Marked Cards

by George R. R. Martin

  "Excuse me," Joan said, and slithered away down the hall. As he watched, Finn saw her scales shift from metallic brilliance to a pale white. The only way you could see her was as a blur against the floor.

  "Oh dear, Joan can be very ... sudden. I hope she doesn't bite Dr. van Renssaeller," twittered Chicken-Foot.

  "Or eat her," added Finn. He then considered for a second. "'Course, that would solve our problem. It's the perfect crime. No body."

  Chickie was still making inarticulate clucking noises as Finn wandered away to begin the day's work.

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  Late that night, while preparing solutions to package a new batch of viruses in her tissue culture lab, Clara reflected on her reaction to joker deformities.

  Tychophobia, clearly. Fear of the wild card. She had a bad case of it. Knowing her reaction was irrational didn't make it any less severe. Only brute will kept her from diving out the nearest window whenever one of them came near.

  It was fortunate that the more attractive jokers, like Bradley Finn and Maggie Felix, affected her less violently than others - less, say, than most of the patients languishing in the wards. Otherwise this sojourn at the clinic would be unbearable.

  She pinned her hair up, then donned a protective hood, goggles, overalls, two pairs of gloves, and a respirator, and picked up her jugs of plasmids and mix solutions. She opened the airlock to the Level III clean room and stepped inside; the outer door locked and the inner door opened with a hiss. Her ears popped. Clara set the solutions down on the bench, then removed a tray of tissue culture plates from the incubator and carried the tray past the blinking banks of lights to the hood.

  A wild card is a wild card, she thought, perching herself on her lab stool to prepare her solutions. Any visual difference is illusory; at their core, they harbor the same genetic damage.

  Knowing this didn't change the shape or texture of her feelings. So much for clinical objectivity.

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  Clara van Renssaeler, Journal Entry, 8 Apr 94

  At last! I've found the restriction map I need. Tachyon's work on Takis B progressed in exactly the direction I thought. He reports the wild card initiation site as being 70 base pairs downstream from Taq1 and 2kB upstream from Xcm1 on chromosome 14.

  I'm repackaging several of my more promising viruses with the right initiation site receptors. To maximize recombinations and cell disruption, I've spliced into the packages a transposon element with terminal inverted repeats as well. We'll have to see.

  But this feels right. I'm getting close - I can smell it.

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  A riot was fomenting in the street in front of the clinic. On the steps of the clinic stood the defenders. Troll, mountainous in his homemade body armor constructed out of pieces of old mattress and bumpers, was slapping a six foot long billy club against his palm. Despite the exhortations of the fundamentalist preacher, some members of the mob were eyeing the big joker nervously. Mengele, a few other doctors, and some random angry jokers completed the guardians. Finn was attired in more traditional kevlar. It still didn't make him feel safe. All he could think about was his exposed head, and the unprotected expanse of horse body.

  "He's winding up," Troll said. "The rocks will be flying soon." Finn swallowed hard, nodded. "Herself said she was going to handle this?" Troll asked.

  "I'll believe it when I see it," Finn grunted.

  And then, miraculously, in the distance, they heard them - sirens. And they were coming closer. The mob was starting to exchange puzzled glances. Was it possible their fun was about to be spoiled?

  A few seconds later, and police cars came wheeling around the corner. Nats scattered. Police erupted from cars, and ran off in pursuit.

  "Look at that, will you. Police." Laughter tugged at Troll's voice.

  "I wouldn't have known what they were if you hadn't told me," Bob Mengele added.

  "She did it," Finn said simply, and was grateful.

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  The next Saturday Clara needed some of Tachyon's notes from the clinic. The taxi driver turned on the radio, and 1010 WINS reported a water main break on The Bowery at Canal Street, which explained why they got stuck in traffic all the way up at Spring Street. She paid the fare and got out of the cab to walk the rest of the way to the clinic. Through Soho and Chinatown, and into the heart of Jokertown.

  The air had quite a bite. A hard rain the night before had washed the streets clean of their usual patina of litter and urine. It was before eight; closed, graffiti-sprayed gates barred the store fronts and few people were out on the streets. Clara stuffed her hands in the pockets of her big, woolly cardigan and set out at a good clip.

