“Would you like to know something really funny?” Not weird at all that it’s my gynecologist asking me that question. Luckily I’m fully clothed again. No speculum in sight. I sigh. Her humor is just awful. but she’s a friend - sort of. Alice is a friendly sort of wants-to-be-your-auntie kinda doctor. “Go on then.”
“Your blood type being what it is doesn’t occur naturally in more than one in ten million people. With tech its relatively easy to synthesize but some people don’t take kindly to synth blood. So anyway -there’s a list.”
“Wait so you’re not telling me a knock-knock again? I’m so relieved Alice. What list?”
“A list of all the people in nearby systems with naturally occurring rhnull blood. You’re on it.”
“I’m on a list?” The rebel in me is not impressed.
“You are. Its a very small list. You should be honored.”
“I don’t want to be on a list.”
Well you are. But it’s a good list. You don’t really have a choice. You want to be on this list. For compatible donors. It’s also important that we can track down donors if you need a live transfusion. Sometimes the tech isn’t there in time.”
“Tech is always there though.” I gesture to the wetware shunt behind my ear, which these days is also an obscene gesture meaning get f*cking smart. The rebel in me approves.
“Well you’re on the list. It’s very exclusive. That’s all I can say.” Her eyebrows are wiggling and she's being a bit squeaky, which is surprising since shes quite big.
“OK then.”
Doctor Alice is hovering close like a balloon about to pop. All red faced and excitable. Too close for someone who has just been rummaging round in my nethers only a few minutes ago.
“OK so – Was there anything else?” Not that you’re getting a bit creepy or anything you ditzy auntie .
“I really couldn’t tell you who else is on the list. It’s so confidential.”
“I bet.” I plonk off the table as she leans in conspiratorially: “But you’d NEVER guess who else is on the list.”
“I have a feeling you’re gonna tell me though cos obviously you’re gonna tell me. You’re like a wee fat three year old who learned where the candy is.”
“Oh I couldn’t possibly.” She has a face like a harrumphing walrus when she’s in denial. For some reason she’s also between me and the door. Her examination room being what it is (a closet) I would have to literally climb over the table and stirrups to get past her. Or else go through the flimsy wall. I weigh my options. Either is doable I suppose but I go for the third option:
“God woman. Just get it off your chest. Lets resume our lives after OK?”
She does that wibble-wobble thing with her eyes like they’re about to go through the roof of her head and a squeaky noise like a dog toy being chewed up emits from somewhere. Her nose? She might have farted it out to be honest – she’s that excited.
“I really can’t say! I’d be royally screwed!”
“Well OK then.”
"ROYALLY!"
“O-K…” Remember those old earth vids with the old guy and the dog in the cartoon that really liked the cheese? She’s got that smile. All teeth. Wensleydale. Good dog Gromit!
I’m almost begging: “Can I go?”
She leans in and whispers: “A royal! It’s you and a royal! That’s it. That’s the list!"
OK that’s maybe a small bit interesting but my rebel is already marching towards the door. “Well I suppose there are lots of royals. And lots of other people as well on the list.”
"Nope. Just you and her! Whups!" That squeak again - "I gave it away.”
“It's a she then?”
“No my pet!” How weird is it she calls me that? Alice Meredith Green OBGYN it says on the front door. Pet! Can it get wierder? “Its THE She.”
“THE She? Is that even a sentence?
“THE Royal. You know who!” If she leans in any closer now we’ll be touching teeth by the way.
I really don’t. I just want to go and get on with my life.
“Well I’m not stopping you.” She totally is – like physically. She’s a big buxom woman but she leans back a bit deflated. A gap appears and I squeeze past. Literally squeeze. God why is this room so small? I’m past her and escape is certain. My brain hiccups then as my hand is reaching for the door handle: “There are only two of us on the list though? For the whole system?”
The balloon swells up again behind me: “YES! Isn’t that remarkable!”
I grimace noncommittally. “Cemiess is over 10 billion. There should be -” Everin does math “- a lot more? 20 people?”
More! Many more! Hundreds. But a lot of people get the surgery at birth. Most do actually. Its very risky having no antibodies. That might explain it.”
