"Pheromone Pharmacopia"

by Brandy Dewinter

(c 2001, All rights reserved)

 

Chapter 3 - "Misdirection"

*Marilyn, you idiot,* I thought to myself while I waited for my ‘date’ to arrive, *if you EVER planned a SMITE mission as poorly as you planned this outfit, you and your whole team would be toast!*

"If the neckline were any lower, my REAL ‘secret’ would show," I grumped out loud as I looked in the hotel room mirror. "And it’s even worse in back. No bending over for this babe tonight, that’s for damn sure!"

But in my heart I knew that if I had been meeting anyone other than my own family, I’d be spectacular. "Spectacle is right," I chided my own inner thoughts, not that it helped. They still wouldn’t be quiet as I turned this way and that before the mirror, watching the way the sleek black fabric glued itself to my dramatic curves - courtesy of Uncle Sugar. "Way too fancy, even for a rehearsal dinner. Not to mention too damn short. Why did I EVER listen to Carol’s suggestion on my ‘emergency’ outfit?"

A discreet knock at the door required me to turn away from my narcissistic preoccupation and gather up the rest of my things. The purse was too small to be useful, but I wasn’t headed for a week in the bushes on a tactical exercise. A short mink jacket - at least I think it was mink, I never asked Sam where he had gotten it from - and some black gloves completed my ensemble.

"Maybe I’ll just keep the jacket on all evening," I muttered to myself as I opened the door.

"Ma’am?" asked Bobby in confusion. He stood in the doorway tall and trim and very handsome in a sportcoat and slacks that were about as far from the uniforms he had been required to wear as possible without getting sloppy. Part of me was appreciative even as part of me was envious, proving that he was not the only one confused at that moment.

"Now, Lieutenant," I said, counterattacking to cover my mistake, "if you’re going to call me ‘ma’am’ all night, I’ll just stay home."

"Um, sorry, uh . . . Colonel?"

"Marilyn will do, since I’m out of uniform," I said. *WAY out of uniform,* I thought. Then I realized that Bobby was almost certainly thinking exactly the same thing, and I couldn’t hold back a bubbly giggle. Also courtesy of Uncle Sugar and my once-useful training in bimbo.

"Ma’am?" he said again, then caught himself. "I’m sorry, I mean, did you say something, um, Marilyn?"

"Just get us to the car, Lieutenant," I said dryly. He hit a parade ground brace and offered me his arm, a welcome aid in the steepled heels that the dress required, and we set off to a waiting cab without further embarrassment for either of us.

At least, it could have been. But I just had to keep him off balance, if for no other reason than because all new Second Lieutenants are required to be off balance. It’s part of the Army code. I was working on ways to tease him when he pulled open the cab door for me.

"Good evening," I heard from inside.

"Good evening," I repeated to Mrs. Merlin, my very own mother.

"What a lovely dress," she said politely.

"What there is of it," I muttered under my breath. At that very instant my thoughts on Sandy and Carol were not very . . . complimentary, even though I knew I had been all too easy to persuade to wear that slinky bit of silk.

"What did you say, dear?" Mother asked.

"Oh, um, sorry, nothing," I lied. She looked at me very closely for a moment, frowning, then gave her head a tiny little shake and settled back into her seat. Bobby took a jumpseat facing us, and the driver soon had us on our way.

"So, *Eltee*, tell me again how you managed to end up escorting two women on a post where men outnumber women at least 10:1," I said, trying to cover my own confusion with another poke at Bobby.

His answer was interrupted, though, by our mother. "Eltee?"

"Short for lieutenant," he explained. "I have to admit, I’m still trying to get used to that."

I grinned wickedly and said, "All the way from Major to Eltee in one quick step. Oh, how the mighty have fallen."

"*Cadet* Major," he quickly corrected me. "It’s hardly a fall."

"You’ll think it is once your sergeant gets a hold of you. If you thought plebe year was difficult, you’re gonna hate what *real* soldiers do to you," I promised.

"Were you a cadet?" he asked, trying to shift the subject from himself. Goodness, they must have finally managed to drill some manners into his head.

"My career path has been, ah, convoluted," I said, not really answering.

"But impressive," he said. "You’re very young to be a Lieutenant Colonel."

"Why, thank you," I said, dimpling artfully. "And I guess I can take that as an answer to my question."

"I’m sorry?" he said, confused.

"As to how you managed to get two women to go to the ball with you," I reminded him. "You’re pretty smooth with the ladies, aren’t you?"

His response was a blush not very well in keeping with his masculine appearance. Mother’s laugh didn’t help anything. At least, not from his perspective. I thought it was great.

Mother asked, "Will you really be, um, working with regular soldiers now?"

"Pretty soon," he said. "I report to Fort Sill for more training, first, but part of that will include performing tasks with trained enlisted men."

"A Redleg? What ever made you choose Artillery?"

He shrugged as though it were not a big deal, but I could see pride as well. "I like the, um, precision of things. The math and ballistics."

"You *like* math?"

"Sure," he confirmed, smiling.

"That doesn’t . . . ah, does that run in the family?"

"Hardly," he laughed. "My older brother hates math. He was always more . . . intuitive, I guess. I think he finds it more rewarding to guess a right answer than to work it out carefully. Whatever he’s doing now, I’d bet it involves dangerous react-without-time-for-analysis undercover missions in some sort of disguise rather than sitting behind a desk doing calculations."

I had to quickly chew on my tongue rather than blurt out an agreement, but he couldn’t have found a more accurate description even if he had known of my current . . . situation. It was only after I had a chance to get my own ‘react-without-time-for-analysis’ impulse under control that I realized there had been a fair bit of pride in his comment.

