His bleak memories were shattered by a faint, dry hissing, and Finn turned to greet all sixteen feet of Joan as she came slithering down the hall. Against the faded white of the linoleum tiles her scales had taken on rich gold and bronze tones.
"Hello, darlings." She didn't notice when she slithered right through Puddles. The joker noticed however. The water formed itself into a whirling dervish of liquid, and coiled and caressed Joan's length.
"Thanks, Joan, that's the closest I've come to an orgasm in twenty years."
Color like pale rubies glowed in the scales on her cheeks. The cobra's head closed briefly across her face like a veil. Muted, from behind the scaly skin, "Puds, you're awful!"
Puddles let out a watery chuckle, beaded and rolled away. Joan reared up three feet, opened her cobra's hood in greeting, and Finn bent his human torso, and kissed her on her scented, scaly cheek. She closed stumpy human arms around his neck, and hugged him tight. Thank God the strength in her arms couldn't match the massive crushing strength of her snake's body.
"How was Jamaica?" asked Chickie.
"Perfectly sybaritic, my dears. The scritch of sand on my scales, and all that lovely, lovely heat. I think Perry has finally reluctantly realized that if he wants the pleasure of my scintillating conversation we mustn't take skiing vacations to Colorado. Having a reptile's metabolism plays merry hell with my sex life."
Listening to this cheerful, inconsequential burble delivered in Joan's rich alto seemed to help ease the tension knot which had settled at the base of Finn's neck. Joan had that quality to make people feel that all was well, and if you ever had a doubt, why, "Darling, how foolish, things can only get better."
"So tell me all the news. Of course you got the job," Joan said, and the resulting stab of pain reminded Finn that maybe he hadn't dealt with his anger and disappointment, merely buried it.
He couldn't speak, and after several uncomfortable seconds of Mrs. Chicken-Foot clucking mournfully to herself, the sounds resolved themselves into words, and the secretary said, "No, they hired a nat."
"Oh, Bradley, darling."
Finn shrugged. "Feces occur."
"You should quit."
"And go where, Joan? In the current climate I can't get a job in a nat hospital, and I'm damned if I'm going to move to Vietnam or Guatemala or Jerusalem. I'm an American, I'm not going to be driven out of my own country."
"Who is this person?"
"Clara van Renssaeler." Joan stiffened "Yeah, nice bit of irony, isn't it? Especially since she can't stand jokers."
"Is she ... around?"
"Just down the hall. Room 112."
"Bradley's finally got her working with patients. Well, one patient," Chickie amended.
"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.