  Jokertown. By all rights she should be terrified. But this morning her fear had an element of defiance, almost exhilaration. She could face anything.

  It was easier than she'd expected. Jokertown's streets weren't crowded. The one or two jokers she encountered up close seemed as nervous around her as she was around them, and gave her a wide berth.

  Just down the block from the clinic, in a large, fenced asphalt lot, she heard shouting and laughing and the sound of wood smacking pavement. A small group of joker teenagers was playing polo.

  Jokers playing polo? The idea seemed outlandish; the two didn't belong in the same universe.

  Four of the teenagers had feet that could accommodate roller blades. Of the other two, one hopped on a sort of accordian leg and the other had the hindquarters of a pony, like Dr. Finn's. Then she realized it was Dr. Finn. Curious, she hung onto the fence and watched.

  It was clear he way outclassed the kids and was holding back. Of course, his body was perfectly designed for polo. But she was struck by now well coordinated his movements were as he reared and turned, as he raced across the lot, as he bent low and swung his polo stick, and led the chase back across the length of the lot with his tail high and his hooves striking the pavement in a clattering beat: horse and rider in perfect synchrony.

  It reminded her of her polo-playing years in prep school, and of the times her Uncle Henry used to take her along on outings with a local group of mentally handicapped lads.

  The ball struck the fence near her and the ragged group raced over. They braked several yards away when they saw her, fear and suspicion on their bizarre and twisted faces. Clara averted her gaze. Finn trotted up, out of breath and flushed, looking surprised. He wore a sweatshirt with a University of California at San Diego logo, whose sleeves and neck had been cut out, and a sweat pad over his horse's haunches. Both were stained with sweat.

  "Putting in some overtime?" he asked.

  "Needed to pick up a few things. I didn't know you played polo. You play well."

  "Um. Thanks." A hind leg stamped. He twisted a finger into the frayed neckline of his sweatshirt. There was something quite boyish and Californian about his embarrassment. At that instant it was as if she was seeing Bradley Finn, the man, for the first time.

  A man atop a horse's haunches. The impossibility of it rattled her. She had a flashback to that first moment she'd seen him, before she'd known he was a joker. By God, but he was handsome. She'd had a horrible shock when he had come around the counter and she'd seen what the wild card had done to him. But she could see now how functional the combination was. Even attractive.

  Her mother had read stories to her from Greek mythology when she was very young, and she'd taken quite a liking to centaurs. When she'd been in her "horses" phase, as a teen, she'd collected dozens of centaurs - paintings, posters, figurines of pewter and crystal.

  Feeling awkward, she gave him a nod and moved on. She sensed his gaze on her back.

  On her desk, along with the file she wanted, were piles of reports on various administrative hassles she'd have to deal with first thing Monday morning. She leafed through them and groaned.

  Labor disputes. A discipline problem among the staff. Piles of funding requests, to replace dilapidated equipment that should have been replaced years before
- requests that far outstripped the clinic's paltry budget. A snide letter from one of the Board members regarding a lawsuit by a former patient.

  It struck her, heading down the steps from the clinic, that Bradley Finn knew how to deal with all these administrative problems; he'd been wrestling with them for years. He was one joker she couldn't afford to alienate. Not if she wanted things to function smoothly while she was there. She should be delegating a lot of this to him.

  It did make things easier that he wasn't physically repulsive. She would imagine him as a centaur straight out of Greek legend. Not a joker, like those pitiful, deformed kids he was playing with. She would trick her phobia.

  Starting Monday, she decided, I am going to make a real effort to make nice to him.

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  ... So, while I do apologize, I know you'll carry on splendidly without my tiny little volunteer efforts.

  Joan

  The handwriting was lovely. Someone had had the benefit of a fine education. The fluttering, almost tittering tone of the letter made him crazy, and Finn forcibly separated his teeth. The hinge of his jaw felt immediately better.

  At first he thought he'd imagined it, so light was the tap on the door. Then it came again, a bit more forcefully.

  "Come in."

