Marked Cards by George R. R. Martin
And his face was such a transmitter of his moods - no secretiveness, no deception. If it was on his mind, it was on his face. With all the deceptions she was unearthing in her life, that seemed quite a comely characteristic.
Bradley Latour Finn. Wild card victim. No - wild card survivor. He'd made a lie of all her principles ... because those lofty principles had been built on a huge, stinking pile of prejudices and fears.
Bradley Latour Finn. Clara had been involved with any number of men, and she knew a good one when she found him.
She was falling in love with him. And that terrified her.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
She was waiting when he arrived with a bag of Chinese food. The General Tso's chicken had started to leak, filling the room with its pungent scent, and making his palm sticky as he tried to keep the bottom from collapsing out of the sack.
Before he could maneuver for the kitchen, Clara shyly took his hand, and pressed it (sauce and all) against her cheek. She then kissed him on the cheek. Quickly, gently on the lips, then hid her face against his shoulder. General Tso's chicken slid with a plop onto the floor.
She mumbled something against his neck. Her voice was thick with unshed tears.
"Sweetie, what is it? What's happened?"
"My mother. My mother's alive."
Finn felt stupid, like a kid involved in a game where he didn't know the rules. He hadn't known her mother was dead. Or supposed to be dead.
"Hey, that's, that's swell."
"Papa told me she died. But I kept remembering, and then you gave her back to me."
Taking her gently by the shoulders he pushed her back until he could stare into her eyes. "Clara, I'll gladly take credit for anything, deserved or not, but can I know what the hell I'm supposed to have done?"
"Joan is my mother."
Joy exploded in his chest. He felt like he'd just chugged an Irish whiskey straight. "Joan!? She's a joker!"
"Yes, yes." She wiped the tears out of her eyes with trembling fingertips. "Why did you take me there?"
Embarrassment made him hesitate. She was too quick. She read it. "What?"
Finn took a nervous turn around the living room. "I wanted you to see her and Perry. To see a joker/nat couple. Loving each other."
Her silence was sudden and complete. He spun around awkwardly, apologies tumbling from his lips. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have made assumptions. I just ..."
The assault was totally unexpected. Her fingers pressed into his cheeks as she grabbed his face, and kissed him hard. It took him by surprise, but Mama Finn hadn't raised no stupid children, and Finn took advantage of the miracle being offered to him. He clasped her close, opened his mouth, and her tongue shot between his teeth. They fenced lightly tongue to tongue, then he nipped softly at her lips as tears seeped from the corners of her eyes and ran down her cheeks.
"Am I making you unhappy?" Finn murmured against her mouth.
"No."
"I wish you ladies would provide us poor dumb males with a score card," he complained, trying to keep it light while his body felt like one large sexual lightning rod. "I can never tell if they're tears of joy, sorrow, or anger."
"Sometimes it's hard for us to tell," Clara said softly. "Especially when we haven't been allowed the luxury of emotion."
He pulled her head against his shoulder, stroked her hair. Her hand worked its way beneath the elastic base of his shirt, tickled his waist. Control departed. Finn let out a groan, and his penis dropped, sliding from its protective sheath.
"Oh, my," Clara said.
"I'm sorry," Finn gasped, and tried to pull it back. It wasn't working real well. The member was well and properly engorged, and it seemed to weigh twenty or thirty pounds.
"I treated you horribly," Clara said softly. "How can you want me?"
"Because you were scared. It took me awhile to understand that. I've watched you push past it. Taking an interest in me, the clinic, Jokertown. I haven't felt like you've been seeing this." He swept a hand back along his horse body. "For weeks. And now here I am sort of waving it in your face," he added miserably.
"Make love to me, Bradley."
It was that simple. And he felt himself freezing up. It wasn't all that easy to get a woman to this point. Then he had to get technical, and most of them went away. The few who went on usually did it because they were sensation junkies, thrill seekers. They weren't doing it for him, for the pleasure of his companionship.
