"Pheromone Pharmacopia"

by Brandy Dewinter

(c 2001, All rights reserved)

 

Chapter 6 - "Misdemeanor"

The centrifuge exercise that had provided Carol a chance to redeem herself was almost the undoing of Sandy. By the time she and Jaymi had finished their run, Sandy was pale and shaking. Jaymi had been too busy to notice during the actual test but as soon as she glanced at her sister in arms, expecting a congratulatory smile of accomplishment, she knew something was wrong.

"Sandy?"

"I’m okay," Sandy said, obviously lying. But the message she didn’t say in words was just as clear. Whatever was bothering her was more than a few moments at elevated g’s.

Before Jaymi could do anything to help her friend, before she could even decide *what* sort of help was needed, Marilyn and the rest of the team were there unfastening Sandy’s harnesses. No one said anything but the intensity of their concern showed among the tight-knit team. They hustled Sandy away from the centrifuge cab, protecting her from the prying eyes of the test technicians.

"Is somethin’ wrong?" Jennings asked.

"No," Marilyn replied tersely. Then she decided some further explanation was in order if only to head off additional questions. "This is our last exercise for the day, and we’re all anxious to get out of these suits."

Jennings’ ears colored in what the team was recognizing as his telltale sign of embarrassment. The source, whether because the thought of these specific girls peeling out of their showy costumes aroused him or the more generic ideas of women and clothes seemed inappropriate for NASA, didn’t really matter. It did close off any further questions. He sent a parting comment their way, though. "Don’t forget to report to your flight surgeon."

"Right," Marilyn nodded. Once they were out of earshot, she whispered to Sandy, "What’s wrong?"

"Something . . . tore, where my rear is scarred," Sandy grunted out through her pain.

"We could all hear the pain in your voice," Marilyn said, then she tried to lift the tone with a positive observation of Sandy’s support from within the team, "not to mention the worry in Jaymi’s tone."

"Doc Hansen will fix you up," Vanna promised.

"Again," Sandy said, nodding. It was intended as a joke, but the strain sounded too clearly for any humor to work.

Before they met their doctor though, they had to pass the suit technicians. Despite the 50’s glam of their skin-tight apparel, with typical NASA technoid glee their suits were really constructed of space age materials; lightweight, virtually tear-proof, and fire resistant. So of course the nearly indestructible suits were handled with utmost care whenever they were not actually being worn. Suit techs, guardians of their own empire, had an iron-clad authority to be involved each time they were donned or removed.

This was not usually a problem. The concealing prosthetics that the team wore would pass merely visual examination, and in any event they were allowed to wear their own panties under the outfits. Now, the time it took for the suit techs to fuss with the outfits had become very much a problem, for Sandy at least.

It got worse when one of the techs, thankfully a woman, reached an obvious but wrong conclusion. "Sandy, you’re spotting. Why didn’t you tell us it was your time?"

The blood on Sandy’s panties had an entirely different source, but the tech’s assumed explanation was much too convenient to contradict. Sandy just nodded, her less-than-cheerful demeanor excused by the same convenient mistake. The silver lining of an additional reinforcement for their security that showed for just a moment in the cloud that hung over them caused Marilyn to give an equally unnoticed sigh.

The cloud didn’t show any silver when Hansen examined Sandy, though.

"You really shouldn’t be pulling g’s," he said.

"Not a choice, Doc," Sandy replied grimly.

"It most certainly is," he said. "I can ground you."

"For how long?"

"Forever," he replied bluntly. "Or at least until I get a chance to do a better job on your repairs."

"What would that involve?" asked Marilyn, ostensibly a chaperone so that the doctor wouldn’t be alone with a female patient but very much the commanding officer as well. She knew that Sandy would ‘volunteer’ to do whatever was necessary to stay with the team. Accepting that offer would ultimately be Marilyn’s decision to make.

"Another surgery. And the recovery time. Probably four weeks before she could repeat the centrifuge test."

"What’s the alternative?" Sandy asked. "And I don’t mean grounding me."

