"Pheromone Pharmacopia"

by Brandy Dewinter

(c 2001, All rights reserved)

 

Chapter 4 - "Missile"

"Comin’ through!" Vanna called as she spiraled down the center of the large tube, a blonde, self-guided missile in a sleek black skinsuit.

Carol’s gritted teeth made her response harsh, which was what she intended. "Shut up, Vanna!"

However, Vanna was unimpressed, bouncing off one wall and heading back up the long axis of the hollow cylinder.

"Watch out for those heels," Marilyn ordered, sighing. Her personal feelings were much closer to Carol than to Vanna right then. Zero-g was obviously not going to be one of her favorite parts of their training, either.

It wouldn’t be quite correct to say that Jaymi was having fun, like Vanna, but she was coping. Always focused with at least a part of her attention on Sandy, Jaymi realized her longer-haired sister was gamely experimenting with the strange sensations as well. She decided to urge Sandy into something more . . . dramatic and in so doing force herself to do the same.

"Sandy, meet me in the middle," she called out, then pushed off toward the center of the enclosure. Even across the space you could see Sandy gulp a little, but she launched herself toward her floating friend. As their paths crossed, Jaymi grabbed Sandy’s arm and they began to pinwheel slowly about each other, Jaymi’s dark red and Sandy’s emerald green outfits providing an unseasonably festive image. Sandy’s reaction was more panic than planned, but Jaymi started moving her arms in graceful gestures while arcing her body into a smooth curve.

Unfortunately, any attempt Sandy might have made to match Jaymi’s grace was quickly interrupted. They had only gotten started when the warning buzzer sounded and each member of the team grabbed for an anchor. Their weightless state was highly temporary - less than a minute at a time - as the NASA KC-135 completed one arcing maneuver and swooped into the next. The cylinder in which they played, or suffered, was a converted airliner flying a path that sent it nose-high, then following a zero-g profile until the nose was well below the horizon, then pulling up for yet another nose-high maneuver. Zero-g was hard enough on unaccustomed stomachs, but interspersing quick transitions to elevated g’s often affected even experienced aviators, earning the plane the nickname "Vomit Comet". For Carol - well at least no one could doubt the strength of her stomach muscles even if their control was problematic. Suffering didn’t even begin to cover her condition.

Her reaction was the worst among the team in a spectrum that had Marilyn noticeably green in a not-flattering accent to her royal blue attire, Jaymi and Sandy coping if a bit less than enthusiastic, and Vanna acting like she had found a special corner of heaven. This was their first weightless session as part of astronaut training and like a lot of the other tasks, the unpleasant portions that the general public seldom considered seemed to far outnumber the ‘fun’ ones. Except to Vanna.

Not that the things they had been required to put up with were all enjoyable even to Vanna. For one thing, they had all been fitted for their spacesuits - made to the requirements of Seward and his Folly. Apparently his ideas of ‘proper’ spacegirl attire had been formed in the cheesy fifties. They had already known the suits would be skin tight and deliberately revealing. The tightness actually had some technical validity, supplementing the natural elasticity of their skin to provide efficient protection from the vacuum of space. Built-in corsets - tight corsets - helped control the expansion of internal body cavities so those, too, were at least reasonable even if marginal for comfort. However, the high heels and the comic book colors were just, well, cheesy. Of course, Seward didn’t really need to justify himself. All he had to do was pay the bills.

Except for this team. They were being trained by NASA with the bills ostensibly going to a movie production company. Their cover was that they were preparing to film an action adventure set on Seward’s station, with a sub-text on the coming commercialization of space. For most NASA personnel, that was more than enough justification for putting up with a bevy of beauties who were clearly pretty enough to be movie stars. And of course they had all heard of Seward’s eccentric requirements for his support crews. In fact, the SMITE team had secretly applied to be an alternate crew for Seward’s resupply missions. The regular crew were not US citizens so there was no official leverage on them, but it was expected that when the time came, something would be arranged so that the ‘alternate’ crew would actually be assigned to a mission.

The buzzer sounded again and their weight disappeared as they entered another zero-g float. Perhaps it was because there was nothing left in her stomach to occupy her attention, but this time Carol managed to release her death grip on a support strap and actually float free. Sandy and Jaymi, their interrupted weightless ballet not particularly interesting anyway, pushed off from their own perches to support their game colleague.

