Bloodlines (The Guardian of Empire City Book 1)

by Peter Hartog

  I took a shuddering breath, savoring every sensation as I relived it. Other fond memories followed, half-remembered slivers and pieces of neighborhood swing sets and carefree laughter, of blue skies and bright smiles, of family holidays and lazy daydreams. There was springtime and flowers in bloom, the fresh scent of Kate’s hair, soft summer breezes, and the gentle reminder that the world wasn’t such a terrible place after all.

  My anger sloughed away and lost its edge, clearing my mind. My hand tingled again from the memory of Besim’s touch. A comforting warmth tumbled throughout my body. Even Leyla was buoyed by the melody. She wiped her eyes, staring at the Vellan with admiration and wonder.

  Yet, despite the healing music, Nine remained unchanged, immune to the haunting, uplifting sounds of Besim’s song.

  Her melody echoed once, then faded. Diminished by the effort, Besim’s shoulders sagged. A soft sigh escaped her lips like a farewell.

  “You all right?” I asked.

  “I will manage,” she replied hoarsely, raising a trembling hand.

  “What…what was that?” Leyla asked, but the Vellan didn’t respond.

  We waited while Besim knelt on the floor, her head bowed low. Nine resumed her work, stepping around the consultant as if she were a piece of furniture. Finally, Besim lifted her head, made a slight gesture with her hand, and Nine approached her again, docile and obedient. Besim studied the catheter attached to the child’s inner thigh without touching it. Her eyes flicked over to the nearest monitor and its readout, and then up at me.

  They were dark pools in the dim light of the room, conveying an infinite sadness.

  “Detective Holliday, Number Nine and the other drones require immediate medical attention.” She sounded exhausted. “Although, it will make little difference. Their lights are gone.”

  “What are you talking about?” I demanded, gesturing in outrage at the laboratory. My anger returned, and I wanted to smash something, but Crain was already a congealed puddle of goo. “What the hell did Crain do to them?”

  Besim stared at the floor before answering. “These drones are empty, bereft of their humanity, their very souls. They are—"

  “Blood dolls,” Deacon stated flatly, his worn face bleak and filled with worry.

  “It is possible,” Besim conceded, looking up at him and nodding. “Although I suspect there is a far more sinister application at play.”

  “What the hell is a blood doll?” I asked, feeling lost.

  “Some people ain’t victims, Holliday,” Deacon explained grimly. “Some people give themselves willingly to the Dark. They allow themselves to be fed upon, believing someday they’ll transform into one, and live forever.”

  I stared at him.

  “You’re serious,” I whispered, the color draining from my face. “Jesus Christ.”

  Deacon didn’t blink.

  “He ain’t got shit to do with it.”

  Besim ignored us. She stood, brushing invisible wrinkles from her clothing with precise movements.

  “The vampyr fed upon them,” she said simply, her customary composure reasserting itself like a surgeon’s mask. “As did his coven. The condition of these drones, however, goes far beyond that.”

  “Explain,” I frowned, and folded my arms.

  Besim moved toward the nearest table.

  “The apparatus connecting the workers and the tables, along with their associated pumps and output lines, appears to be a modified version of dialysis.” She indicated the monitor and its web-like attachments with a wave. “The basic principle behind dialysis is the removal of waste from the blood across a semi-permeable membrane when the kidneys are unable to do so on their own. It seems this apparatus performs a very similar function.”

  “Are you saying all these people suffer from kidney failure?” Leyla asked, incredulous.

  “No Leyla.” Besim shook her head. “While these machines assist in maintaining life to some degree, Number Nine and the other drones are essential cogs within the overall production mechanism.”

  By way of explanation, she pointed across the room at a row of four tall tanks with blue-colored top caps and yellow stickers containing the words “concentrate storage.”

  “Those are dialysate solution tanks, which would normally contain water, a critical component to the cleansing process. However, I suspect the water has either been modified or replaced with other agents to act as the dialysate, or the fluid normally used to remove impurities.”

  She took a half-step forward to study the squat upright box beneath the table.

  “This monitor here provides output for the workers’ vital signs, as well as volume pressure and other indicators with respect to the efficacy of the mixing compounds and the cleaning process.”

  Nine hadn’t moved or registered any emotion. She just stared at the floor, submissive and unseeing. I balled my hands into fists, then unclenched them. The red furrows burned from where my fingernails had dug into the skin.

  “So why are they standing?” I asked, clearing my throat roughly, trying to wrap my head around it all. “I’ve been to EC General and seen patients hooked up to dialysis machines. They were all sitting or lying down. Wouldn’t all the movement make these catheters pop out?”

  “Someone surgically created the arteriovenous fistula, a type of vascular access for hemodialysis,” Besim answered as if lecturing to a class of medical students, and not while standing in some darkened room surrounded by designer drug equipment and a herd of docile zombies. “Whoever is responsible for affixing the catheters must have reinforced the femoral connection in a way to prevent the devices from accidentally detaching from the drones.”

  Besim paused, brow furrowed.

  “Yet, I see no sign of infection, which is quite remarkable,” she said. “Perhaps whatever the vampyr injects into the drones it feeds upon provides an increased ability to fight infection?”