Hansen sighed, a sad look in his eyes as he contemplated the pain that would once again be part of the seemingly innocent girl’s life. Yet he knew of the team’s mission and of its importance. He shrugged his shoulders and mentally reached into his bag of tricks. "I can do something temporary for now. With appropriate indignities we can keep your normal wastes soft enough to avoid further damage. By the time of the actual launch, well, we’ll work something out. It won’t be fun, but . . ."

"Good," Sandy said. "That’s settled."

Marilyn was not as easily convinced. "What’s the downside, aside from those ‘indignities’ you mentioned?"

"There will be a real risk of infection, and a somewhat smaller risk of hemorrhage," Hansen said.

Behind Marilyn’s eyes the calculations could be seen. Before she had a chance to complete her considerations, Sandy interrupted them. "Marilyn, please. You can’t kick me off the team."

"Never," Marilyn answered instantly. Then she sighed and displayed a smile that was different in every detail from that the doctor had shown though it conveyed the same sad message. "But I won’t make you sit out this specific mission, either." Turning to the doctor she said, "Do what has to be done."

Hansen had his own responsibilities of course, and they were first and foremost to his patient. Yet he knew the team, knew how much of their strength came from their mutual support and willing interdependence. He nodded, then put a not very convincing smile on his face as a sign that they were now firmly on the chosen path. "Well, girl," he said to Sandy, "at least you have an excuse. For the next couple of days you’re going to be having a bad ‘monthly’. Limited duty only. I suppose an actress as beautiful as yourself is entitled to a little pampering now and then."

"Don’t mention Pampers, okay?" Sandy retorted.

"Ha!" Hansen said. "All of you are going to become very familiar with them. What do you think you’re going to do in space?"

That night, the rest of the team gathered in Sandy’s room. They were well on their way to a giggling all-night session when Marilyn stepped into the room. Despite the sensual appearance of the curvy blonde in her own sheer gown, the serious message in her eyes quickly stilled the chatter.

"All right, ladies, we’ve got to rework the assignments a little," she began. "I don’t dare rely on Sandy’s physical strength, in her condition, so I’m afraid that task falls to Carol, with Jaymi as backup."

"What’s her condition?" Carol whispered theatrically, at least in part to cover her own concern about coping with her new assignment.

"She’s pregnant," Vanna whispered back, not at all sympathetic to Carol’s plight but playing along. She’d have loved the idea of going EVA, but she had her own assignment.

Marilyn frowned at Carol’s interruption, then had to stifle a giggle at Vanna’s explanation. That was in turn interrupted by Sandy’s question.

"What will I be doing?"

Instead of answering only what Sandy had asked, Marilyn ran down the whole set of assignments.

"It works out this way. You are our primary camera operator for the film cover. Now you’ll have the real assignment of finding the brilliant pebbles control system and disabling it, as a backup to Jaymi who has that as her primary mission. She might be pulled away if we find some especially difficult locks since that is her specialty. Carol will take over on the EVA task of disabling the brilliant pebbles control antenna if we find one, under the cover of repairing a solar panel on the station. Vanna will be the co-pilot, of course, both for the film and for the real mission. In addition, she’ll back me up on capturing Seward."

"How important is it that we capture him, as opposed to . . . "

Vanna asked.

"Not terribly," Marilyn said. "That’s why you’re my backup on that. Our information is that Seward likes blondes, so you and I will try and get his attention. If necessary, well, a knife is a lot safer on a space station than a gun. Your skill with them will be useful."

"And Jacqui?" Jaymi asked.

"She’ll be told that there is a covert mission just before the launch," Marilyn declared. "Her job will be to keep the shuttle in readiness for our escape. She won’t be involved in anything else."

That decision, seemingly obvious at the time, would turn out to have tragic consequences.

Once the business was over, Marilyn tried to get the team back to a lighter note. "So, Jaymi, what were you and Sandy talking about so intently before your spin in the centrifuge?"

"Boys, of course," Sandy giggled.

"Ooh, tell us," Carol demanded, but Jaymi shook her head, blushing. The dark-haired girl looked at Marilyn to see if her commander would make than an order, but the blonde just smiled and shook her head in concurrence that Jaymi didn’t need to make a further report.