"C’mon, Marilyn. The other girls have Carol, let me help you," Vanna offered. Marilyn forced a nasty taste down from the back of her throat and tried to show she was as brave as the tall redhead by pushing her own way from one handhold to another in the large aircraft’s interior.

That was apparently evidence of passing some sort of undeclared test. Their official instructor for the exercise, veteran astronaut William "Oz" Anderson, named for his much-declared admiration for all things Australian, announced the next requirement.

"Roighty then, Lydies, this wy," he called in an affected accent only he thought was charming. But he was certainly comfortable in the weightless environment and moved with sure precision from one numbered point to another in the plane’s interior.

A few more cycles - way too many in Carol’s opinion - and the whole team was moving reliably if not with equal grace about the cabin. Every one but Vanna was nonetheless quite ready to call it a day when Anderson pronounced them finished.

They were met at the door of the plane by the other ‘professionals’ who were guiding their training. The ‘real’ NASA staff made it quite clear (complete with audible quote marks around their words) that the girls were not ‘real’ astronauts, for all that they were indeed going into space. Even the female member of the NASA team; a pilot both qualified to fly the shuttle and beautiful enough to meet the additional standards of Seward and the film cover story, looked down her petite nose at the ‘movie people’.

It was probably inevitable that a woman named Cleaver (Jacqui not June, but that was close enough), a raven-haired female flyer pushing her way into a still macho-male dominated field, would end up with the call sign, ‘Beaver’. If the men who bestowed that nickname on her expected it to embarrass her though, they were mistaken. A post-graduate expert of the ‘anything you can do, I can do better’ school, Jacqui was determined to show them that she could outfly the best ‘jock’ among them. And the first time someone deliberately let her overhear an off-color joke, she countered with one so steamy even the most jaded among them blushed. Her classic, if diminutive, beauty might have opened a few doors for her, but she was more than ready to kick down any that remained.

In all fairness, Jonas "Waylon" Jennings, the director of astronaut training, might not actually have been dismissive of the girls because they were ‘movie people’. In his case, it was probably sufficient that they were women. He never sneered, of course, or told any off-color jokes of his own. Despite his past pilot status, he was now firmly entrenched as a bureaucrat and knew better than to do anything unambiguously chauvinistic. His opinion was shown by his excessive politeness, always standing when a woman entered the room, always holding chairs and opening doors, but he never seemed to feel the need to actually ask their opinion on anything. Or indeed, to ask anything of them more complicated than how they were feeling that day.

So, as the girls regarded the welcoming committee while they made their way down the boarding stairs from the KC-135, it was not only their queasy stomachs and the hot Houston sun that put a frown on their faces.

"How’re y’all feelin’?" Jennings asked. Politely.

"Fine," Marilyn answered. Politely.

Jacqui looked a bit surprised - or was that disappointment? - when she said, "Only one puker among you?" Carol’s distress, while physically cleaned up, still showed in her pale countenance if not on her forest-green suit.

"Yes," Sandy said tersely, moving closer to Carol. If she had been taller, it would have looked like she were hovering over Carol to protect her from the smaller astronaut.

"We managed," Marilyn said, establishing without a doubt that they were a team that would stand or fall together.

"I believe you," Jacqui replied, smiling honestly. "I was actually impressed. That’s not an easy ride for newbies."

"Ah, okay. Thank you," Marilyn replied, but she returned the smile.

Jennings hrmpphed to get their attention and said, "Okay, the next stop is the flight surgeon. Beaver, um, Jacqui will give you a ride over there. If he clears you, then report in accordance with the published schedule."

"Yes, sir," Marilyn replied, though her eyes were on Jacqui. Their escort pointed out a waiting van and the team swayed toward it, any unsteadiness in their gait excusable by their spindly heels even if that covered a deeper residual effect from their flight.

"You’re out of uniform, Jacqui," Marilyn said as they climbed into the vehicle.

Jacqui looked down at her standard NASA jumpsuit, then shrugged. "I don’t like the corset, wear heels only for special occasions, and . . ."

She aimed a disarming grin at Marilyn, and then glanced at Sandy. " . . . and I didn’t particularly want to, ah, compete with you. I like to win in the contests I enter."

Marilyn’s full lips shaped a friendly grin of their own, but her words left no doubt who was in charge. "I appreciate the compliment, but this won’t work if you don’t look like one of the team. From now on, I want to see you in your suit anytime we have to wear ours. More if you’re not comfortable in heels this high. Sandy starts filming tomorrow for the establishing shots and when you’re in the frame, you’re in uniform. Okay?"

