Marked Cards by George R. R. Martin
"So, how'd it go?" Bob Mengele asked.
Finn slid behind the desk, and began running quickly through his mail. None of it was important, and more to the point, none of it was money.
"Pretty well, I think. I kept my smart mouth zipped. I stayed professional, courteous - "
"Like a Boy Scout," Cody murmured around her cigarette.
Cody had smoked in Vietnam. She had begun again last year. Finn frowned; he hated doctors to smoke. On the other hand, the obvious parallel being drawn did not escape him.
"I presented my credentials, and I told them I thought a joker ought to run the Jokertown Clinic."
"You didn't!" gasped Mrs. Chicken-Foot.
"Oh yeah, real courteous," said Troll, his voice holding an echo of laughter like the rumbling of distant thunder.
"Hey, I was very polite."
Cody flicked the cigarette ash. "Now it can be told. The Board approached me last week. Wanted me to interview for the position." Three sets of joker eyes and one pair of nat eyes fastened on her. "I told them no. Told them a joker ought to run the Jokertown Clinic." She winked at Finn.
He felt a momentary regret. Wished Cody weren't quite so much older than he was. Wished he was less shallow. But he liked younger babes. And wanted a family someday when he'd finally found that babe who could love him for his mind, and not mind his joker flesh.
"Are you upset with me for applying?" Mengele asked.
Cody slid off the credenza where she had been resting a hip. "No, Bob." She stubbed out her cigarette on the sole of her boot, and tossed it into the trash. "Well, back to work. Good job, kid. Now let's see if there's any justice in this sorry old world."
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
"How is your headache this morning?"
Clara pressed the phone to her ear and a damp cloth to her head. She lay on her back, staring at the lightning worms that crawled across the high ceiling, and spoke softly. "Better, Uncle Pan. A few lingering visual effects is all."
"Excellent." His voice brimmed with energy. "I'm about to leave the country on business, but before I left I had to compliment you on your presentation. You made quite an impact."
Clara licked her lips, which were cracked and sore, sat up, and grabbed the jar of Carmex lip salve. "Not with as many as I'd hoped."
"Mmm. Fleming. Yes. And we need him to effectively cover the South Pacific." There was a pause. "Talk to your father, Clara. We need his support."
She sighed, smearing menthol-tasting salve on her lips. "He won't listen."
"We have no other way to reach him. You must try."
After a silence she said, "All right."
"And keep me updated on your progress at the lab."
"I always do."
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
Clara van Rensaaeler, Journal Entry, 4 Apr 94
Had to trash another batch of prototype viruses today.
Uncle Pan says my talk on Friday went over well.
Some thoughts on the virus. I need to engineer an incubation period of at least two or three weeks, if possible, and make it transmissible via saliva and mucous membranes. It must be able to spread rapidly and easily. A deadly flu.
I called Papa this morning, and brought up the subject of my research. It was awkward; I just can't bring myself to pressure him, and I know he disapproves of what I'm doing. He asked how it was going and I told him the truth - it's not going well.
He said perhaps I was too close to my work and needed to step back from it for a bit. I needed a change of venue. That's not the problem. I know exactly what information I need. I simply don't know how to get it.
But perhaps in a sense I have been too close to my problem. I recently read an article in the Times about the Blythe van Renssaeler Memorial Clinic. The Jokertown Clinic. And it occurred to me a few minutes ago, the family still has connections with them; Grandmaman Blythe's trust fund has been donating money to the Clinic for years. Papa could get me a position on the staff, if I can persuade him to intervene on my behalf. If he won't do it, I'll get Uncle Henry to. And once there, I could certainly find a way to get access to Tachyon's lab notes.
I've got an urgent call into him. I'm pretty certain what I have in mind isn't quite what he meant by a change of venue. Oh, well.
There's the phone now. I'll bet that's him.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
The unctuous voice was still rolling out its sonorous, lying periods even alter Finn hung up the telephone.
"Such a difficult choice ... The Board agonized for several days ... Understood and appreciated your unique talents ... Two thousand dollar a year raise ..."
