The Phlebotomist

by Chris Panatier

  Inside, he scanned the lines trailing back from each of the booths and spotted her immediately. Against the drab grays and burgundies of the station, she was a right scoop of ice cream. He hopped into her line and waited, noting at the same time that hers seemed to move double the speed of the others.

  It came to be his turn and it took a second for her eyes to show their recognition. He’d hoped not to startle her too bad, but it was too late for that.

  “Mr Alison,” she said, blinking a few times as she adjusted to the shock of seeing him there in front of her.

  “Ms Willa,” he said. “Hey. Just bringing in some red.”

  “A bit far afield, aren’t you?” she asked, her voice betraying the slightest anxiety. He had to give her credit, she covered well for an amateur. A less experienced person than himself might think she wasn’t nervous at all. He was nervous too, of course. Hid it better than she did, though.

  “You know DS6 is just outside of AB Plus,” she said. “What brings you over here?”

  “It’s cold but the sun’s out. Good enough reason as any to take a walk.” He undid the zip on the arm of his jacket to expose his blood bag and allowed Willa to remove it. She considered his face passively while processing the bag in a fluid sequence of practiced motions. Everard let his eyes follow the bag as it passed over the ever-important needle scanners, but didn’t allow himself to swallow too hard. The few seconds it took for her to process the blood felt like forever.

  She looked up at him, her brow creased.

  He swallowed too hard.

  “Your hematocrit is high,” she said.

  “It is?” He swallowed again. An audible gulp this time. He was only forty feet from the doors and his flight instincts were doing a calculus. “OK,” he said, trying to keep cool, “what’s that mean?”

  “Could be a lot of things,” she answered. “You’re probably just dehydrated.”

  “Dehydrated?” he asked, but only out of a desire to stall so he could better case the situation.

  “Dehydrated,” she repeated, then paused like she was waiting for something.

  A countdown began in his mind. Something was wrong with the blood. He was going to have to book it. He pivoted a foot, planting it to run.

  “I need you to touchstone in, Mr Alison.” She gestured to a small interface on his side of the booth.

  Touchstone in. Right. It meant the blood had cleared. Relief warmed him like a blanket. “Heh, yeah,” he said, “guess that walk didn’t wake me up like I thought it did.”

  She made a passive chuckle as he dug for his touchstone. “I keep mine on a lanyard,” said Willa, holding it up from around her neck with a smile. “You might think about doing the same.”

  “You got me there, Ms Willa,” he answered, finally prying his own device from out of his jacket. He tapped the touchstone to the interface.

  Willa checked a readout on her side of the booth, then looked back up and her smile showed a hint of bewilderment. “B-neg?” she remarked.

  “I know,” he interjected, “I could probably live closer to the mid-bloods with bourgeoise sauce like that, right? It’s the kids, though, see? I take care of them–”

  Willa glanced at her line, which had begun shuffling with agitation. “I’m sorry, it’s not my business. I was just surprised to see your phenotype coming out of AB Plus, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, I gotchu,” he said.

  “Enjoy the rest of your day, Mr Alison.”

  He leaned in some, but without being too obvious, whispered, “We got to talk.”

  “I’m sorry, about what?” Her cool was cracking. “I can’t. I’m working right now.”

  “Later then,” he said, moving through. “I’ll see you.” And then he was out the door.

  Underneath the heavy steel awning of the donor station entrance, he exhaled like he hadn’t taken a breath the whole time he’d been inside. He snapped a cigarette from the soft pack and lit it as quickly as he could. The smoke warmed his lungs and calmed his nerves. He’d done it. Was he supposed to be happy?

  The return trip home was marked by conflicting emotions. He’d scared her, that much was clear. Hadn’t meant to, but there was no way to do what he had to do without disrupting the balance. He wished they could have chosen somebody else, someone who wasn’t as good as this Willa seemed to be. But it was the right decision. She was the person they needed, like it or not.

  The blood bag though. It had cleared Patriot’s system. He straightened some from his usual hunch, and allowed a small amount of pride to drip through his veins. The Locksmith had been right.

  CHAPTER SIX

  VASOCONSTRICTION

  The narrowing of blood vessels due to the contraction of their muscular walls, resulting in decreased blood flow.

  Willa glanced to Claude, who, in the trough of a mid-shift stupor, had failed to notice the conversation she’d just had with Everard. It’d probably knock her count down by four or five units for the day, but she’d still process dozens more than the other phlebotomists.

  She could still see Everard out on the street through the glass smoking a cigarette. What had that been all about? Probably angling to get more money. These were desperate times, especially in the lowbloods. She would have likely done the same thing if their roles were reversed. She hoped that’s all it was. At least he was B-neg. He could fetch good value for it. Help those kids.

