The Phlebotomist

by Chris Panatier

  “Refectory?” asked the liftman.

  “Yes… of course,” Willa answered.

  “Just a moment, please.” He disengaged a switch on an old-fashioned style lever and eased the contraption down.

  “Been a short while since I’ve been in a manually operated lift,” said Lock.

  The man considered her briefly and then answered, “Reminders of the past make it less likely to forget. Here we are.”

  The doors opened to a sprawling hall as garish as the lyceum. At the center was a fountain, so large and out-of-place that Willa actually did a double take to make sure they hadn’t wandered outside. Water dyed tastelessly red flowed over yet another domed jellyfish sculpture, its tentacles peaking from the murk with small spouts at the tips. A chamber orchestra played Prokofiev on a raised stage nearby. Bars were set at intervals down the walls, a wooden stanchion with a plaque next to each displaying the vintages being served.

  “What was all that about?” asked Lock. “Treating us like royalty? Are they playing with us?”

  “I have no idea. Seems like it,” Willa answered.

  “Shit.”

  As the room began to fill, Willa and Lock did their best to make the rounds slowly and turned to point at things whenever anyone threatened to make eye contact. After a few minutes, it was elbow to elbow. Willa began to panic. Lock saw her state and said, “You need some water,” and pushed up toward one of the bars.

  Through a narrow gap in the dense crowd, Willa captured a glance at a row of drinks being poured. “Stop,” she whispered. “They don’t have water.”

  “Whaddaya mean?” said Lock into Willa’s hard stare. “Oh right.” She angled her neck to watch the bartender twirling glasses and spinning shakers, but always pouring the same syrupy cocktail. “We need to creep out of here. Find the kids.”

  “Hey you two!”

  They spun around to see Candice, smiling fatly.

  “What are you doing in this line? This is O-neg. AB-pos is at the front of the room.” She pointed.

  “Oh, how stupid of us,” said Willa. “I guess we’re just tired after a long day of travel.”

  “This your first Patrioteer, isn’t it,” said Candice with an empathetic tilt of the head.

  “Yes.”

  “Of course it is!” she declared, hiking her purse into her armpit. “Come on, I’ll show you around.” A frill of loose fabric around her neck shuddered as she changed course.

  They had no choice but to follow. As they moved into the middle of the room, its layout became clear. It was a rounded octagon, with the blood bars spread evenly, one on each wall. They were set upon heavy layers of polished black wood with anywhere from one to three bartenders in crisp slate and gold. Behind them, the wood continued up the wall to the ceiling, elaborately carved and holding a mirror within. The images in the structures were largely indecipherable, though some themes were garishly obvious. War, fire, blood, dominion over the animals, a great burning sun, the worship of a higher power.

  At what seemed the “top” of the octagon, which was opposite to the entrance from the elevators, a much larger bar loomed over the entire room. It was higher than the others and its carvings were larger, heavier, and more detailed. Only a few individuals loitered, sipping from ornate grails. Willa read the plaque: AB-positive. And suddenly everything clicked. She finally understood just what was going on, why she and Lock were being treated with such deference.

  AB-positive was the universal recipient, the one group that could survive on anybody’s blood. And here they had all the power.

  The sheer simplicity of it. In the districts, it was the O-negatives, the universal donors, who enjoyed relative prosperity due to the higher prices their blood fetched. On the outside, they were the most important to Patriot. The O-negs could feed anyone. Feed any Ichorwulf. But on the inside, the roles were reversed, it was the universal recipients who enjoyed the flexibility and ease of living, of not having to rely on anyone to label and constantly monitor their sustenance. It didn’t matter to the AB-positives that the rest of the Ichorwulves had lost their sense of smell, their ability to discern upon whom they could feed. The AB-positives could take from anyone. For them, there was no such thing as a bad transfusion. At the end of the day the AB-positives didn’t need Patriot at all.