  Besim was intrigued, her detachment and exhaustion replaced by genuine curiosity.

  “What are the catheters for, then?” Leyla asked as she stared forlornly at the lab.

  “The intake-line catheter feeds the admixture of blood and other compounds into and through the various machinery,” Besim explained. “The process must require continuous cleansing, or a recycling of the fluids. At first, I hypothesized these drones were as Deacon believed, willing cattle to be fed upon by their captors. But now I believe a living, biological component is the essential ingredient to all of it. Number Nine and the other drones not only facilitate but are, in fact, critical to the proper synthesis of the completed product. The vampyr infects the drone to establish a chemical base, and the machinery, coupled with whatever compound is contained within the dialysate tanks, is combined to refine the process.”

  She indicated the array of thin tubing connecting the devices.

  “These chains of tubes are a pooling arrangement, so that a large volume of blood is cleansed simultaneously to maximize output of the synthesized product. I can only conclude the process removes undesirable content from the blood in favor of an admixture of unknown elements resulting in the narcotic goldjoy.”

  “They’re using these people’s blood to manufacture goldjoy?” Leyla gasped, horrified.

  “They’re fucking mules,” Deacon growled in disgust.

  “My understanding of that term refers more to smuggling contraband, but there are similarities,” Besim conceded.

  “But you said their light was gone,” Leyla pointed out. “Your song didn’t do anything to Nine. What has that got to do with any of this?”

  “In my experience, only creatures without souls, lacking any sense of emotion or feeling, are immune to my…voice,” Besim replied softly. “All of them failed to respond emotionally to the sound, a clear indicator to me that their lights, their very souls, have been taken from them.”

  She looked at me, and there was genuine fear reflected there. But then she blinked, and it was gone.

  “Only a functional biological subject
is required to complete the process. A drone’s soul, therefore, must be assimilated as part of it. Perhaps this is the reason why goldjoy is so addictive to you humans.”

  “Quit calling them drones, Besim,” Leyla bristled, intense cold radiating from her. “They’re still people.”

  “I meant no offense, Leyla.” The Vellan was taken aback, holding up a placating hand. “I merely wished to elucidate on the condition of the drones to provide a complete—"

  “I said, quit calling them drones!” Leyla blazed.

  For a moment, she appeared ready to unleash frosty hell on Besim. Ice crystals formed in the air around her, and the temperature plummeted.

  “Why don’t we table the existentialism debate for another day?” I managed in a calm, steady voice, and stepped between them. I gave Leyla a pleading look, despite the sinking fear settling in my gut. My heart pounded in my chest and sweat froze on my brow. “C’mon kiddo, pull yourself together for me. Nine needs our help.”

  Leyla blinked several times, as if waking from a daydream. She took a deep breath, then relaxed. Whatever darkness had settled inside of her was gone, along with the cold and frost. Deacon gave me a solemn nod, and I saw him lower his truncheon.

  “So, what now?” I sighed heavily, giving the laboratory a grim look.

  “I will require raw samples from one of these drones…apologies, workers,” Besim replied, nonplussed. “With it at my disposal, I believe I can determine the precise metabolic and molecular structure of whatever is contained therein and confirm my theory.”

  “You want to draw blood from one of them?” I was dubious, staring at the mess of catheters, lines, and tubes.

  “My own apartments at L’Hotel Internacional possess the appropriate equipment necessary to study the samples,” Besim confirmed. “Once Doctor Stentstrom arrives, he can assist me.”

  “Naturally, you have a lab in your apartments,” I deadpanned, rolling my eyes at Leyla. “Doesn’t everybody? I bet you run around the city at night in spandex fighting crime too.”

  The young hacker offered me a wan smile. Some of my unease faded as I smiled back.

  “Excuse me?” Besim asked perplexed, eyebrow raised.

  “Nothing,” I replied. My holo-phone vibrated as EVI’s crackling voice in my ear announced both Mahoney and Stentstrom’s arrival. “The captain’s almost here, and Stentstrom’s at the front door. Deacon, you mind leading him down here?”

  The former Protector nodded, then gave the room one last, deep scowl.

  “We’ll be fine,” I assured him.

  “I ain’t worried about you,” he grumbled in irritation, and climbed the stairs two at a time.

  “Well, what if one of them attacks me and I get turned into a blood doll?” I asked. “You’ll just knock me out with the truncheon, right?”

  “Yep,” he replied easily as he headed toward the exit. “And after that, I’ll stake your heart, cut off your fucking head, and then light your infected ass on fire.”

  For some reason, that didn’t make me feel any better.

  Chapter 27

  “No matter where, of comfort no man speak,” I whispered to myself. “Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs. Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.”

  It was spooky standing around Rumpel’s drug lab while Nine and the others worked in silence. I tried not to imagine the horrible things Crain had done to these people, yet I couldn’t ignore Besim’s words.

  Their lights are gone.

  These poor people had suffered. Their trauma was raw, and very real. I’d seen plenty of cases where the survivors of rape and abuse spent years trying to recover some measure of themselves, if they ever recovered at all. EC Social Services did the best they could with their limited resources, but some wounds never healed. As I studied Nine, I was struck again by how slack and lifeless she appeared.