"Oh, you’re no fun!" Carol grumped. Then she turned her bright blue eyes on Vanna. "Your turn then, Vanna. Gates said a man had chased you on your furlough. Did you let him catch you?"

Vanna looked at Marilyn, too. This time, the blonde commander nodded her head to her equally-blonde subordinate. Vanna smiled in response, a hint in her eyes that she expected Marilyn to be surprised by what she had to say.

"Ladies," Vanna began, nodding her head in Marilyn’s direction, "I submit to you that our Marilyn is one damn fine leader."

Now it was Marilyn’s turn to blush as the chorus of enthusiastic assent rolled back and forth around the room. Vanna raised her hand to silence her friends and continued, "Not just because we’d all do the standard ‘charge the machine gun nest’ for her. We all would, and she knows it, just as we know we’d have to run as fast was we could to keep up with her because she’d be leading the charge."

Vanna’s voice dropped to a softer, introspective tone that said she was sharing her heart as much as speaking her mind. "But what makes our fearless leader really special is that she *understands* us, you know?"

The team agreed again, silently this time, with introspective nods of their own that showed an even deeper acceptance than their earlier cheers.

"When the time came to select new personalities for us each to learn, how did you choose?" Vanna asked Marilyn directly.

"Oh, lots of things," Marilyn said, not dodging the question, but not sure how to answer it either.

"Well, whatever it was, it worked," Vanna declared flatly, then she broke her own mood with a laugh. "Of course, turning Carol into a tart was no great leap of insight."

Carol laughed as much as the rest of them, vamping a smoldering look and air kiss at her shorter sister.

"But none of you got as perfect a match as I did," claimed Vanna. Some of the others looked like they were going to disagree, but once again Vanna held up her hand for silence.

"I don’t care what you think. You can tell your stories later. I’m just telling you that I think she hit the ‘real’ me best. So much so that I didn’t want to go on furlough at all . . . " 

	"I wanted to be desired by rich, good-looking men," said Vanna.

I was packing for our leave, slowly, because I didn’t have anywhere to go and no money to get there. I had some beautiful clothes, of course. But my parents don’t have much money and the Army doesn’t pay privates very well. I could get home, of course. Marilyn had arranged transportation vouchers ("Sam Gates," Marilyn contradicted her quietly), but I couldn’t afford to stay where I wanted to go after I got there, anyway.

You see, I really like being Vanna. I like the elegance, the sense of class and style. Coming from a poor family, I’ve always envied the upper class. Like in the movie, Titanic. I wanted to dress in long evening gowns and ‘dine’, not just eat. I wanted to be desired by rich, good-looking men who were impressed by my impeccable manners even as they were enticed by a show of hidden lace.

Don’t get me wrong. In my mind I think Jaymi is right to be so open on whom she can love, but in my heart I was still only attracted to women. I can do what’s required with men, like on our last mission, but it’s not something I really enjoy. I didn’t want to make love to a man, just be desired by them - at least the rich ones. ("Don’t forget ‘good-looking’," Carol said, grinning, but she said it quietly to show support and acceptance, not really to interrupt.)

So, despite my beautiful clothes and an open travel voucher for anywhere in the US, I didn’t have any place I really wanted to go. At least, not that I could afford. Marilyn came in while I was packing and, as always, picked up right away on my feelings.

"Where are you going on furlough?" she asked.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t answer really, even if I had had plans. I felt my throat get tight and knew I was about to lose control of the tears that filled my eyes. Marilyn straightened up and surprised me with a crisp order.

"Follow me."

I did, of course, but I had no clue what was going on. After all, I hadn’t said a word so I figured Marilyn had something else on her mind than my problem.

When we got to her office, Marilyn motioned me to a seat by her desk and started in on all that rigmarole she does on the phone. After a couple of minutes I heard her say, "Sam? I need you to rework some orders for me. No, not really for me, for Vanna White. Right. I’m canceling her furlough."

Needless to say I was surprised by that. But what she said next was *really* a shock.

"I need for her to do some research while the rest of us are on furlough. No, she’ll have to travel. She can use her transportation voucher for that, but she’ll need expenses while she’s there. New York. Yes, New York City, as in Manhattan. Of course she’s going in character."