Jacqui’s frown could have used a bit of the training the SMITE team had received so that it would look like a more fetching pout. The war going on behind her eyes was obvious, as was her discomfort. In a moment of insight, Marilyn realized there was a more subtle reason, though.

Something in the buxom blonde’s body language both required and authorized Jacqui to explain without risk of giving offense. The petite brunette’s frown changed to a surprisingly guilty smile, then she nodded.

"It’s just, um, well, for you it’s all right. All of you, I mean. You’re movie stars and all. But for me, well, those skinsuits seem, ah, frankly indecent. I mean, they show . . . everthing!"

Marilyn laughed and said, "Goodness, Miss Prim, you’d be more covered up than you are now."

Jacqui blushed as she disagreed. "Covered thinner than a coat of paint. Especially, well, you know."

Marilyn giggled and took a deep enough breath to show her ‘you knows’ very prominently indeed. Then she sighed and nodded at Jacqui’s point. "That’s part of the job. You should have been told when you agreed to be our mission pilot."

"Oh, I was, but . . ."

"But you thought you could put it off a while," Marilyn offered.

Jacqui nodded. Marilyn matched her nod, but hers was not so much agreement as declaration of a decision. "That makes it even more important that you are ‘in uniform’ from now on. You’ve got to get used to it, or you might be distracted at a critical time. Agreed?"

Jacqui’s frown was back, but the self-discipline that had helped her to excel in a field that was difficult by anyone’s standards left her no option in the face of Marilyn’s logic. She nodded, then confirmed it with a, "Yes, ma’am."

Then she actually seemed to relax a little. Marilyn picked up on it and recognized that the ‘real’ astronaut was accepting not only the specific order, but the pecking order as well. On matters other than those directly related to safety of the flight, Marilyn was in command.

The resolution of that issue was timely, both in the larger sense of settling an issue within the team, and in the specific case that they were pulling up to the medical facility just as they finished talking. Out of necessity, their flight surgeon was Paul Hansen, the doctor from their Montana base. He and a small staff of nurses also from the base were the only ones beside the girls themselves who knew their most basic physical nature. Since it was not expected that they would need their true . . . equipment for the mission, each SMITE team member was wearing a disguising prosthesis that would pass any but the most intimate examination though it was part of Marilyn’s standard defense in depth approach since that would not be put to any real test anyway. The cover story as actresses with ‘unique’ medical requirements relative to typical astronaut trainees provided a necessary bulwark for security while also providing a legitimate medical team to ensure a valid understanding of the true state of their special physiology. As a result of this dedicated attention, the team was making faster progress than might have been expected of pampered actresses. Even the ostentatiously avuncular Jennings had been impressed with their strength and stamina.

The afternoon session tested the opposite of their morning exercise; elevated g’s instead of weightlessness. The method for that was ground-based; the large rotating centrifuge seen in every astronaut movie ever made. They took turns, Jacqui paired with Vanna to ‘show them how it should be done’, setting a standard none of the others even tried to match. It wasn’t just about survival, or even retaining consciousness. The test required them to throw switches and, for the pilots, work flight controls. A prolonged period at moderate g’s, which is what they would experience in the shuttle, was more relevant than maximum g tolerance.

"Your turn, ladies," Jacqui said nonchalantly as climbed from the torturous device. If Vanna couldn’t make her own exit with the same insouciance, she could at least do it without assistance which was a triumph in itself.

They were both now dressed in their ‘spacesuits’, though no NASA astronaut would ever willing go outside their spacecraft with so little protection. Still, for women in such excellent condition, the uniforms were flattering indeed. Jacqui was sporting an imperial purple addition to the colors that had long identified the rest of the team.

"This isn’t so bad," Vanna promised Carol as she helped the tall redhead into her just-vacated seat. "Just make sure you do the ab muscle compressions they told us about. Even a tall girl like you can handle these g levels."

"I think I’ll just take a nap and let Marilyn handle the work," Carol said sourly. "There isn’t ANYthing about this that isn’t ‘bad’."

"You don’t know how many times I’ve envied you your long legs," Vanna whispered to her. "If this time is a sort of, um, payback or something, well, I’m not feeling a bit guilty."