  Willa opted to walk home, even though it meant crossing through the risky lowblood neighborhoods. She viewed each day after Chrysalis as a day that she shouldn’t have had in the first place – the fact that she happened to be far enough from the blast had been a matter of pure luck. Ever since then, she’d only worried about herself to the extent that it would affect Isaiah. So even though walking home after work took her through AB Plus, making her a target for blood muggings, each trip was drone fare saved. That meant more for Isaiah after she was gone. External threats like those who would rob an old woman were one thing, but she was also mindful of her fading verdure – achy bones and flagging energy. Aside from the curse of lowblood, she had good genes, but even those only bought you time. She just hoped there would be enough of it for her to see Isaiah become his own man.

  At an intersection a block ahead, a man stood casually against a pole that held a loose string of defunct traffic lights. Anyone hanging idle outside was almost certainly a threat, and Willa changed her vector in order to turn east one block before she normally would. Seeing this, the man straightened from his post and followed. Another glance and she felt a jolt of regret as she recognized who it was, his oversized cargo shorts an unambiguous identifying feature. She had purposefully avoided going down his street – in fact, she’d gone four blocks wide of it. But here he was.

  Willa continued on, hastening her clip to a point just shy of trotting. Doing her best to look unbothered by his approach, she kept her eyes in front and her feet moving.

  The top of a gentle rise with another intersection came into view. Everard’s foot beats hastened and she could hear his labored breathing. “Ms Willa,” he called from behind. “Hold up.”

  She turned to see him take a last puff of his smoke and flick it onto the ground before making the final jog to catch up with her.

  He came up alongside at the top of the walk, a fresh cigarette already planted in his lips. “Evenin’, Ms Willa.”

  “Everard.”

  “We got to pow wow,” he said, sparking it.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t have time,” she said. “I need to be home.”

  He took the cigarette in his fingers, flicked the ash and blew the smoke out with the wind. “So, you’ll be a little late, that’s all.”

  “Good night, Everard,” she said with a polite dip of her chin as she turned north.

  He placed a hand on her bicep. “We’re gonna have our chat,” he said. “You’ll be home after.” His grip startled her, not because it was tight or painful, but because it wasn’t. A gesture that in any other context might
have been interpreted as comforting – friendly even – was different here; a delicate warning, a diplomatic favor that told her not to press any further, lest she call forth stronger persuasions. Relenting, she turned down her mouth and gave a small nod. Maintaining his latch, Everard steered her back the way they’d come with enough authority to let her know it was his show now.

  “Can I know where we are going?” she asked, determined to keep her composure.

  “Jethrum’s Diner.”

  “Everard, I don’t–”

  “I just want to talk, that’s all. Can’t talk business on an empty stomach.”

  “I only have enough for myself and Isaiah.”

  “What I’m offering will help yourself and Isaiah.”

  “I don’t understand.” She twisted in his grasp.

  He let go. “Sorry about all that. Just keep walking.”

  “What’s going on? What do you want? Please.”

  “When we get some food, I’ll spill.”

  They traveled without speaking for another eight blocks to what was once a food kitchen, now the closest thing AB Plus had to a restaurant. They couldn’t serve food for free anymore, and what they did serve was heavy in potatoes, fatty cuts of mystery meat, and local fungi. Everard urged Willa toward the door. “Two dinners,” he said to the man at the front, “she got it.”

  “Just one,” said Willa. “I’m not hungry.” She bumped her touchstone to the interface.

  They sat at the end of a long line of picnic tables with real metal cutlery set out. Willa watched Everard visit each of the four serving stations where he piled potatoes, greasy meat, and a wilted green of some sort onto a plate, then topped it with a blackened crust of bread.

  Returning to the table, Willa watched as he dove in, growing angrier at the gambit, whatever it was, and its effect in making her late home. “I’m telling Isaiah I’ll be home soon,” she said, typing a message. Then she sat, fuming silently, until Everard finished sopping up the residue with bread bark. He licked his fingers clean.

  Willa said, “I am going to get up and leave if you don’t make yourself clear.”

  “You ain’t leaving,” he said. And she saw in his face that while he preferred to do things without resorting to violence, he was well capable of it. “Look,” he continued, “no need to make a scene, alright?” He glanced around at the dozen other patrons in the place. “All these folk think we’re friends. Just out for a bite after selling some red.”

  “Get to the point.”

  “Got a proposition. I ain’t here to take advantage of your good charity.”

  “The food in your belly says otherwise.”

  Everard laughed as he wiped his mouth. “Well, you right on that count.”

  “Go on.”

  “You heard of the Locksmith?” he asked.

  “Of course I’ve heard of him,” answered Willa. “I caught him on a bag hack years ago.”

  “That must have been satisfyin’ for you,” he said, taking a toothpick from a shot glass in the center of the table and going to work.

  “Everard, what do you want?”

  “Not what I want. What he want.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Simple…”

  She saw it coming. “No.”

  “You ain’t even heard what it is yet!”

  “I don’t need to hear it. I know what you want.”

  Perhaps he wasn’t used to people resisting and he stroked his beard with annoyance and sucked the air through his teeth. He leaned forward. “Just a few bags to start. Handful a month. You pass ’em, we touchstone your cut. Never bother you again.”

  “He knows I can’t do that. Won’t do that. It’s impossible anyway.”