  All of this seemed to confer upon the few AB-positives who were present a mystique of preciousness, exclusivity. It made sense. At three percent of the population, they were indeed rare. They didn’t have to rely on the Patriot machine to survive. They could turn to the Old Way without fear of poisoning. For them, Patriot was a convenience, but at the end of the day, unnecessary. In confessing their blood type to Candice, Willa had unwittingly anointed herself and Lock as VIPs, placing them into the upper echelon of Ichorwulf society.

  A commotion echoed from the front of the room; a mixture of hoots, whistles, and applause. The crowd appeared to be parting and there he was, Dagen, flanked by an escort of three men and three women, all lean and muscular. They were immediately distinguishable from the usual Patriot security as they bore no laceguns on shoulder straps. Instead, dark gray scabbards holding short swords hung from their hips. Willa nudged Lock, “Look.”

  Lock went up on tiptoes and craned her neck to see, then thumped her heels back down. “Vrae,” she said.

  Dagen jumped up onto the wall of the central fountain and put his hands out. The room fell silent.

  “A bit of a surprise for everyone! I come bearing good news: we have received the first wave of the blood that broke the boycott.”

  The crowd aahed.

  “And…” he let the tension build, “we’ve already pulled Alliance’s backwash from the taps! Let’s toast over something fresh! Go! Celebrate your birthright! Feed! I will return shortly with the Claret!” He leapt from the fountain and appeared to head out of the room to another round of adoring cheers.

  As soon as he had exited, the energy in the refectory was charged. Ichorwulves unceremoniously and enthusiastically emptied their snifters and chalices into the fountains, darkening them further. Glasses shattered across the floor. They streamed like so many red blood cells through capillaries to each of the eight bars.

  Candice was barely able to contain the saliva gathering on her lips. She led Willa and Lock briskly to the foot of the broad stairs leading up to the bar for AB-positive. “This is as far as I can go. I’ve heard AB-pos is simply to die for. Well, it would be if I tried it,” she giggled, placing a hand to her bosom. “Enjoy! I’m off to get some fresh.”

  They began climbing the steps and took in the room. All over, Ichorwulves were guzzling the new blood, no longer bothering to keep it from spilling across their faces. Lock pulled close. “Willa – they’re drinking the new stuff and they ain’t dying.”

  Willa made a sweep of the room and saw the same. Her mind raced through all the reasons: maybe the Patriot phlebotomists had suddenly begun to take extra care to randomize their needle punches and had correctly labeled it. She guessed it was also possible that enough legitimate blood had gotten through, diluting the counterfeit portion. They hadn’t hacked the entire city, after all. Maybe Patriot put the blood through additional security before serving it. Maybe, instead of killing them, it only caused indigestion.

  They were finished. Done. It was the end of the line. Something had gone wrong in the chain of events. She went through it all again in her mind. Claude had made it explicitly clear that his kind were just as constrained by phenotype compatibility as humans, yet all around them, Ichorwulves golloped mis-labeled blood. Willa’s throat tightened. They could turn around now, maybe get out alive, but it would mean abandoning Isaiah and the rest. And they’d come too far not to try and find them, at least. To make themselves known to the children they’d tried to save. And that was all Willa cared about now. She knew they weren’t getting out alive.

  At the top of the steps, she considered the carvings behind the bar. Pictographs suggesting a great migration, a battle surroundin
g a magnificent tower, conqueror and conquered. The return of a great one, a messiah.

  An older man in a black turtleneck with a close-cropped silver beard leaned easy on the bar. “Can I get something for you ladies to drink?” he asked. “They’re already pouring fresh.”

  Willa hesitated and Lock took the mantle of responding. “Sure.”

  “What’ll you have,” he asked. “We’ve got all the vintages up here.”

  “AB-pos for me,” Lock responded, playing the part.

  “A purist!” he said, signaling the bartender. “I’m the same way. The others are fine for a change of pace, but at the end of the day, I love my own stuff.”

  The bartender leaned onto the polished counter. “Ninety-eight-six or chilled?”

  “Chilled,” said Lock, her lips curling involuntarily.

  Nausea crept into Willa’s throat.

  “And for you, ma’am?” asked the man.

  “I’m OK, thank you. Not hungry.”

  “Nonsense,” he said, and turned to the barkeep. “Two.”