New York! That would be perfect! The Big Apple might be a bit past her prime, but it was still the center of real elegance in the whole country. LA is way too, well, I mean the best hotel is ‘pink’ for goodness sake. Money without taste.

My face must have been showing emotions much too clearly, because I saw Marilyn’s smile widen even as my own died away. Hell, even with basic expenses paid for at whatever rate the Army would cover, I could afford to go to a Broadway play, or ‘dine’ at the best restaurants, or . . . But Marilyn had that under control as well.

"No, Sam," she was saying into the phone. "I know I could write the orders for her myself for a basic trip. But I need some, ah, special assistance. Yes, again."

Then she dropped the bomb, at least it blew me away. She said, "I need her to attend several of the Broadway shows, whatever is best right now. And she’ll need tickets to whatever is ‘in’ culturally right now. Is the Met still doing La Traviata? Oh, too bad. Oh, sure, Carmen would be fine. Let’s see . . . well, you know what’s appropriate better than I do. Get her a suite . . . okay, a *small* suite at the Waldorf. Oh? Well, whatever is currently considered best. Have someone meet her at the airport. Thanks, Sam. What? Oh, um, sure. This is definitely part of her required training. You want that in blood? Figure out how to do it over the phone, and I’ll donate. Thanks, Sam."

She hung up, then looked at me for a moment. Then she said, "What are you still doing here?"

Like I said, she is one damn fine leader.

When I got to New York, there was a guy in an obvious chauffeur’s uniform waiting with a sign that said Vanna White. That turned out to be a problem, because as soon as I walked up I was surrounded by autograph hounds. I must have said, "Yes, but I’m not the Vanna White that’s on TV" a hundred times. You know what’s really funny? A lot of them didn’t even care. Having a signature from a woman named Vanna White is all they wanted.

The chauffeur took care of my bags and then the doorman at the hotel, the Plaza, right next to Central Park. I read somewhere that you don’t tip the, um, basic hotel personnel until you leave, which was a good thing because I don’t think the cash I had with me would pay for the doorman’s shoe polish. So I just stayed in character and walked in like I owned the place.

That wasn’t too far from the truth. The way people snapped to attention when I walked up reminded me of basic training. I almost saluted out of pure reflex. The details were all taken care of, and when I say ‘all’, you wouldn’t believe . . .

Anyway, I did give the bellboy a tip, basically all my money and still got a disappointed look, then started through the stuff on the desk in the room. Whatever Marilyn had asked for, and more, was there, starting with tickets to a special exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in the morning. And cash.

My basic black sheath dress never looked more appropriate than when I walked into the museum. There was no way I could come to New York and not see the plays and things, but on my *next* trip, I think I’ll plan on spending the whole time in that museum. It’s that . . . incredible. Besides, I didn’t get to see it all that well, that time. I had no sooner entered the room with the Impressionists when someone coughed discreetly by my elbow.

There he was. Just like in the movies, this tall hottie was smiling at me. A rich one. Trust me. Maybe I could have afforded his shoelaces, but that would have been about the only thing. His *tie* probably cost a month’s pay, at least, a month of my pay.

"Do you like Renoir?" he asked politely. From which I deduced that I had been looking at a Renoir. I hadn’t had time to read the card by the painting.

"I like his balance a bit better than Monet," I said easily. Remember all that training we had in how to speak ‘easily’ in our new voices? Well, I needed all of it. "Just enough realism to convey a feeling of being in the painting, without losing the sense of intuitive presence in the impression."

"Very insightful," he said with a delightfully impressed look.

Bowing slightly he said, "Wilson Kennedy."

At first I thought he was saying he had caught me in a lie, that the painting I had been looking at was really a ‘Wilson Kennedy’ not a Renoir. I almost screamed, almost ran away, almost dropped my purse, almost collapsed right where I stood, almost anything. But what I actually did was nod slightly, smile briefly, and by the time my reflexes had carried me past that I realized that he had been introducing himself. So I softly said, "Vanna White."

