrist phone. She had to be reachable by the Fitness Center staff, physical therapists, physicians, and trainers. She wore it proudly in the city and always on her right wrist to hide her tattoo. It gave her a feeling of exhilaration and freedom. Citizens assumed she was one of them. Her bearing and manner, along with the enviable exercise outfits from the Fitness Center, marked her as an athlete—an elite class. Unlike most donors, Joan knew what it felt like to be treated with respect.

“COMING UP, FOOTAGE OF THE BIRTHDAY PARTY FOR OUR GLORIOUS GOVERNOR…”

But she didn’t flaunt the wrist phone in the ghetto. She quickly typed, confirming she got the message. Then she pulled her sleeve, covering the phone, and turned her gaze back to the window, staring through the yellowing plastic sheeting. She pushed aside the plastic to see outside and spied some children running with bright red balloons.
Citizen children
. Sighing, she leaned back and let the sheeting fall into place. Then she stared ahead at the tele-screen.

“…OUR GOVERNOR VISITING CHILDREN IN THE HOSPITAL WHO WERE INJURED BY THE BARBARIANS…”

By the time the bus reached the ghetto, it was standing room only on board. The bus pulled over, and everyone filed out. A long line of donors waited for entry to the ghetto. She had caught an earlier bus and hoped she had beaten the traffic jam. Joan sighed and took a place in the queue. Each donor had to have their tattoo scanned at the entrance gate upon entering and leaving the ghetto. They were also subject to a search of any bags and of their bodies. It could take a while. A large poster of the Governor dominated over the entrance gates. His face shone on posters everywhere in the Alliance.

A commotion ensued inside the gate, and the sound of a siren rang out. A dark van made its way out of the ghetto, winding through the crowd—a Tax Enforcement van. People didn’t rush out of its way.

Donors loathed Tax Enforcement Officers, derisively calling them “body snatchers.” Snatchers searched for donors needed in cases of emergency surgeries. But their more terrifying job was to hunt down and take into custody donors scheduled for major donations.

Donors usually reported without incident for minor, non-life-threatening donations. But a donor scheduled for major surgery or a donation resulting in their death may go into hiding, becoming a tax evader. Occasionally, a donor facing this end committed suicide, making it impossible for his organs to be used—a last, final way to rebel against the System. The snatchers’ normal procedure consisted of taking a donor into protective custody before he even knew of the upcoming operation—a preemptive arrest. As a result, donors often never had a chance to evade.

The sight of the snatchers’ black uniforms sparked fear in a donor. Guns hung at their sides and low on their hips. The
snatcher dart gun was especially terror inducing. It had an exceptionally long, thin barrel and was jet black, with a small fluff of orange sticking out the back—the bright, cheery color seeming to belie its evil. Instead of a bullet, it shot out a tranquilizing dart. Unlike a bullet, which causes destruction in the area of the body it hits in a straightforward, albeit painful way, a tranquilizer dart leaks its malevolent poison like a virus, reaching every cell and membrane. The venom did not cause pain or death but rather sleep—misappropriating and transforming, in a grotesque fashion, the pleasing act of slumber into a doorway to death.

Hovering about a hundred feet over the van were two camera drones—small, remote controlled helicopter cameras. Like vultures, they followed snatcher vans. Just in case of a good chase, the news wanted to catch it on film. The citizens enjoyed watching evader chase scenes. The Alliance forced donors to view the chases as well, screening them in living color on the mega tele-screens placed throughout the ghetto. Since snatchers usually caught and tranquilized any evader, it served as a good deterrent.