The drone traveled through the early evening glow in electric silence, toward the rough geographical center of the Southern City Segment. This was one of four such segments that made up the city, along with North-by, Crosstown, and Eastern. Each had a distribution center that collected the day’s take from the donor stations in that segment. Totals from each were then shipped by transport drone to Central City Collection – CCC – downtown. Set in the middle of an urban forest, Triple-C was a sprawling complex that Patriot media proudly termed “the Heart” because it was the central hub for the circulation of blood to the Gray Zones. From our heart to yours, so it went.

Willa put her hand to the side of the vault, anxious over the precious cargo warming inside. Her anxiety was double since she didn’t know when the coolant had actually gone out. It was possible the entire load was bad, and a single day of lost pay could break her.

The drone settled and Willa quickly unclipped the vault. You have arrived at Patriot Distribution, SCS, said the drone. Will you be needing continued service?

“No, thank you,” she said, her heart already pounding like a countdown.

Have a most pleasant evening, then.

“You too.” She rolled the vault onto the concrete apron in front of the building. The drone sped away.

Set off from the more densely populated residential areas, SCS Distribution stood alone at the center of a magnificent hexagonal concrete expanse, surrounded by a wall with trees stretching up behind it. A single road led out and into the blood districts. As far as she could tell, the place was empty. No people or other drones. Just a speedloop tube descending from the building’s outer wall and into the ground at the far side.

The transports had not yet taken to the sky, and until they’d all departed, she had time to deposit the vault. She wheeled it heavily to one side of the huge polygonal building where a cutout in the thick concrete had a processing interface that looked like an old automated teller machine.

Willa’s orthopedics slipped on the moist concrete as she struggled to roll the cooling vault to the connection point at the far end of a ramp.

Her bangs wicked away beads of sweat as she wrangled the vault. You’re too old for this. Finally, with her legs about to give, a loud click signaled the vault’s successful connection to the interface and it absorbed into the building. She rested against the wall for a moment, letting the cool cement sooth her nerves. Above, the blood transport drones began to filter from the building. They were wider and shorter than human transport drones, more utilitarian, and less refined – shaped like giant cigar boxes with ducted fans powerful enough to carry up to six cooling vaults apiece. Their only embellishment was the phrase BE A PATRIOT illuminated on their bellies.