“Oh. Well obviously one of us didn’t. Or two of us.”
Obviously my love – but don’t worry about it. You’re in awesome company! It’s quite remarkable.”
My hand is twitching a mere inch from the handle but I can’t help myself. “THE She?”
She hums like a bee in honey: “Mmmmm!”
“OK. Thanks Alice. See you next year.”
"Toodles pet! Stay safe!" As I leave I swear another little squeaky fart escapes from somewhere behind me.
It takes an hour to get home, D-class transport being what it is (lowest of the low in safety, comfort and quality, apart from E which is slaves and convicts so they don't count). Mack Relay is an Orbis mark IV and nearly 6 kilometers long from top to bum. The route is ridiculously circumtuitous if you’re trying not to bleed credits and the nicest part of it, where Alice’s surgery is, sits in the front of the station where you can see all the lovely ships landing and leaving. All grass and boulevards and dreams. The worst part, where the micro closet apartment I lovingly call home is, is at the bum-end and lovingly called “the grate”. Rent is low there because the whole neighborhood would be the bit ejected into space at first sign of a reactor meltdown. Literally my home is part of the radiation shielding. We’re right next to the primary comms hub though so cheap ethernet! What can I say? Pros and cons.
That long hour gives me a chance to think about Aisling Duval. And see her. Over and over: She is plastered everywhere you go: Her face is on all the channels. Every third billboard has her big grin slapped all over it. That impossibly beautiful smile with those impossibly beautiful teeth. She’ll welcome you to the landing pad and wish you a pleasant day at the hospices and oh my frackin god shes everywhere and there are a million reasons to hate her and be sick of her. But no-one does and no-one is. Cos she’s Aisling and we all love her to bits. The people's princess.
“Frackin Aisling Duval.” I want to say it out loud. My rebel is nagging me. But I won’t say it. God knows what is listening, even on the D train. Sonics are everywhere. We all know the stories of the bums in the trash compactors. The lights flicker then and the carriage I’m in gives me a shake and a loud clatter as if it’s about to fall off the rail. It doesn’t but I get the sense it really really wants to. Can we blame it? It hasn’t seen proper maintenance in thirty years. Of course it wants to die like everything else D-class. Thanks for the warning though.
Aisling Duval wouldn’t know what a D class anything looked like. She’d gaze through me wonder what the smell was. But now we share something, her and I. Something insignificant but personal, you know? Blood. It doesn’t really get more personal than that. Coppery red sticky stupid lose-too-much-and-you-die blood. Tech didn’t remove that dependency yet. And if her blood is A-class then so is mine.
It’s a funny little thought and hovers in my head as a daydream sharing space with vampires and princesses and the fantastic scenarios that put them in the same room all screaming at each other. Idle little dream bubbles sucked in and out with the rattles of the monorail as we roll tediously through countless forced stops and past twenty-seven stations with each one looking decidedly more shabby than the one before, until the trees are gone and all the walls are grimy grey and we’re well past the “NO CHILDREN OR PREGNANTS beyond this point.” hazard signs. The garbage mounts outside the windows in great piles. Detritus mountains. Nearly home.
I’m looking at her billboard outside the Euthanasia church as we pull into Perdido-9 and now its a little different to be honest, looking at her and feeling – imagining – that sanguine connection. We’re the same age more or less, and I’m no perfectly-toothed stunner but I could do a passable impression at a hallows party. We could be sisters maybe? Same height; same figure if I ate a few sandwiches (or more than a few – my Trindler profile is all “sexy emaciated.”) Yeah I could pull off an Aisling – I don’t think the hair dye exists yet that could get my mousy tangles to her level of radiation blue, but the cosplay would pass muster for the weebs and pervs. I could totally do the pron version of her.
“Duval you’re not so much.” Whups I think I said that out loud. This is my stop. Good job D-train we survived another perilous journey together. I exit cautiously and scan for gang-bangers as you do cos this is where they’ll jump you, but its all clear. The Platform is lit today and the short walk to the cubicles under the grate is uneventful.
Home sweet home.
To be continued...
