Donor 23 (4 page)

Jack glanced at his wrist phone and then looked furiously up to the stands, where he saw the Governor drinking his champagne and talking to a waitress. Shaking his head, he walked over toward the girls. They sat exhausted on the grass, relieved they had finished the audition—but still anxious about who among them had passed.

“Double T,” he called and waved Joan over to him.

Joan smiled but only briefly; she didn’t want to gloat. 85 dropped her head. 609 uttered in a perfunctory manner, “Congratulations.”

Joan nodded. This meant another bonus and, also, safety from being cut—safety for now at least. She stood up a little slowly, because the audition took its toll on her leg, and walked over to Jack.

“You need to take more throws.”

Joan’s mouth dropped, but before she could say a word, Jack continued, “Come on, get a spear.”

Joan steeled herself to not burst out crying. That last throw had exhausted her mentally. She walked over to the jumping off point but had to wait for the javelins to be brought back. A worker carried five javelins. Joan thought how much easier it must be to be him. He just had to do what he’s told at the Center, do what was needed. No worries. No pressure. He could go home every night with a few credits on his card. He probably never had a sleepless night. But she reminded herself she was lucky—lucky to have the chance to earn enough to buy a citizenship. This boy would never have that opportunity.

Turning his thoughts away from the waitress, Gates pointedly said to the trainer, “This is becoming boring.”

“Quite,” Mrs. Gates agreed.

The Governor’s voice exhibited annoyance—the sort of annoyance no one ever wanted to hear from him, “What did you want me here for anyway, Dean?”

Dean Garcia nervously pointed to the doctor, “Dr. Melnick should explain. It was his idea.”

The doctor gathered his thoughts, “After the last transplant, in my tests on Tegan’s new muscles, I observed something… interesting. The donor muscle—the muscle from number 23 down there—accumulated less lactic acid than Tegan’s other muscles. This made it more efficient, much more efficient. That’s one reason Tegan performed so well yesterday.”

“So 23 has strong muscles? Is that what you’re saying?” Gates stated the obvious.

The doctor nodded faintly.

“Well, that’s why we tax them. So, once again, why am I here?”

Meanwhile, down on the field Joan challenged herself to the limit, steeling herself, focusing, and heaving the javelin as far as she could. She had to impress them.

The doctor’s hand shook, and he nervously tapped his foot. “I wondered why 23’s muscle accumulated less lactic acid. Lactic acid forms when the muscle doesn’t get enough oxygen. The heart pumps oxygen to the muscles. So I took a look at 23’s heart records taken during the last operation.”

He paused, most likely for dramatic purposes.

“She has a remarkable heart. Its resting heart rate is about thirty-two beats per minute. The normal is anywhere between sixty and one hundred. I’d have to do more tests, but I imagine her heart is also larger than the normal.”

Gates looked interested now.

Melnick continued, “When 23’s sprinting as fast as she can, her heart’s not pumping much more than a normal athlete, but—and this is the important part—it’s pumping out more blood per beat. So she can go farther and faster since her muscles are getting more oxygen. It takes longer for her to fatigue. Her lungs are probably larger, too.”

“How did this happen? What causes it?” Gates asked, gazing at Joan down on the field.

She had just thrown the last of the javelins.

“Who knows? Some of it is genetics. I reviewed her training regimen—that 23 works hard.”

Silence.

Finally Gates said, “Go on.”

Dr. Melnick took a deep breath, “We’re recommending a heart and lung tax from 23.”

3

T
he group said nothing. There was silence for a moment. It was broken by Tegan, who was scripting and not paying attention to the conversation.

“Mom, some of us are going to that new nightclub that’s opening tomorrow night.”

Garcia said to the Governor, “Actually, after this audition today, we should decide which donor to tax for the shoulder. Then, the doctor and I think we should schedule the shoulder operation for tomorrow. There’re the eastern regionals in two months, and I think we can improve her for the javelin, discus, and shot put.”

“Oh,” Tegan whined, “but I really wanted to go to the opening of the club.”

“We’ll do the shoulder surgery tomorrow,” her father said authoritatively.

Tegan knew when she could change his mind and when he wouldn’t budge.

“These operations are ruining my social life, Dad. You just don’t understand,” she breathed heavily and rolled her eyes.