  The bartender lifted a golden, swan-shaped carafe from a chilling dock and poured a long stream into a pair of crystal chalices without spilling a drop. Willa could feel her neck beginning to sweat. Her stomach turned as she envisioned how it would feel to swallow it down and her teeth buzzed in anticipation.

  “Are you alright?” said the man, kindly setting a hand on her own. “Do you need medical?”

  “No, thank you, I’m fine. You’re right,” said Willa, finding herself. “It’s been a long day. I’m sure I am just hungry.”

  “I’m sure that’s all it is. Big choices ahead.” He handed over the glasses and took up his own.

  Bubbles slowly surfaced and popped. She knew by sight it was around half a unit.

  “To what shall we toast?” he asked.

  Willa looked up from the blood. “Our children.”

  “Bravo,” he said, and drank his cup dry.

  Willa put the crystal to her bottom lip and tried to find a place in her mind she could go in order to complete the horrible deed. She thought of Elizabeth with that lily, like a tiny shining sun held in her hand, and how as they’d walked, she’d scattered petals of daylight onto the ground all through the gray of the place that she’d once lived. She pictured Isaiah’s face, so stolid against the immense fear he must have been experiencing. His strength, her strength. Looking back down at the glass, only a thin film remained. She turned, saw Lock struggling to swallow her serving and tried to communicate telepathically that she should be less obvious.

  “Where did you say you were from?” asked the man, absent-mindedly flagging down the bartender.

  “Riversfork.”

  “Ah, Riversfork. What did you say your names were?”

  “Well, I’m Eileen Wisdom and this is Pearl.”

  He laughed, “Pearl Wisdom?”

  “You know how parents can be.”

  “I do… I do.” He took another chalice from the bar and wiped the inside rim with his pinky, then sucked it clean.

  “And your name?” Willa asked.

  “Maxwell MacLaren.” He took a swig.

  “Those are nice cufflinks,” said Willa in reference to the tiny gold Patriot insignias flashing at his wrists. “Do you work for the company?”

  He looked at her oddly for just a fraction of a second and then reconfigured his face, concealing his initial reaction. Gently, he set his chalice on the bar and slid it toward the tender. “You flatter me, Eileen.”

  “How is that?” asked Willa.

  His face flattened and the corners of his mouth drew down. “Even I can’t pass for fifty, anymore.”

  “Oh, well I–”

  “Patriot executives retire at fifty, Mrs Wisdom,” he said, alluding to some apparent common policy. “To give us a few years of leisure before the Silvering. Surely you know that.”

  “Of course,” said Willa, now back peddling. “I meant that I didn’t know you had been an executive with the company, that’s all. We’ve only just now met.”

  Lock’s eyes flicked back and forth. She was getting antsy.

  “I see,” said MacLaren, running the backs of his fingers over his beard. “You know, it’s odd that we’ve only just met, considering that I know all of the AB-pos Apex in my city.”

  Willa smiled apologetically. “We’re from Riversfork, though.”

  “So am I.”

  Lock pulled herself close to Willa, saying, “It’s been an absolute pleasure, Mr MacLaren, but we have a big decision to make with regards to tomorrow, picking a child and such… we are just worn out.”

  “I understand,” he said, letting his weight tip up against the bar. He casually watched as they began down the steps.

  “Let’s get out of here,” whispered Lock. “Quicker the better.”

  They made the bottom of the stairs and filtered into the crowd, maneuvering easily through the ravenous feeding horde. They passed the large central fountain and wove toward the exit. A few conference goers seemed to notice their hasty retreat, but paid little mind as they downed chalice after chalice of red. Steps from escape, MacLaren’s voice boomed from behind. “But you hardly ate!” The room fell silent.

  All around, faces watched as the man descended from the AB-positive bar at the top of the room, two large goblets held aloft in manicured hands. He strode down the stairs, upright and beautiful like a show horse, his white teeth gleaming in his sunbaked face. The murmuring crowd parted before him, creating a straight-line path directly to Willa and Lock.