  “People are suffering, Ms Willa.”

  “I know that. I’m in it.”

  He canted back for a belly-laugh. “You a reaper, Ms Willa! You’re above it. You ain’t in it.”

  “No, Everard. Just no. Look, I won’t say anything. Just leave me out of it. I’ve got my grandson to take care of.”

  “Nothing I can do,” he said with a shrug.

  “Sure you can! Pick someone else.”

  “You who the Locksmith picked,” said Everard. “Not somebody else.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re smart,” he said, moving the toothpick to the next tooth. “Like him.”

  “If he’s so damned smart, then he should know I would never do anything to put my grandson at risk.” She pushed her chair back and got up to leave.

  “Say no and we just run all our hacks through your stall.” He played with the toothpick, then dropped it in his bowl. “Patriot’ll assume you’re in on it either way.”

  Willa glared down at him, wishing she’d never come back to AB Plus. “My record is perfect,” she spat. “They would never believe that.”

  He leaned back in the folding chair and put his hands behind his head. “Oh really? You the one out here in public just bought dinner for the Locksmith’s first lieutenant.”

  She leaned over the table between them, bringing herself eye-to-eye with the man who threatened to take away everything. “If I see you anywhere near DS8, I’ll have the police called.”

  His face broke into a crinkled smile. “And what makes you think it’ll be me?”

  Willa crossed her arms. They had her at every angle.

  “Besides,” he said, “I don’t think you want to be callin’ no Five-O.”

  “Why’s that, Everard?”

  “You already in on the scheme.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “I come through your line earlier today, Ms Willa.”

  “So?”

  He snorted lightly through his nose. “I ain’t B-neg.”

  With that, Everard rose from the table and pushed his chair neatly in. “Thanks for the dinner, Ms Willa. Think it over a few days. I’ll be in touch and you can tell me what you want to do.” And then he was gone.

  Willa stood statue-still in the spot where she’d made her big stand against the gangster blood hacker, chastened and with a full appreciation that she was powerless to stop what was coming. Numbness spread as her mind set the stage for how it would all play out. If she refused the Locksmith, his hackers would run their scam through her booth, implicating her anyway. She could cooperate and end up fired and imprisoned when their efforts eventually failed. Or she could turn them in and reap the consequences of those who tattle on organized crime. Either way, life as she knew it was over. Her small act of charity had doomed her and thrown Isaiah’s future into question. She’d been targeted by the Locksmith because kindness, in the end, was weakness.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  C6H9NA3O9

  Chemical formula for trisodium citrate dihydrate.

  The first sign of a bad transfusion is a sense of impending doom. It is an actual, articulable sensation felt by the recipient of mismatched blood that is so clear in the mind that medical personnel are trained to ask about it – or were trained to ask about it, way back when Willa was coming up.

  There are other symptoms, of course: fever, chills, discolored skin, flank pain, shortness of breath, etcetera, but it was the feeling of impending doom that had always stuck with Willa. It seemed to make cosmic sense. You behave carelessly with a gift as precious as blood, and the consequences ought to be equal to the good it can bring. And since the only cause of a mismatch was human error, Willa had always supported Patriot’s exceptionally strict testing and safety requirements.

  Being AB-positive, and therefore a universal recipient, meant she’d never get the wrong blood, but now she understood the sensation she’d learned about. Impending doom. That hackers routinely tried to compromise Patriot employees was nothing new, and Willa had known it was a matter of time before they came for her. Now she’d gone and hastened their arrival by flying in food drones to feed one of their soldiers, foolishly advertising wealth she didn’t have, and then let herself be framed.

  She wanted to believe Everard
was bluffing. All logic said he had to be. She’d handled his blood bag, scanned it. The phenotypes in the bag matched his touchstone. Everything checked out. No system wide hack had been reported, which meant it could only have been a bag hack – a counterfeit bag – and his bag had been completely normal.

  Or maybe not… Maybe Everard was telling the truth. If anyone could pull off such a feat, at least by reputation, it was the Locksmith. He would be playing a long game: use a single hack – if indeed it had been a hack – to make it look like she was in on it from the beginning, force her cooperation, enable them to ramp up the volume of their operation. Would she know when they began running it through her stall or would Everard’s associates simply show up in her line one day? Everything she had worked for seemed pushed to the precipice, teetering there until it either crashed to the ground or she figured out some way to pull it back.

  Her touchstone pinged. A notification for a deposit of two hundred and twenty-three. Reality hit like a hammer punching the nail in on the first strike. Two hundred and twenty-three was half of four hundred and forty-six; the day’s bid for a single unit of B-negative. She shook her head in disbelief. She’d run their counterfeit bag and now they’d paid her a cut. They had her.

  Crossing into the lowbloods, she felt propelled upon a cresting wave of disgust. What had become of the world? The little girl that she’d once been could never have imagined her own future, that she would become a “reaper,” taking blood from people to give it to the government. How had the human body become a property to be mined, so that she could now be made a pawn for a hacker looking to cheat the system?