“Your blood type being what it is doesn’t occur naturally in more than one in ten million people. With tech its relatively easy to synthesize but some people don’t take kindly to synth blood. So anyway -there’s a list.”
“Wait so you’re not telling me a knock-knock again? I’m so relieved Alice. What list?”
“A list of all the people in nearby systems with naturally occurring rhnull blood. You’re on it.”
“I’m on a list?” The rebel in me is not impressed.
“You are. Its a very small list. You should be honored.”
“I don’t want to be on a list.”
Well you are. But it’s a good list. You don’t really have a choice. You want to be on this list. For compatible donors. It’s also important that we can track down donors if you need a live transfusion. Sometimes the tech isn’t there in time.”
“Tech is always there though.” I gesture to the wetware shunt behind my ear, which these days is also an obscene gesture meaning get f*cking smart. The rebel in me approves.
“Well you’re on the list. It’s very exclusive. That’s all I can say.” Her eyebrows are wiggling and she's being a bit squeaky, which is surprising since shes quite big.
“OK then.”
Doctor Alice is hovering close like a balloon about to pop. All red faced and excitable. Too close for someone who has just been rummaging round in my nethers only a few minutes ago.
“OK so – Was there anything else?” Not that you’re getting a bit creepy or anything you ditzy auntie .
“I really couldn’t tell you who else is on the list. It’s so confidential.”
“I bet.” I plonk off the table as she leans in conspiratorially: “But you’d NEVER guess who else is on the list.”
“I have a feeling you’re gonna tell me though cos obviously you’re gonna tell me. You’re like a wee fat three year old who learned where the candy is.”
“Oh I couldn’t possibly.” She has a face like a harrumphing walrus when she’s in denial. For some reason she’s also between me and the door. Her examination room being what it is (a closet) I would have to literally climb over the table and stirrups to get past her. Or else go through the flimsy wall. I weigh my options. Either is doable I suppose but I go for the third option:
“God woman. Just get it off your chest. Lets resume our lives after OK?”
She does that wibble-wobble thing with her eyes like they’re about to go through the roof of her head and a squeaky noise like a dog toy being chewed up emits from somewhere. Her nose? She might have farted it out to be honest – she’s that excited.
“I really can’t say! I’d be royally screwed!”
“Well OK then.”
"ROYALLY!"
“O-K…” Remember those old earth vids with the old guy and the dog in the cartoon that really liked the cheese? She’s got that smile. All teeth. Wensleydale. Good dog Gromit!
I’m almost begging: “Can I go?”
She leans in and whispers: “A royal! It’s you and a royal! That’s it. That’s the list!"
OK that’s maybe a small bit interesting but my rebel is already marching towards the door. “Well I suppose there are lots of royals. And lots of other people as well on the list.”
"Nope. Just you and her! Whups!" That squeak again - "I gave it away.”
“It's a she then?”
“No my pet!” How weird is it she calls me that? Alice Meredith Green OBGYN it says on the front door. Pet! Can it get wierder? “Its THE She.”
“THE She? Is that even a sentence?
“THE Royal. You know who!” If she leans in any closer now we’ll be touching teeth by the way.
I really don’t. I just want to go and get on with my life.
“Well I’m not stopping you.” She totally is – like physically. She’s a big buxom woman but she leans back a bit deflated. A gap appears and I squeeze past. Literally squeeze. God why is this room so small? I’m past her and escape is certain. My brain hiccups then as my hand is reaching for the door handle: “There are only two of us on the list though? For the whole system?”
The balloon swells up again behind me: “YES! Isn’t that remarkable!”
I grimace noncommittally. “Cemiess is over 10 billion. There should be -” Everin does math “- a lot more? 20 people?”
More! Many more! Hundreds. But a lot of people get the surgery at birth. Most do actually. Its very risky having no antibodies. That might explain it.”
“Oh. Well obviously one of us didn’t. Or two of us.”
Obviously my love – but don’t worry about it. You’re in awesome company! It’s quite remarkable.”
My hand is twitching a mere inch from the handle but I can’t help myself. “THE She?”
She hums like a bee in honey: “Mmmmm!”