  “Riversfork is a good four hours even by the speediest drone. You’ll arrive famished,” he announced loudly. “This is a special occasion. Please, take ichor alongside your brothers and sisters.” He walked slowly forward, drawing out the moment. Stepping before them, he pushed one of the goblets at Willa. It was wide and deep – a cauldron – filled to the brim. A full unit, probably more.

  There was no way she could do it. Even if it was water, it would take her half an hour to drink that much. Nearby, another man put a pewter stein to his mouth and gulped down the contents, tipped it at the ground, and gave a bloody smile.

  “Go ahead now, Mrs Wisdom, it’s fresh and you’re so terribly fatigued from the day.”

  Willa shut her eyes and put her mouth to the goblet. Her top lip sank into the warm soup and she shuddered, recoiling from the warmth, the taste; repulsed by an atavistic recognition of wrongness.

  “What seems to be the matter?” he asked, mocking.

  The surrounding throng began muttering, shifting with suspicion, agitation.

  Willa’s mouth gorged with a coating of thick, pre-vomit saliva. “I’m just – I’m not feeling well.”

  “Well then, here’s your antidote,” he said, forcing the vessel upward against her face.

  She drank. Huge swallows boiled down her throat like salted iron rust. Her stomach stretched and convulsed. She pushed away from MacLaren and the goblet pounded the floor, splashing the crowd.

  She cantered violently forward and released all she had taken, heaving blood as much from her nose as her mouth. It erupted in a froth of bile, leaving behind long strings of red mucus that she struggled to cough free.

  “I knew it!” a woman yelled. Wiping her face, Willa turned to see Candice LaTremaine snarling forward. “Those two didn’t even recite the Rule of Progeny!”

  “Did she get the wrong type?” someone asked innocently from nearby.

  “They’re AB-pos, there is no wrong type,” LaTremaine hissed.

  “Oh, I’d say they’re the wrong type!” declared MacLaren deliciously. “They’re humans!”

  Gasps and whispered hysteria filled the air of the refectory. Someone said something about calling security. Willa cast her eyes about for Vrae.

  “No,” said MacLaren. “No security. Have you already forgotten who you are? Have you already forgotten what Dagen said?” He walked over to Lock and slapped the Goblet from her hands. “I haven’t forgotten.” He smiled
widely as slender golden fangs crept down from behind his teeth. He lifted a foot into his hand and smoothly removed a cordovan loafer, then did the same with the other. His jaw moved in and out, his widening maw as wet and red as freshly torn flesh. He came for them.

  Willa leapt backward, pulling Lock by the elbow. The crowd pressed in for a better view of the carnage that was to come.

  Candice stumbled suddenly between them, tripping drunkenly sideways, then fell into MacLaren while mumbling something about the Rule of Progeny. She was dripping with sweat – heavy beads of moisture running in pink-tinted trails from her temples and forehead. She coughed. Stopped. Coughed again. Worked to stabilize herself. Finally, she stood still. Her eyes flitted between Willa, Lock, and MacLaren. Then she licked her lips as one does before saying something, and a spout of red burst from her nose, followed by a fat rope of gore from her mouth.

  The circle around them widened as Candice lurched this way and that, finally tumbling forward onto her taut, round stomach. More blood emptied from her mouth in thick, heaving pulses that gushed until the supply was exhausted, and her limbs fell still to the floor. MacLaren stared. Willa grabbed Lock’s arm and pulled her away.

  “What was that?” MacLaren demanded. “What did you do to her?”

  Off to the sides, other sounds came. Grunts at first. Throats clearing. Then choking, sputtering. A spray of red painted MacLaren’s face. Willa didn’t see where it’d come from until a man collapsed into him, heaving blood as he begged for help. MacLaren pushed the man away and wiped his face. He considered his dripping hand and his eyes filled with terror. Others began screaming about diseases, hemorrhagic fevers, plague. Faces that had been content and self-satisfied were now manic, confused, and desperate. A beautiful woman standing nearby lurched a bellyful of slimy plum onto her date. He returned a burgundy volley into her face as they fell together into the water feature. A barricade of the bodies piled to the floor between Willa and Lock and MacLaren. He considered them, then turned and fled.