  Their lights are gone.

  The longer I watched, my sense of her emptiness grew. It reminded me of staring at the sun in winter, how its pale radiance made everything it touched faded and dull, as if all the color in the world had bled away. Would Nine and the others ever find solace? Could they? Or was Besim right, and more than just their will to live had been taken?

  James Reynolds had been one. The Insight had revealed a soulless man, devoured by the fetch. What was done to Nine felt the same. If Nine and the others couldn’t be saved, then it was a fate worse than death.

  Until my own near-death experience at Wallingbrooke, I’d left spirituality alone. Father Jack Davis from the Holy Redeemer Church where my grandfather had worked was better-equipped for an exploration of the immortal soul than some poor schmuck like me. As far as I was concerned, God and I weren’t on speaking terms, and hadn’t been in a long time. After Kate’s death, I hadn’t given the Almighty or organized religion much weight. And Kate’s afterlife, let alone mine, hadn’t been something I spent time pondering on my days off either.

  Then the Insight entered my life, and everything changed.

  I couldn’t deny Besim’s song, nor the profound effect it had on me. Despite my past hurt, anger, and bitterness, Besim’s song was a soothing balm on all those old wounds. My sense of self had been rejuvenated, if only for a brief moment. Even my previous ass-kicking at the hands of Crain had become a dull ache, as if I’d spent several days recovering.

  What her voice had accomplished was nothing short of magical.

  In the dim light of the lab, I watched Besim follow the conveyor belt to the end of its line. She poked her head carefully through the space where the containers trundled along.

  Who are you?

  “I have located a door to the storage area for the packaged goldjoy,” Besim said, her muffled voice carrying across the room. “Two workers are inside. With your permission, I shall investigate further.”

  “Knock yourself out,” I called back, then addressed Leyla in a quiet voice. “Keep an eye on the professor here while I look around.”

  “Sure, Doc,” she replied, chewing on her lower lip while her eyes flicked between Nine, the workers, the laboratory, and the catwalk.

  “It’ll be okay, kiddo,” I said, squeezing her shoulder before moving toward the two large coolers flanking the door. “Besides, Deacon and Stentstrom will be here soon.”

  I opened the coolers, one after the other. A blast of chilled air greeted me, and I rubbed my hands for warmth. Inside were dozens of bags full of clear and dark crimson liquids. Each bore marks corresponding to a blood type and the unique number etched on the heads of the workers.

  “Looks like a blood supply,” I called over my shoulder. “Not sure about the clear ones, though.”

  “Unsurprising, Detective Holliday,” Besim responded. She had returned to the main floor. “The workers need continuous transfusions while their blood transforms into the final product. The clear liquid must contain essential nutrients, such as glucose and amino acids, for sustenance, to maximize work output without causing delays due to stoppages for meals. This complex undoubtedly houses a medical facility to modify and correct sudden failures to the equipment, as well as any other relevant medical procedures. A trained staff of two or three would be sufficient to manage the medical operations, given the number of workers present in the laboratory. It is highly unlikely the guards we have encountered thus far were capable of such action. Nor were, I suspect, the vampyr and its minions.”

  “Yeah, well, whoever they are, I bet they’re long gone by now,” Leyla pointed out.

  “Probably,” I replied, shutting both coolers. “You find anything in that storage room?”

  “A service elevator to the surface,” Besim said. “I presume it leads to a staging area for the transportation of the product.”

  “Makes sense,” I grunted, turning toward the metal door set between the coolers.

  After a quick peek through its small window, I pulled open the door with care. Inside, a dozen live-feed holo-screens were inset along the far w
all. They cycled through different angles of the dance floor, bar, stage, kitchen, boiler room, the drug lab, part of the entryway and elevator, another hallway, and an alleyway, either next to Kraze or nearby. The faint whiff of burnt rubber and circuitry caught my attention. Two of the projectors were smashed, with glass, metal, and wiring littering the top of the lone virtual workstation. A rolling chair with a bent wheel strut lay on its side nearby, surrounded by more debris.

  “The murder weapon, I presume,” I murmured, folding my arms across my chest.

  A second chair was parked beside a small trashcan, refrigerator, and a table holding a coffee maker whose pot was half-filled. Above the table was a small cabinet with a single door. A quick look inside revealed two empty mugs, artificial sweetener packs, and powdered creamer. Both trashcan and refrigerator were empty.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” I said, filling one mug.

  It was disgusting, but after a couple of fortifying cups, I almost felt like a new man. As the last drop poured down my throat, I offered a silent prayer of thanks to the coffee gods. Java was the only religion I could get behind.

  I called out to Leyla, who appeared a few seconds later. She placed her holo-phone on the desk, then manipulated the workstation controls. A smaller display hovered above the phone, a miniature clone of the larger one. Like a conductor before her symphony, Leyla maneuvered between the devices. Music filtered from the phone, a song I didn’t recognize. She started to hum. Realizing there was an audience, Leyla looked up at me and smiled.