She stood up and stomped off. Two bodyguards followed her.

The Governor turned back to the men, but Mrs. Gates interjected, “We need to think about this heart and lung tax, honey. Is it the right thing to do? If we do it, the donor, this number 22—”

“It’s 23,” the trainer interrupted.

She glared at him, “Whatever. My point is that this donor,” she frowned at the trainer, “number 23, will be…dead. Is that something we want? I mean, what if Tegan needs her muscles or something else at some later point?”

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with Tegan’s heart and lungs. We could always switch the organs. Give Tegan’s to 23. People who have only one donor do that occasionally,” the doctor said.

“But there’s no need to do that here. Tegan has three other donors,” Gates said, his gaze on the four young women on the field.

Tegan would not be a professional athlete for much longer, so she would not need as many donors. She had to begin learning her political responsibilities and preparing to take over the reins of government.

Gates mused aloud, “You’re doing the shoulder surgery tomorrow…is it 23’s shoulder we’ll tax?”

The doctor shook his head and said without emotion, “No. We should take the shoulder from 85, instead. I want to do cardio-pulmonary tests on 23. I’ll do those tomorrow and have a cardiac specialist look at them. I think Dr. Oxman is the best. If the tests pan out, and you decide to go forward with the heart and lung tax, then my suggestion is this: have 23 work out hard
for the next two months or so. And then we operate when 23’s organs are at their optimal strength.”

Gates looked toward the field, “Call her up here. I want to take a look at her.”

Joan glanced at the stands. Both Tegan and Duncan had left, but the Governor stood there. Joan felt confident about the audition. She gave it all she had. She breathed heavily—spent physically and mentally. She had challenged herself to the limit. She desperately wanted to impress them—impress him.

Jack read a script message on his phone and motioned Joan over, “They want you in the stands.”

“What? Why? What did I do? What—,” Joan exclaimed, panic and fright evident in her voice.

“You did great. Calm down. I think they just want to see you up close.”

“But…what do I say? How do I act?
Our Governor
?!”

He leaned in close to her, “Just be yourself, Joan.”

Jack’s use of her name gave her confidence.

As she approached the group in the stands, the bodyguards stopped her to search her.

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not necessary, boys,” the Governor said, and he waved at the guards to let her through.

Joan walked closer and stopped a few feet away.

“Over here, girl, come closer,” Gates narrowed his eyes and lured her to him with his manicured finger.

She approached, slowly.

“You’re not going to attack me, are you?” the Governor laughed. The others laughed with him.

Nervous, Joan fumbled to say, “No, sir, of course not …”

“It’s all right. I’m just joking,” he said, trying to put her at ease.

The Governor regarded Joan, examining her in much the same way he examined his racehorses.

“Take off your jacket.”

Joan complied. Under the sweat jacket, she wore a tank top. He scrutinized her arms and ran his hand lightly along them, causing Joan to recoil inwardly—her emotions conflicting: awe, respect, fear, hate. A chill seeped from his fingers to her skin, to her heart. She involuntarily shivered.

Joan’s eyes glided up from the ground, but she didn’t look at the Governor or the other citizens. She wouldn’t do that. Her gaze shifted to the waitress. Joan had seen her around the Center, working in the cafeteria, but they had never spoken. Their eyes met now, as she looked at Joan. Recognition of empathy flashed between them—camaraderie, a feeling of shared difficulties. Any suffering is easier to bear, knowing one is not alone.

The Governor’s fingers stopped at the many scars on her shoulder. He applied more pressure there, manipulating it. Scars were unknown among citizens. Physicians ensured there were no scars on citizens after surgeries, but they didn’t care about the donors. He withdrew his hand and wiped it on a napkin, as if wiping away a toxin. Joan kept her eyes on the ground, and Gates leaned over to get a better view of her face. He looked at her fixedly.

Joan was not particularly pretty, certainly not in the sense of Tegan or the waitress, but people rarely realized that when confronted with her sincerity and authenticity. A naturalness existed about her, a youthful vitality in her budding maturity, tinged with melancholy. Joan was more appealing and striking to behold than many beautiful women, in much the
same way a rough, uncut diamond, can appear lovelier than a highly polished gem. Like a rough, uncut diamond, Joan’s true potential remained as yet unseen.