The real message could be gleaned - "You're joker shit, boy, and you ain't gettin' this job."
Finn turned away from the desk, and leaned the length of his body against the wall. Closed his eyes, and felt the tears prick. He wanted to call his dad, but even dad couldn't fix this hurt. Also, he couldn't bear to tell his father, or Cody, or Troll, or any of the other nurses, doctors and staff at the Clinic that he had lost, failed. The humiliation lay like a sick, oily taste on the back of his tongue.
Stop thinking about yourself, your wounded pride. Figure out what this means for the Clinic, and her patients - the people who really matter.
Dr. Clara van Renssaeler. Who the fuck was Clara van Renssaeler? Aside from (presumably) some relative of the tragic and doomed woman for whom the Clinic had been named? Finn hurried to the AMA directory for the state of New York. There she was; MD Harvard, PhD bio-chem Rutgers, published papers - there was an impressive list, and Finn again felt inferior. He was a GP with some minor cutting skills.
There was the connection to Blythe - granddaughter. It was an irony really that the Clinic carried the name of van Renssaeler. The van Renssaelers had never done a damn thing for the Clinic. It was Blythe's family who had founded and supported the hospital even in the face of growing wild card bigotry. By all accounts Henry van Renssaeler, Blythe's husband, had been a wild card hater of monumental proportions. Enough bile to put him on this list of "Sharks" that Hartmann had been exposing before his death. So, it probably wasn't blatant nepotism. Maybe the Board of Governors thought the name would ease the pain when they appointed a nat to head the Jokertown Clinic.
For Dr. Clara van Renssaeller was undoubtedly a nat. Because if some kin to the namesake of the Clinic had been bitten by the wild card bug, and turned into a hideous joker, the Jokertown rags would have been full of the news.
A nat.
It was the unkindest blow of all.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
He didn't know why, but it sort of helped that she wasn't very pretty. Looks, money, brains, and his job would have been just too much to take. Finn surreptitiously eyed the long (he sent up a mental apology) horsey face, the big boned, almost awkward body. She did have nice green eyes. Well, the color and size of them was nice. The expression was that hard, flat stare of the professional woman sizing up the playing field, and deciding it would probably be a potholed bitch. Cody, who was a woman who had long ago fought all those battles of sexism and personal insecurity, stared back at Dr. van Renssaeler with her usual warm, calm air.
Finn had ducked behind the cafeteria counter for a cup of coffee before Clara van Renssaeler had made her entrance. It left him feeling at a decided disadvantage as she nodded to the assembled staff. She said his name in a questioning tone.
"I'm Finn."
Their eyes met, and that connection, which only a young, straight, and horny man can make when he knows a woman has just found him attractive, occurred. It was a rare enough occurrence that Finn felt his heart lift. Then he stepped out from behind the counter, and watched the shutters slam down in her eyes.
Finn made the initial introductions, and he knew his tone was icy; he couldn't help it. That teasing eye play, followed by rejection, had deepened his fury. He watched as van Renssaeler's eyes took desperate refuge in the nice, normal features of Cody Havero and Bob Mengele. Finn was a joker. He knew joker loathing when he saw i
Dr. Robert could always be counted on to play the glad hand Charlie, and he didn't fail them now. He stepped forward to chat up the new boss, and Finn pulled Cody aside with a look, a grimace, and a jerk of the chin.
In an undertone he said, "You take care of the tour."
"No."
The calm refusal took him aback. "Look, Cody, I can't deal with this bi - "
"You better learn, or look for a new job. Like it or not, she's here. She's in charge, and you're the person who has run this clinic for the past three years. She needs to be briefed by you, not by the Chief of Surgery. Quit bowling with your balls, and get on with your job."
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
They went from the top down. Moving silently from floor to floor. As a tour guide Finn left much to be desired explaining each area with a terse single word; lab, nursery, ICU, surgery, morgue. Finn was at peace with his wild card, but as they viewed the suffering encompassed on each floor of the clinic, the presence of this horrified interloper suddenly reduced his tolerance for his own kind. We really are disgusting, he thought, and depression crashed over him like a wave.