Carol winced at the accuracy of that barb, knowing that on more than one occasion she had flaunted her fashion-model stature as she strutted past her shorter teammate. But Vanna’s gentle taunt worked and the redhead nodded, composing her features as she forced herself to assume a better attitude.

Carol redeemed herself from her zero-g problems by doing quite well as Marilyn’s partner. Despite her tall form, which significantly added to her challenge, she demanded of herself that she match their shapely leader. Marilyn realized as she completed her own tasks that she was definitely going to have to get a little tailoring work on her outfit, though.

She winced as she stepped from the centrifuge, hefting her artificially enhanced curves. "Damn."

"What’s wrong?" Carol whispered, shielding her from the always-watching attendants.

"I need a better bra if we’re going to do much of that," explained Marilyn.

"Quit bragging," Carol giggled, but she still moved to interpose her own trim form between Marilyn and the others.

"At least the suit tech will get a cheap thrill," Marilyn softly whispered back. Then she decided they might as well accept what would soon be an open secret. She raised her voice to normal tones, sensually ran her hands up her torso and announced, "I need a little more support. Open nipples with a built-in shelf bra oughta be good for a few ratings points, anyway. Don’t you think?"

"Report to the suit tech, then," Jennings said gruffly, but the tips of his ears showed his thoughts were not as businesslike as his comments tried to claim.

"How bad is it?" Sandy asked, crossing her arms under her own ample charms, so provocatively displayed in her bright, body-hugging green uniform.

"Not too bad," Marilyn said. "I wouldn’t want it to be a habit, at least not without better support, but one ride won’t be a problem even for you."

Sandy nodded and joined Jaymi in the centrifuge cab, struggling to adjust the multi-point harness.

"Damn, girl," Jaymi whispered to her. "You grow any bigger and they’re going to have to send for a larger harness."

"Oh, be quiet. You’re just jealous," Sandy whispered back. "I haven’t really grown that much, not even a full cup size. It’s just that I’ve lost a little more muscle mass in my shoulders."

"If you say so," Jaymi said, obviously unconvinced.

They finished fastening themselves in and signaled their readiness to start the test. Then . . . nothing happened.

"Test, this is Beech. We’re ready to go."

"Right, we know," came the terse reply.

"What’s the holdup?"

The tech’s voice was replaced by Jennings slow drawl. "Y’all’re gonna have to wait a spell. The computer profile for your run won’t load. We may have to reboot."

"Kick it where the sun don’t shine," Sandy suggested. Her recommendation wasn’t even acknowledged, but the scurrying techs made it clear that they were working as hard as they could so the two test subjects settled in for an indeterminate wait.

After a few moments of steadily increasing boredom, Sandy realized that Jaymi had a distant look on her face, but the smile that was also there showed no irritation.

"What are you thinking about?" she whispered.

"Um, girls," they heard Marilyn’s voice in their headphones. "You might remember that you’re on an open mike."

"Oops," Sandy said, blushing. Jaymi giggled as she remembered what she had said about Sandy’s continuing development. Without comment, they each pulled their headphones off and moved the microphones out of the way.

"So, tell me," Sandy demanded again.

Jaymi’s blush showed noticeably against her ivory skin, and the heat she must have felt on the inside let her know that there was little use in denying that her thoughts had been very focused.

"Well, she whispered back, "I told you that on furlough I met a guy."

"Oh, that’s right. In all the excitement, I never did talk with you about it."

"There’s not really that much to tell. But that is what, or I guess I should say ‘who’ I was thinking about."

"Yeah, right," Sandy snickered. "Well, we’re not going anywhere, at least for a while, so tell me what happened."

The dreamy look came back into Jaymi’s eyes, but there was an echo of pain as well, an echo that Sandy knew showed only too often in her own eyes.

"What’s wrong?" she asked.

Jaymi smiled, easily it seemed for all that the pain didn’t really leave her eyes. "Nothing, really. It’s just that, um, part of me wishes I hadn’t gone home for furlough."

"Not that I really went ‘home’," she added quickly, forestalling any worry on Sandy’s part. "My home wasn’t really all that . . . pleasant. When it became clear just what sort of person I was, things got strained . . . "

Jaymi continued her story with small shrug of her shoulders - all she could manage within her tight harness - but enough to show that what she was about to say was no longer a cause for serious emotional distress.

 

(continued in next part)

 

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SMITE 2 - Pheromone Pharmacopia © 2001 by Brandy Dewinter. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.