  What entered he hadn't expected. Clara van Renssaeler. Finn started to scramble up out of his oversized beanbag chair, but she waved him down. She then stood, clasping and unclasping her hands, and staring silently at the floor between her feet.

  "Would you like to sit down?" Finn asked, indicating one of the two chairs which served as a concession to more normal bodies. She shook her head. The silence continued.

  "When did this laryngitis problem first manifest itself?" Still nothing. "You know, it's amazing this effect I have on women. You're not the first woman I've struck dumb."

  A dimple appeared in her left cheek. It never graduated to a smile, she had too much self-control for that. Witnessing that human emotion left Finn speechless. And a dimple? He would never have associated Clara van Renssaeler with dimples.

  "The Independent Grocers Association came to visit me this morning," Clara said. "A new city ordinance has been passed banning joker owned and driven trucks from exiting Jokertown. And the Teamsters have hiked fees for deliveries into Jokertown."

  "Sonofabitch!"

  "Who do you think would be the best person to negotiate with them?"

  He considered, and tried not to focus on the warm little glow which had settled in his chest. Probably heartburn, Finn thought, can't be a crush. Might be lust. He had a feeling he was blushing when he finally looked back at her. It had been a long time for Finn, and even considering the hot'n heavy had him struggling to keep his dick in its sheath.

  "I'd send Cody."

  "Rather than me."

  "Cody's real good in a locker room setting. You're too much of a lady."

  "I'm not sure if we've both been complimented or both insulted," said Clara.

  "Complimented. Cody comes across like a sexy comrade, someone you want to storm the barricades with."

  "And me?" asked Clara. From the look on her face Finn suspected she hadn't meant to ask the question.

  "You're the kind of woman men like to protect. Or fantasize about awakening." And now it was Finn's turn to regret his unruly mouth.

  "What does that mean, awaken me?"

  "Behind that scholarly nature, behind those tortoise shell glasses, beats the heart of a sexual volcano just waiting for the right man." Finn tried to keep it very light. Another of the Finnmeister's meaningless, randy, flirting remarks.

  "Oh."

  It was the last response he had expected. For some reason the ridiculous remark seemed to have sent Clara into a deep blue funk. The woman scientist was standing before him. She had that inward, almost blank expression that researchers achieve when faced with some puzzling new germ, or bit of data which has upset their pet theorems. Finn wondered which worldview his sexual banter had undermined.

  "I'll talk to Cody," Clara finally said in a small and distant voice.

  She left, and Finn had a long talk with his unruly dick, and slapped his mouth around.

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  Clara van Renssaeler, Journal Entry, 16 Apr 94

  Exciting news! I started the test cultures for my new prototype viruses today. Batch 94-15-04-24LQ is already showing evidence of virulence against the wild card cultures, and little to none against the control cultures.

  Don't want to jump to conclusions. Must be patient. Give the culture another few days. But this looks like it!

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  It was late, after ten P.M., when Clara stepped out of Tachyon's office. The corridor lights were dim; joker nurses and orderlies carried their trays and rolled their carts and spoke in hushed tones: a freakish parade of horrors and oddities acting out a normal human routine.

  Somehow, though, the scene felt like a clockwork: all components functioning smoothly. Perhaps a Salvador Dali clock.

  Down in surgery, she stuck her head around the open door of the doctors' lounge. Cody had curled her legs up on the sofa with a stack of patients' charts in front of her, unopened. She was sipping a cup of black coffee. A dark smudge underscored her good eye, and her face looked haggard.

  "Mind if I join you?" Clara asked.

  "Have a seat." Cody patted the sofa cushion. "You're working late."

  Clara dropped onto the couch. "So are you."

  "Tough day. A serious trauma case, on top of the scheduled cases. I just got out of surgery." Cody stretched with a jaw-cracking yawn. "And I'm on call tonight." She gave Clara a curious glance. "So why are you still here?"

  "I wanted to clear off my desk. A lot of little things had been piling up." And there was no hurry to get back to the UN lab; the test results on her virus womdn't be ready until the following afternoon.