The first spark of animation out of the silent Dr. van Renssaeler occurred when they reached the basement, and stood before the heavy vault-like door which barred access to Tachyon's private lab.
"Do you have a key?" she asked.
Her eagerness sent a shiver of unease down his spine. "Yeah. But there was an attempted break-in earlier in the year, and I'm even less inclined to let people in now. We spent ten thousand dollars upgrading the security on the lab. There's live wild card in there. Muy dangerous."
She stared flatly back at him. "Dr. Finn, my specialty is wild card. I'm fully aware of the dangers, and prepared to face them to continue my work. I want the key. It's my right."
"Yeah, it's your clinic now," Finn said He made no effort to hide his bitterness. A new set of words were clamoring for release. He weighed, tasted, considered them. Decided to say them. "You ever actually practiced medicine?"
"No." Terse and to the point, and perhaps just a hint defensive.
Finn allowed that admission to hang in the silent air between them for several seconds, then he said, "The suffering and dying at this clinic surpass anything I've ever encountered - even when I was a Peace Corps volunteer in Africa. And unlike third world sufferers, the jokers in Manhattan are Americans - or at least until Leo Barnett succeeds in saying we're not - and they think they're entitled to an ease to their sufferings and a painless death. I think you'd better develop some bedside manner, Doctor. Well, shall we visit the wards now?" Finn concluded brightly.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
The tour concluded on the fourth floor. Finn led his new boss down the hall, and pushed open the door to Tachyon's office.
"This is Tachyon's office. I've been using it. I presume you'll want it now."
Van Renssaeller walked past him, angling her body almost completely sideways as she passed to avoid touching him. It wasn't deliberate, he would have sworn it wasn't deliberate, but his tail suddenly flicked, the long white hairs whipped across her legs, tangling briefly in the strap of her purse. The woman shot into the room like she'd been launched. A couple of long strands, still caught in the purse, tore loose. She stared down at them in fascination. Untangled them from the strap, wrapped them around her index finger, suddenly brushed them off like a person afflicted by ants.
She was rattled. She stared around the room, and said stupidly, "There's no chair."
All the pent-up rage emerged in a spurt of angry, sarcastic words. "It may have escaped your notice, but I weigh four hundred pounds and have an ass a foot and a half wide. Chairs are not a big decorating item for me. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have patients to treat."
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
The days fell into a kind of tense rhythm. Nothing had really changed, and yet Finn couldn't shake this pressure band of rage and unhappiness which had settled about his temples.
He had laid eyes on the new boss once in the past week, when she had come to his office to demand the key and access code to Tachyon's private lab. Later he had bitched to Bob Mengele that van Renssaeler obviously liked germs better than people.
With a sigh that shook him from withers to flank, Finn gathered up his clipboard, and headed off for rounds. As he walked down the hall Finn gave the implacable face of the closed door a glance. When Tachyon had ruled the Clinic with his particular brand of noblesse, the door had always been open. Finn had continued that policy. Now the door, and the nat behind it, had become a metaphor for a joker's life in America of the mid-nineties.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
A knock came around five in the evening, while she sat at Tachyon's desk sorting through the stacks of files she'd pulled from his office cabinets and laboratory file drawers. Her heart skipped into high gear at the sound. She had to restrain herself from hiding the contents of the folder she'd been translating.
Relax, PC - stop acting like a teenager they caught smoking in the girls' room. She removed her reading glasses, smoothed her wool jacket, adjusted the silk bow on her blouse, and arranged her features.
"Come in."
Cody Havero entered, a blue plastic file folder in hand, and surveyed the chaos Clara had made of the office.
"Dr. Havero," Clara said.
"Call me Cody." Her glance fell on the two Takisian-English references that lay open on Clara's desk - one a general usage dictionary; the other an unpublished, three-ring binder containing biomedical terms. Her eyebrows rose. "You speak Takisian?"
"Speak it? No. Merely read a little."
