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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."
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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.
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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.
Clara removed her wrap and sat. Her nerves were twitching like little jumping beans. The waiter brought her a double gin and tonic.
"I took the liberty," he said. Clara nodded her thanks and downed half of it in a few swallows.
They chatted about inconsequential for a few moments; she asked how Chloe was and how the practice was going, and he told her. The waiter took their order for appetizers. As the waiter walked away she pressed her fingers against her lip, mentally girding herself.
"We need to talk," she said.
His glance was sharp. He never missed much. "About your research."
"Exactly." She touched his hand. "Papa, why have you withdrawn your support? We need you."
He looked at her and said nothing, merely swirled his cognac and sniffed its aroma, wearing a thoughtful expression.
"Well?"
"You're your own woman," he said, and took a sip. "I can't stop you from pursuing the course you've chosen. God knows, I wish I could. But you're making a big mistake with this Black Trump project. And we're all going to pay."
"Damn it, I wish you would trust me. I know what I'm doing." She leaned forward. "The virus will work, Papa. I'm that close to perfecting it" - she held up thumb and forefinger. "We have the resources to disperse it. We have human immunology on our side. Once the virus is released there'll be no way to stop it. We'll be rid of the wild card forever.
"But Eric Fleming and his whole network won't cooperate unless you do, and if we don't have a series of vectors in the South Pacific, there'll still be large pockets of disease in the southern hemisphere. You must tell him to do what Uncle Pan says."
Brandon sighed, sipped at his brandy. The waiter brought prosciutto-stuffed wild mushrooms and gave them miniature forks. Brandon dug in right away, but Clara had no appetite. She sat with her hands in her lap, fighting the urge to lean across the table and shake him. Brandon asked the waiter to give them a few more minutes to select their entrees, and perused the menu. Clara seethed.