He grinned like it was a joke, on him but a good one. Like he didn’t believe me, in other words, but accepted my obvious lie as a valid way to put off an undesired intruder. He nodded again and wandered off to look at another painting.

Now that I had, ah, established my credentials as an art expert, I couldn’t just move quickly past the rest of the paintings. Not that I wanted to. As a result, we sort of ‘hovered’ around each other for the next hour or so, neither speaking but always aware that we were not alone. It got to be a sort of game, seeing if we could catch the other looking our way, smiling when we did, grinning at getting caught.

I gave up first, but I had a good excuse. I had a ticket for the Metropolitan Opera that I was not going to waste. I had spent enough time at the museum though, that I didn’t have time to eat. I just rushed back to the hotel (yeah, right, in Manhattan NONE of the cars get up to a good ‘rush’), and got into this perfectly glorious gown, black of course, complete with long black gloves and a pearl choker.

I knew enough to be fashionably late, arriving just as the house lights were dimming, and had to have an usher show me to my seat. It was already dark when I sat down and I was soon lost in the music. I didn’t know the opera of course, so I was surprised when the first intermission came. When everyone started filing out of their seats, I just went along. For all I knew, the whole thing was over.

But when we got to the lobby area, everyone was getting champagne and little hors d’oeuvres. I was standing there trying to figure out if you had to pay for them or could just take something, when I heard a voice that I recognized despite having heard only a sentence or two from it.

"Since I’ve already used my best line, and gone down in flames, maybe I should just ask, ‘Come here often?’"

The tux Kennedy wore - it was him of course - made his suit look cheap. I didn’t think his suit had been off the rack, but that tux was obviously tailored just for him, and by an expert. Little details, like the way the collar fit his neck snugly without digging in at all, showed he was as comfortable in that rig as in anything else he might have thrown on. I was considering that he was part of the real Kennedy clan, the real *rich* Kennedy clan even though he didn’t look like them - too tall, for one thing - when he spoke again.

"So, are you still Vanna White this evening?"

"All the time," I said quickly, nervously. It sounded abrupt though, like I was irritated.

"Ah, sorry," he said, showing just a hint of flush above his perfectly tailored collar. "Um, I seem to be doing it again. Can I make up for my bad manners by offering you some champagne?"

Well, at least that solved the issue of how to get some. Champagne I mean. I nodded, expecting him to walk off to one of the tables. I guess I didn’t know how the really rich work, though. Instead of moving, he just lifted his eyes and looked at someone. In a second two glasses of chilled champagne were handed to him on a tray. He handed one of the flutes to me like he had fetched it himself though, totally ignoring the waiter who had brought it. I’m not kidding about that ‘second’ either. If it took two, then I lost count. Someone must have been watching him the whole time.

"To the honesty of beautiful women," he said, lifting his glass.

And right then I just about lost it again. I was hardly the poster child for honest women. Wrong on both counts, and by a long shot. I almost couldn’t drink the toast, but . . . but it was champagne, in the Metropolitan Opera House, in New York, and I decided if I was to be damned anyway, then this was as good a cause as any. So I smiled and sipped at my bubbly, waiting once again for him to speak.

"Do you like Bizet?" he asked, grinning sardonically.

*Who the hell is Bizet?* I wondered frantically. Was it one of the characters? Or maybe one of the actors who was playing one of the characters?

Something about his grin gave me the hint I needed, thought. Well, in conjunction with the visit to the museum that afternoon. I grasped desperately at something I had heard Marilyn say, hoping I had heard it correctly. "It’s not La Traviatta, but I do feel a certain kinship to the heroine."

"Oh, are you being pursued by an unwanted suitor?"

Oops. I hadn’t picked up on enough of the play to realize that was the plot. Now it looked like I was spurning his advance again. Hell, maybe I was. I mean, I wanted to be desired by men like this, but only from a distance. On the other hand, I didn’t want to be rude. Really, that’s what it was.

I had been looking down at my glass, more to avoid his eyes than in contemplation of the amber liquid. Letting my eyes rise just enough to see him through my lashes, I softly said, "Not, ah, at the moment."

 

(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.