"What's wrong?" The old hurt and vulnerability were back in her eyes. "I don't think I've misread the signals." A timid smile. "You do seem glad to see me."
It hadn't happened in years, but Finn felt himself blushing. "I am ... I do ... I want to make love with you very much, but it's kind of a major.... undertaking.... I don't want to disgust you - "
She laid a hand across his mouth. Slipped it aside, and muted the words with her mouth. Her tongue was back in his mouth, and there was nothing demure about the tonsil inspection. Eventually she stopped, stepped back and said, "I don't scare easily. Tell me what we have to do."
"We've got two locations, and three positions." His eyes flicked nervously over to the dining room table. "You on a high table. I brace my front feet on the table, and ..." He made a vague gesture.
"Penetration," said Clara, teasing a little.
"Yes."
"Isn't that painful for you?"
"My hindquarters and back legs do tend to cramp."
"Let's try something more comfortable," Clara said.
"Okay, in that case we pull the mattress off the bed - so I won't break it - and you spoon in against me - "
She took his hand, and led him to the bedroom. It was a tight fit, but they managed to get the mattress situated between the foot of the bed and the dresser. On the dresser was a small Indian seed pot with a stick of half-burned incense in it, a scrap book, and a picture of a lovely young blond woman in a silver frame. Finn could see echoes of Clara's face in the photo, and a vestige of Joan's lovely, kind face in that spoiled and imperious visage.
Clara pulled him back from his reverie with an imperious tug on his hair. Finn returned his attention to the daughter, and with a final thanks to the mother, he unbuttoned Clara's blouse, and pushed it off her shoulders. A quick flick, and the bra broke loose. Her breasts came spilling out. This time it was permitted for Finn to catch them in his hands, kiss each nipple. Clara sucked in a sharp little breath.
Hurried, clumsy fingers (it was probably a good thing she hadn't been a surgeon), and his shirt was unbuttoned, and tossed aside. She peered down his back, laughed delightedly.
"You've got a mane. How nice, I've got something to hang onto." She tangled her fingers in his curly hair, which followed the line of his spine, and tugged.
He got her pants open, and steadied her while she stepped out of them. Running a hand down her chest, he snagged her panties and swept them away. Awkwardly he dropped down onto the mattress, held out a hand to her. There was that tenth of a second of absolute terror when she glanced at his turgid penis. Her eyes widened, and Finn waited for her to say, "Nahhh," but it didn't happen, instead she knelt beside him.
"You have to do most of the moving," he whispered. "I'm not real flexible, and it's hard to heave this body around."
She smiled down at him, pushed his hair back off his forehead. "Do you know how attractive that sounds? Women never have a man at their mercy." Her voice was husky, warm.
Finn couldn't stand it, he heaved up, and locked his mouth on hers. He couldn't support it for long, but as he fell back she came with him, their breath mingling, tongues fencing. Her legs tangled in his four legs. Eventually they got the various limbs sorted out, and Finn turned her gently until her buttocks were tucked against his chest. Lifting her dark hair, he leaned in, and touched his lips to the nape of her neck.
"Clara, I ... I love you."
It was an odd little sound. At first he thought she was trying to say something. Then he realized she was crying. Frightened, he tr
"No, don't leave me." Tears blurred the words. "He took my mother from me. I'm not going to let anything take you from me." She rolled over, offered her buttocks.
Finn stroked down the line of her back, allowed his fingers to play in her moist, tangled mons. She gave a little cry of pleasure, and he slid his fingers into her. She rode him, and he brought her to a manual orgasm. The room was becoming musky with the scents of sweat and sex, and wet horse coat. Finn was trying to be patient, but it had been a while, and his penis was so turgid and erect that he felt like a touch would split it like an overfilled sausage.
Then Clara rolled over, and touched him. The shudder shook him from hindquarters to human torso, and yanked a groan from him. She weighed his member in the palm of her hand. Looked up with alarmed and dubious gray eyes.