Cody glanced at the contents of the binder. "Someone's done some serious research, there."
Clara laid her hand on the binder, pleased. "I put this collection of terms together during my post-doc research at Harvard, to make use of the research notes Tachyon donated to the World Health Organization."
"Fascinating. You should consider publishing it."
Clara gave Cody a wry smile. "And enable other researchers to compete with me? Besides, I'm sure it's riddled with errors. I had to use a lot of guesswork"
Cody chuckled. Clara glanced at the folder she held. "You have something for me?"
"Tomorrow's surgery schedule." Cody handed her the blue folder. Clara slid her reading glasses back on.
"I'll look it over."
But Cody continued to stand there. Clara looked at the surgeon over the tops of her reading glasses.
"There's something else?"
Cody nodded. "Unfortunately, I'm here to dump a big problem in your lap."
Clara removed the glasses; they fell about her neck on their gold chain. She gestured. "Please, sit."
Cody dropped into the chair Clara offered - one of two old, taped-up, burgundy vinyl chairs Clara had appropriated from the staff lounge as a temporary measure. Propping her chin in her palm, Cody gazed at Clara with her good eye. Evaluating her, perhaps. "It looks like we'll have a severe shortage of nursing and radiology staff next Friday."
"I presume the heads of Nursing and Radiology can deal with these matters."
Cody shrugged. "They're trying. But frankly, it's close to unmanagedble. With all this public hysteria, we're losing staff in droves."
Clara frowned. "What are you talking about?"
Cody gave her a rather surprised, don't you watch the news? look.
"The Clinic has been picketed by hostile nat groups five times in the last two months. The scuttlebutt on the street is we'll have another demonstration next Friday. A big one. That's why half the nursing staff called in sick. They get tired of the cow's blood and spoiled vegetable showers." A little shrug. "Can't say I blame them. We've arranged for escorts and human chains to protect the staff and patients, but ..." Again, a shrug. "The demonstrators usually outnumber us."
Clara winced mentally. She didn't have time for this. She'd be up half the night doing research at her own lab as it was.
"I'll take
Cody looked skeptical. "If you're thinking of calling the police, don't bother. We've tried that. They don't show. We've already called on some of our own to protect us, though my fear is we'll end up with a riot, and a lot of dead innocents, unless we're very, very careful."
The way she said "our own" bothered Clara. Cody was a nat. Joker vigilantes weren't her people.
But Clara merely gave her a little smile. "I have an idea or two that might help."
Cody appeared to be studying her again, with that intent look.
"I hope you don't mind my directness, Dr. van Renssaeler - "
"Clara."
An appreciative glance crossed her face. "Clara, then. I have a confession. I'm a bit of an admirer. I've read a number of your papers in virology and immunology. You've done some impressive work on the wild card."
That caught Clara by surprise. "Thank you."
"And frankly, I'm surprised you accepted this position, as you are so clearly a researcher. Not a physician, nor an administrator."
Clara eyed the older surgeon for a long moment. Her heart rate had picked up again.
"You want to know why I'm here, you mean. Why I accepted this position."
Cody gave a shrug. "Forgive me if I'm being intrusive. I'm merely surprised that you'd put aside your research this way, when your career seems to be at its peak."
Clara sat back. She had better deal with this now. Cody Havero was really doing her a favor - the questions would be there, behind the polite faces, until she'd addressed them. And, after a fashion, she could even tell the truth.
"Research is my first love. You're right. My life's goal is to eradicate the wild card. To find a way to purge it from the human gene pool."
She said it flatly, but Cody's eyebrows went up. "You feel strongly."
"You're damn right I do. The wild card is the most heinous disease inflicted on the human race. Not as bad as AIDS in its physical effects, perhaps - for most wild card victims who die, death occurs quickly, and there is a ten percent chance of survival. Even a small chance of benefit. But because it can spread by both spores and inheritance, it's extremely difficult to eradicate. My great fear is that it may already be too late. And the way we were infected deliberately, that enrages me. I'll always despise the Takisians for that."