“OK. Thanks Alice. See you next year.”
"Toodles pet! Stay safe!" As I leave I swear another little squeaky fart escapes from somewhere behind me.
*
You don't need a packet decryptor to figure out Alice. There’s only one SHE who is a royal in these parts. This system, Cemiess, is Her system. Like literally we might as well all have her royal seal stamped on our foreheads. We already have it stamped in to our wetwares and debt records. Aisling High-and-Mighty Duval.
It takes an hour to get home, D-class transport being what it is (lowest of the low in safety, comfort and quality, apart from E which is slaves and convicts so they don't count). Mack Relay is an Orbis mark IV and nearly 6 kilometers long from top to bum. The route is ridiculously circumtuitous if you’re trying not to bleed credits and the nicest part of it, where Alice’s surgery is, sits in the front of the station where you can see all the lovely ships landing and leaving. All grass and boulevards and dreams. The worst part, where the micro closet apartment I lovingly call home is, is at the bum-end and lovingly called “the grate”. Rent is low there because the whole neighborhood would be the bit ejected into space at first sign of a reactor meltdown. Literally my home is part of the radiation shielding. We’re right next to the primary comms hub though so cheap ethernet! What can I say? Pros and cons.
That long hour gives me a chance to think about Aisling Duval. And see her. Over and over: She is plastered everywhere you go: Her face is on all the channels. Every third billboard has her big grin slapped all over it. That impossibly beautiful smile with those impossibly beautiful teeth. She’ll welcome you to the landing pad and wish you a pleasant day at the hospices and oh my frackin god shes everywhere and there are a million reasons to hate her and be sick of her. But no-one does and no-one is. Cos she’s Aisling and we all love her to bits. The people's princess.
“Frackin Aisling Duval.” I want to say it out loud. My rebel is nagging me. But I won’t say it. God knows what is listening, even on the D train. Sonics are everywhere. We all know the stories of the bums in the trash compactors. The lights flicker then and the carriage I’m in gives me a shake and a loud clatter as if it’s about to fall off the rail. It doesn’t but I get the sense it really really wants to. Can we blame it? It hasn’t seen proper maintenance in thirty years. Of course it wants to die like everything else D-class. Thanks for the warning though.
Aisling Duval wouldn’t know what a D class anything looked like. She’d gaze through me wonder what the smell was. But now we share something, her and I. Something insignificant but personal, you know? Blood. It doesn’t really get more personal than that. Coppery red sticky stupid lose-too-much-and-you-die blood. Tech didn’t remove that dependency yet. And if her blood is A-class then so is mine.
It’s a funny little thought and hovers in my head as a daydream sharing space with vampires and princesses and the fantastic scenarios that put them in the same room all screaming at each other. Idle little dream bubbles sucked in and out with the rattles of the monorail as we roll tediously through countless forced stops and past twenty-seven stations with each one looking decidedly more shabby than the one before, until the trees are gone and all the walls are grimy grey and we’re well past the “NO CHILDREN OR PREGNANTS beyond this point.” hazard signs. The garbage mounts outside the windows in great piles. Detritus mountains. Nearly home.
I’m looking at her billboard outside the Euthanasia church as we pull into Perdido-9 and now its a little different to be honest, looking at her and feeling – imagining – that sanguine connection. We’re the same age more or less, and I’m no perfectly-toothed stunner but I could do a passable impression at a hallows party. We could be sisters maybe? Same height; same figure if I ate a few sandwiches (or more than a few – my Trindler profile is all “sexy emaciated.”) Yeah I could pull off an Aisling – I don’t think the hair dye exists yet that could get my mousy tangles to her level of radiation blue, but the cosplay would pass muster for the weebs and pervs. I could totally do the pron version of her.
“Duval you’re not so much.” Whups I think I said that out loud. This is my stop. Good job D-train we survived another perilous journey together. I exit cautiously and scan for gang-bangers as you do cos this is where they’ll jump you, but its all clear. The Platform is lit today and the short walk to the cubicles under the grate is uneventful.
Home sweet home.
To be continued...
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Ev would ask how much they're paying and whether it comes with a free robo hamster.