"It's awfully ...big."
"I'm careful. I don't penetrate all the way," he gasped. She continued to stare at him. "Are you going to back out? If you're going to back out, could you tell me now? Could you maybe help me ... ease the pressure before you back completely out." He was babbling.
She laid a hand across his mouth, transferred her mouth to the task of muzzling him. A few moments later she rolled over and slid down until her hair was tickling his belly button. Reaching behind her she took his penis, and guided it carefully between her legs.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
Clara van Renssaeler, Journal Entry, 2 May 94
Just left Bradley sleeping at my place and came in to check my latest tissue cultures. The new virus obliterated the wild card cultures and left the uninfected cultures unharmed.
Batch 94-04-28-24LQ, necrovirus Takis II, is what I've been looking for. The Black Trump. The real thing. Unstoppable and utterly deadly. And I wish to God I'd never conceived of such a thing.
Discovering my love for Bradley, and finding Maman again, have opened my eyes. I've been so wrong. The wild card is a horrible disease, yes. But its victims have the right to make whatever they can of their lives. It's not right for me to play God. I've been such an idiot. How could I have been so blind?
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
Chin in hand, she stared at the journal entry on her computer screen for a long, long time. Then she closed the file, leafed again through her write-up of the Black Trump II test results, freshly printed, which lay on the desk beside the computer, and brushed her hair back with a sigh. She thought of the flasks of virus in the lab refrigerator just down the hall, thought of her lamia mother, thought of her centaur lover Bradley sprawled across her mattress with his arm flung over his face. Thought of what would happen if even a drop of this stuff were to touch them.
Twelve years' work, she thought. Forty percent of my life.
She exited the security software, and used the shredder function to destroy all her files on the virus. There were few; she had been careful to avoid recording any significant amount of technical detail on her research, despite the expensive security system on her PC. After a hesitation, she also shredded her personal journal.
Then she suited up in protective clothing, gathered her notes, and went into the clean room. She got out all fifteen flasks of Black Trump virus, both strains. The microwave could hold ten flasks at a time, and fifteen minutes at the highest setting would be more than long enough. She got the first batch started, used a flint on the Bunsen burner, and began crisping the analytical results and notes. She dumped the ashes into the hazardous medical waste bin.
A half hour later she was done. It amazed her, the ease and dispatch with which she could wipe out a life's work.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
Afterward, she headed to the clinic. It was still early, just after seven. The graveyard staff were still on duty and the halls quiet.
She had finished her resignation letter and was packing up her things when the phone rang.
"Dr. van Renssaeler. This is General MacArthur Johnson. I'm calling on Pan's behalf."
"Excellent. I'm glad you called; I wanted to give Uncle Pan an update. I'm just wrapping up here."
"Oh?"
"Mmmm. I'm afraid this gamble just hasn't paid off. I've decided to stop wasting my time at the Jokertown Clinic."
"On the contrary," he said. "We're all well aware of how successful your stay has been."
Clara closed her eyes, apprehensive. Calm, PC. Calm. "You have me confused."
"You've relied rather too heavily on the encryption software I had installed on your office computer, I'm afraid. Every time you saved your journal an invisible copy was made for me. I've been reporting your progress to Pan all along."
Clara gripped the desk's edge. Anger warred with terror, and, for a moment, won. "You've been spying on me, after all my years of devotion, all my hard work? That certainly tells me what kind of man you are."
"It's lucky I did." He paused. "This doesn't have to get ugly. All we want is for you to recreate your latest virus. What was it, batch 94-04-28-24LQ? Necrovirus Takis II. The Black Trump."
Clara pressed fingers to her lips. When she finally spoke, her words were calm. "I'm afraid I can't help you there. You'll have to get yourself another virologist."
"It's too late for that."
"No, I'd say it was just in the nick of time."
Another silence ensued. "I'm sorry you feel that way. I'll have to take other measures, then."
