apartment, the weather, the food she liked, on and on, always in a calming voice. Like a fish on a line, he reeled her in.
He came closer and put his arm lightly around her shoulder. Joan cringed. He smiled, a bland and forbidding grin, and spoke kindly, in an almost fatherly manner.
Nox watched her intently. Her lower lip quivered. Fear. Now it was time for the hope.
“Breaking our laws is a terrible thing. But the Governor need never know—or Tegan, for that matter. No one will ever know. Not your mother…I can help you. Will you let me help you, Joan?”
She jerked her head at the mention of her name. It always unnerved a donor. Donors guarded their names from citizens as if they were private, sacred. His casual use of her name gave the impression he was on familiar terms with her, knew her thoughts, and was an intimate friend.
“In a moment those officers will come back in here, and I won’t be able to help you. It may be the machine for your mother and you.”
Joan noticeably gasped.
“I don’t want that to happen, Joan,” he murmured reassuringly.
She wavered. A conflict battled out inside her. He had her. It was too easy.
“I want to help you, Joan. I know it’s difficult. You don’t have to tell me. You don’t have to speak. Just show me. Point.”
Then he used her name again, “Joan.”
He paused a minute. He couldn’t wait too long, couldn’t allow this delicate moment to pass. He began to guide her with his arm, ever so slightly, to where, he did not know. But he was certain she would take over and lead the way.
She did. Walking into the bedroom, she stopped. The inner struggle waged again.
Ever so quietly, almost inaudibly, he said, “Just point, Joan.”
And she did.
Joan lay back in her bed and rubbed her eyes. The rest was a blur for her. Nox pulled the façade off the wall and uncovered the hiding place. Frank screamed, she recalled—a shriek full of fright—then he fell silent after being hit with a dart. Her mother rushed into the room. Nox ordered her arrest. They pulled out the handcuffs. Joan pleaded with Nox not to arrest her mother—begged him.
Weeping, “I’m sorry. Mom…please…I’m sorry.”
The expression on her mother’s face was not anger or even disappointment, “Joan, I understand. Remember you—”
Another dart and her mother fell silent.
Joan was alone again with Nox, on her knees before him. He held her chin and looked at her with…
compassion
.
“You didn’t break the law, 23,” he comforted her. “Your mother did. Don’t worry. I’m not arresting you. I didn’t find you here.”
Joan never spoke to her mother again. The Alliance hanged her the next day, in a public ceremony broadcast live from somewhere in the bowels of the TEO building. They forced Joan and her father to sit in on a podium and watch, as it was televised on a huge mega screen. As the authorities dragged her mother onto the scaffold, they announced her number over the loudspeaker. Joan’s father uttered her name under his breath, “Annika Lion.” The executioner placed the black hood over her head, but the tele-screen cut to Joan and her father, just before the trap under her feet sprung. The Alliance had a modicum of civility, and the actual moment of death was not telecast.
The Alliance rarely executed donors, even those guilty of state crimes. Instead, it imprisoned them in labor camps. After all, it was of paramount importance to the System that donors survive to be of use to their benefactors. But Joan’s mother was not technically a donor. Annika had been born and lived outside the Alliance walls for her early years and so never got injected with any citizen’s cord blood at birth.
The exact story of her youth was sketchy. In those years the Alliance kidnapped people living outside its walls in a futile attempt by the secretive nation to learn as much as it could about—and from—the rest of the world. The outsider would be interrogated and held prisoner
He came closer and put his arm lightly around her shoulder. Joan cringed. He smiled, a bland and forbidding grin, and spoke kindly, in an almost fatherly manner.
Nox watched her intently. Her lower lip quivered. Fear. Now it was time for the hope.
“Breaking our laws is a terrible thing. But the Governor need never know—or Tegan, for that matter. No one will ever know. Not your mother…I can help you. Will you let me help you, Joan?”
She jerked her head at the mention of her name. It always unnerved a donor. Donors guarded their names from citizens as if they were private, sacred. His casual use of her name gave the impression he was on familiar terms with her, knew her thoughts, and was an intimate friend.
“In a moment those officers will come back in here, and I won’t be able to help you. It may be the machine for your mother and you.”
Joan noticeably gasped.
“I don’t want that to happen, Joan,” he murmured reassuringly.
She wavered. A conflict battled out inside her. He had her. It was too easy.
“I want to help you, Joan. I know it’s difficult. You don’t have to tell me. You don’t have to speak. Just show me. Point.”
Then he used her name again, “Joan.”
He paused a minute. He couldn’t wait too long, couldn’t allow this delicate moment to pass. He began to guide her with his arm, ever so slightly, to where, he did not know. But he was certain she would take over and lead the way.
She did. Walking into the bedroom, she stopped. The inner struggle waged again.
Ever so quietly, almost inaudibly, he said, “Just point, Joan.”
And she did.
Joan lay back in her bed and rubbed her eyes. The rest was a blur for her. Nox pulled the façade off the wall and uncovered the hiding place. Frank screamed, she recalled—a shriek full of fright—then he fell silent after being hit with a dart. Her mother rushed into the room. Nox ordered her arrest. They pulled out the handcuffs. Joan pleaded with Nox not to arrest her mother—begged him.
Weeping, “I’m sorry. Mom…please…I’m sorry.”
The expression on her mother’s face was not anger or even disappointment, “Joan, I understand. Remember you—”
Another dart and her mother fell silent.
Joan was alone again with Nox, on her knees before him. He held her chin and looked at her with…
compassion
.
“You didn’t break the law, 23,” he comforted her. “Your mother did. Don’t worry. I’m not arresting you. I didn’t find you here.”
Joan never spoke to her mother again. The Alliance hanged her the next day, in a public ceremony broadcast live from somewhere in the bowels of the TEO building. They forced Joan and her father to sit in on a podium and watch, as it was televised on a huge mega screen. As the authorities dragged her mother onto the scaffold, they announced her number over the loudspeaker. Joan’s father uttered her name under his breath, “Annika Lion.” The executioner placed the black hood over her head, but the tele-screen cut to Joan and her father, just before the trap under her feet sprung. The Alliance had a modicum of civility, and the actual moment of death was not telecast.
The Alliance rarely executed donors, even those guilty of state crimes. Instead, it imprisoned them in labor camps. After all, it was of paramount importance to the System that donors survive to be of use to their benefactors. But Joan’s mother was not technically a donor. Annika had been born and lived outside the Alliance walls for her early years and so never got injected with any citizen’s cord blood at birth.
The exact story of her youth was sketchy. In those years the Alliance kidnapped people living outside its walls in a futile attempt by the secretive nation to learn as much as it could about—and from—the rest of the world. The outsider would be interrogated and held prisoner
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