  She folded her hands in her lap, and thought for a moment, while Cody browsed through her patients' charts.

  "Cody?"

  "Mmm?"

  "What brought you here? To Jokertown?"

  Cody set down the chart and slung her arm across the back of the sofa. "A chance to do something useful with my skills, I guess. And" - she shrugged - "there was a need. Why?"

  "I'm not sure. Just curious. A surgeon like you could find a position anywhere."

  "I'm not sure I like what that implies," Cody said, with a frown. "Jokertown Clinic has an excellent staff of competent, committed professionals. This is not a dumping ground for physicians who couldn't get placement elsewhere."

  "No. It's not." Clara twirled a ring around her finger, thinking. "Jokertown Clinic - surprises me."

  "Sounds like some cherished beliefs are going down in flames."

  "I didn't realize the depths of my feelings." Clara paused. "I'm a tychophobe. A clinical case: panic attacks, the works. I've been having a lot of nightmares, and a hard time fighting off a migraine, lately. I feel as if something's buried down there, something horrible. This" - she gestured all around - "seems to be stirring it up. And it terrifies me."

  Cody looked at her. "You say your mother died of the wild card?"

  Clara nodded. A needle of fear passed through her chest.

  "Perhaps that's the connection."

  Clara raised her eyebrows at Cody. Then she sighed and sank into the couch cushions, pushed her hair back.

  "I'm sure you're right." She was silent a long time. "I think it would have been terrible to see her suffer; it's better that she died quickly. But sometimes the selfish child in me wishes she hadn't.

  "It might not have been so bad. Even if she hadn't become an ace, she might have been a joker like Maggie Felix. Or Bradley Finn. You know - not horribly debilitated or in pain."

  Cody's eyebrows went up, but she said nothing. Clara felt a warm flush spread across her face.

  "I mean, I'd never want her to suffer the way so many jokers seem to suffer. But ..." she spread her hands. "Take Dr. Finn. He
's so well-adjusted. I admire how he's overcome his - well, it's not even a disability, for him, is it? Nat furniture and attitudes aside, he seems to function extraordinarily well. He's been helping me a lot with some of the administrative functions lately, and - " Clara gestured again, paused. "Despite my phobia I find myself forgetting he's a wild card."

  Cody lit up a cigarette, and shook the match out. "The wild card is not a simple disease, is it?"

  Clara's laugh had an edge to it. "Not by a long shot."

  Cody gave her a compassionate look, and inhaled some smoke. "How is Maggie Felix doing, by the way? She's in isolation, isn't she?"

  "Yes." Thank you, Cody, Clara thought; subject change deftly done. "We have her on large doses of Aminosporin. No evidence that it's crossing the placenta or harming the fetus, though Maggie herself is suffering some side effects due to the high dosage. But the baby's T-cell count has dropped to a more normal level."

  "That's good to hear."

  "Yes. I want to give the fetus as many weeks as I can. The situation is still pretty dicey, but - it's better than the alternative." Clara shook her head. "Her immune system is amazing. I doubt she's susceptible to opportunistic infections even now.

  "Well." She slapped her thighs, and stood. "I'd best be going."

  At the door she turned. "Oh, and Cody - "

  Cody took a drag off her cigarette, blew a stream of smoke into the air. "Yeah?"

  "Thanks."

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  Clara van Renssaeler, Journal Entry, 24 Apr 94

  After a promising start, my 94-15-04-24LQ virus cultures don't thrive quite as energetically as I'd hoped. I need to do some tests to learn what the problem is.

  Mustn't get discouraged. I'm still much closer than I've ever been.

  Finally worked up the nerve to ask Papa out.

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  The restaurant was La Lucia, an expensive little Italian restaurant on the upper West Side, Papa's favorite. The tried-and-true, soften-him-up-digestively method. He had already been seated when she arrived.

  Brandon van Renssaeler always looked good - trim, handsome, with silver at the temples and taut, Nautilus-trained muscles and an even, gold, tanning-room tan. But tonight he looked a little frayed around the edges. He stood and took her hand and kissed her on the cheek, and she realized he must be as worried about all the recent developments as Uncle Pan.