And he disconnected.
She dialed her father's home phone and got the answering machine. "Papa. It's urgent I speak to you right away. Pan and I have had a falling-out, and it's serious. I won't be reachable by phone, so I'll keep trying to reach you."
Then she tried his office. He was out and was unreachable.
"Tell him to check his messages at home," she told his secretary. "It's urgent."
And Bradley. If Johnson read her journal entry, he'd know Bradley was still at her place. He was in danger.
Clara dialed her phone number. But last night, for privacy, she'd set the answering machine to pick up right away, and had turned the volume all the way down.
Maybe, maybe he'd gotten up by now and by some fluke had turned the volume back up.
"Bradley, can you hear me? Pick up. Please pick up." Nothing. "Shit."
The super. He could take a message to Bradley. She called information, got his number, dialed it. No answer.
Clara bit her thumbnail, narrowed her eyes, and thought. She dialed 9-1-1.
"Operator, this is Clara van Renssaeler at 48 East 79th Street, apartment 6G. I have a medical emergency. A man has had a heart attack in my apartment. Send an ambulance right away."
She slammed the phone into the hook, scrawled a note to Bradley, to leave with the receptionist, that chicken woman. Then she grabbed her purse and ran.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
She ran all the way to the City Hall stop and shoved her way onto a packed Lexington Avenue express train. They had several minutes' lead on her, maybe more. But Johnson's headquarters were located in Brooklyn, and at this hour all the streets, tunnels, and bridges would be congested with traffic. The subways would be faster. With luck, she'd beat them.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
He woke suddenly and unpleasantly to the sound of a man's voice saying,
"Oh, God, how disgusting. She fucked him."
During his sleep Finn had managed to get himself cast against the bedroom wall. The only way up was to heave onto his back, and roll over on his other side. At times like this he was painfully aware of every ounce of his four hundred plus pounds. He heaved, and began the roll, and was stung by something hitting his belly. He managed to crane his human torso up enough to see the dart sticking up from his horse gut. Then the faces of the four men staring down at him got very fuzzy, and he slipped away into darkness. As unconsciousness took him he realized that he hadn't been imagining it. Clara wasn't with him.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
The ambulance sat at the entrance to her building, lights flashing. Re
At that moment the doorman led four paramedics from the freight elevator. Bradley was laid out on a stretcher - head, limbs, and horse's buttocks hanging off all over. They'd already started an IV and oxygen.
Her heart leapt. Too late. She was too late. They'd gotten to him. She ignored the doorman's disgusted stare.
"Oh God - Bradley! What's going on?"
"We received a call," the head paramedic said. "It appears to be a poisoning."
She lifted Bradley's eyelids; the pupils responded to light and were equal in size, but were massively dilated. Breathing shallow and rapid, pulse weak.
They loaded Bradley in the back of the van, and she hovered over him, gave his hair and mane a worried stroke.
"Where are you taking him?"
"Lenox Hill. It's the closet."
"I'll meet you there," she told them, and ran for the garage to get her car.
The ambulance was pulling away, sirens screaming, when she reached street level. A string of cabs and passenger cars cut her off, not letting her creep in behind the ambulance. She swore and slapped the steering wheel - bullied her way into traffic as a second set of flashing lights appeared in the rear view mirror. Another ambulance pulled up to the curb at her apartment building and two paramedics got out.
A horrible suspicion began to form. Why did the other ambulance have four paramedics? She hadn't told them he was a four-hundred-pound joker. And why take him to Lenox Hill, which had a no-wild cards policy?
She abandoned her car in the middle of the street, ignoring the curses and horns of the drivers she'd trapped on the narrow, one-way street, and raced over to the paramedics getting out of the new ambulance.
"Whom are you here for?"
"We're here to pick up a heart attack victim," the woman said. "Apartment 6G."
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
The apartment showed no evidence of a break-in or struggle. She tried her father again. He was still out. She left a message for him to call her at home right away.