Donor 23 (35 page)

She shook her head vehemently. “No. I—”

“We could’ve at least
tried
to rescue him. We didn’t even try. I need to think,” he said and stomped off.

About a mile away, three men with binoculars spied on them. They hid among rocks and bushes on a small hill. Sweat seeped under their army uniforms.

“They’re making camp,” one said.

“Who do ya think they are?”

He shrugged, “Too far to make them out. They’re heading this way, though. You ride back and tell the General. We’ll wait here and watch ’em for the night.”

Before heading out for the day, they ate breakfast, which consisted of One Who Sees’s acorn cookies and dried deer meat. Everyone ate but Joan.

They continued their silent, sober trek back to the camp of the Children. A smoggy heat permeated the plain, feeling like a weight on their shoulders. Isabel fanned herself with her hat. Joan kept her hat pulled down close to her eyes, to hide herself. They rode spread out. Reck way off to the side, alone. Bash and Arrow Comes Back sidled up near Joan.

Joan said with sorrow, “Kaleb was my friend, my whole life. He was about my age. So young.”

Bash sighed, “Life’s always too short, no matter how old you are. Shorter for some than for others. But that doesn’t mean
it wasn’t worth it. Honor, goodness, integrity…those things are not measured in years.”

Arrow Comes Back expressed, “No one should die afraid. I heard his voice at the end. Your friend wasn’t afraid.”

Bash agreed, “He’s right, Joan.”

They rode in silence for a few minutes. Joan’s gaze shifted to Reck, and Bash noticed.

Bash pointed to Reck, “He’s a good young man. He’s just not going to understand you, Joan.”

“He should. We’re the same. Grew up in the ghetto together. Does he think I wanted…?” her voice trailed off.

“But he never faced what you did. Never faced the possibility of a forced donation. He didn’t have to escape like you did. You said he was a solus or something?”

“That shouldn’t matter. We both grew up—”

“Joan, he’s had different experiences than you. Who we are is formed by our life experiences. He’s…what do you call it?” Bash asked Arrow Comes Back. “The Children have a name for it. What is it?”

“Deerslayer,” Arrow Comes Back replied.

“Right. Deerslayer. That’s what they call one who…well, how do you put it?”

Arrow Comes Back answered simply and succinctly, “He’s only killed animals.”

“Right. Never killed a man. Never been hunted himself. Never had to fight for his life. Never had to face any of that or deal with what happens afterward.”

They rode in silence for a while.

Bash continued, “I spent time with Reck. He’s a fine young man. Brave, I’m sure, but a deerslayer, nonetheless.”

The five of them rode at a snail’s pace. Joan kept her pony at a walk—in no rush to return to the camp. The last thing she wanted was to be around people—people who’d now know her secret.

Bash sensed this and spoke with Arrow Comes Back. He agreed time alone would be beneficial for Joan, but knowing his wife waited patiently for him, he was anxious to return. So he and Reck rode off for the camp of the Children. Then Bash, Isabel, and Joan veered slightly off track to a forested area, to make an early camp for the day. They were not in a hurry, and Bash wanted to give her time alone.

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 great-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.