And then I felt my mother’s eyes on me again, with that frown back in place. Fortunately we had just arrived at the hall where Bobby’s friend was celebrating and the bustle of getting out of the cab distracted her. Inside, a stiffly formal plebe was taking coats. So much for my plans to hide inside my jacket.

It was a bit, well okay, it was *very* gratifying to hear the collective gasp from all those fit, handsome men when they saw me in my dress. Even Mother’s eyes widened at the . . . display. *Wish I knew if she’s pleased or thinks I look like a tramp,* I wondered, glancing at the frown that had reappeared on her face.

Bobby escorted us into the main dining room, smiling at the calls from his friends. He gallantly offered his arm to his mother, then realized he owed me the other one - an offer he made quickly to forestall those who appeared only too willing to take on that duty for him.

I’d like to be able to blame what happened later on the dancing. It wasn’t the drinks. Even ‘off-duty’ I knew better than to get drunk and while I had an obligatory glass of champagne, the rest of the evening I stayed with soda. But there is something almost as intoxicating about being the focus of attention for so many handsome, wonderfully fit young men.

Bobby had the first dance and clearly wanted more besides, but it wasn’t long before another new ‘officer and gentleman’ approached.

"Bobby, I am NOT going to believe that this is your sister," he said.

"Hardly," Bobby agreed, though the irony almost caused me to laugh out loud.

"And she is not wearing an engagement ring, so I’m about to exercise my prerogatives as a brother officer and give you a run for your money," the sharp-eyed young man said, then before Bobby had a chance to reply he switched his attention to me. "Miss, I’d be very grateful for the privilege of a dance with you."

For some reason I looked at Bobby like I needed his permission or something. I could see a bit of conflict in his eyes, but we had just met, really, so what could he say?

The answer to that question was formed in manners as he introduced us. "Marilyn, this is Todd Jackson, who will not doubt become famous in Army lore for his devotion to the frontal attack. Todd, this is Marilyn Richards . . . "

He paused just long enough for Jackson to let an interestingly feral grin appear on his face, then concluded, " . . . Lieutenant Colonel Richards."

The poor boy’s face fell like he had taken a .223 round in the heart, but to his credit he recovered quickly and smiled. "Nice to meet you, Colonel."

"I’m just Marilyn tonight," I said, but Jackson’s look remained defensive.

"As you wish, ma’am," he said, offering his arm.

I refused to take it, smiling at Bobby to see if he recognized the point. He smiled back, then realized there was an invitation in my glance as well. That put a much larger grin on his face as he looked back to the other officer.

"Mister Jackson, does this gorgeous woman look like a ‘ma’am’ to you?"

Jackson had hit a brace from reflex, though he would have gained a few gigs for breaking his pose by letting his eyes look at me instead of straight ahead. They lingered for a while, long enough that Bobby had time to stifle the laugh his own reflexes wanted so much to indulge then paste a firm look on his face.

"Well, Mister? I asked you a question."

"Ah, no. Sir," Jackson stammered, then did a pretty good job of recovering. "When I think of ‘ma’am’, the image that comes to mind does absolutely no justice to this vision of loveliness."

"Why, lieutenant, for that I may just forgive you," I said with a slight dip into something much too small to be a curtsy. With that, I held my hand out to take the arm he was no longer really offering. Young Jackson remedied that quickly, and we were soon moving easily to the - like all things Army - very traditional music.

The next young swain didn’t even wait for the song to end, cutting in on Jackson before we had found each other’s rhythm. His own turn was not much longer. There is something very . . . like I said, intoxicating about all that attention from such virile men. It wasn’t really sexual, at least on my side. It was the flattery of their interest, not the potential for intimacy - despite the inherent sensuality of moving to music in the arms of a very male companion.

Or perhaps addictive would be better than intoxicating. I certainly enjoyed the attention, enough that I didn’t want it to end even when I knew it had to end . . . because of my feet.

"I’m sorry," I said with a grimace as soon as Bobby reclaimed me one more time, "but I just have to sit for a while."

"Of course," he said gallantly.

I faked continued nonchalance for the walk back to our table, though I’m afraid the quite graceless impact of my fanny on the chair gave me away. Mother laughed, which was no help at all.

"I wouldn’t even have tried to dance in shoes like those," she said without sympathy. "You should have known better."

"I did," I said ruefully, "but I wore them anyway."

"On the other hand," I said, smiling at Bobby, "I didn’t know I’d be dancing so much."

"You should have," he said unrepentantly. Smugly, in fact, as he looked around at all his classmates and their admiring glances.

"Thank you," I said softly, but sadly, too, as the lie I was really telling them sparked a new bout of guilt. I really shouldn’t have come.

The sadness I felt didn’t have much time to fester because almost as soon as we sat down some of Bobby’s friends started to join us. Mother looked on in amusement at their transparent attempts to impress us, um, perhaps it was more to impress me. It got to be a ‘there I was’ contest, telling tales just close enough to true that they might be believed. That’s when I got into trouble.

One of the young men - I don’t remember his name and they were all very happy to answer to ‘Lieutenant’ anyway - was planning on getting into the Green Berets. He had applied for jungle training after his basic infantry school, and was already jump qualified. It sounded like a nicely laid-out path . . . if you hadn’t been there.

"Pick carefully, Lieutenant," I said. "Jungle training is a LOT worse than you think."

"Ah, yes, ma’am’, he said, suddenly formal again. He couldn’t disagree with a superior officer, of course, but it was clear he wasn’t convinced.

I suppose it irritated me. I HAD been through jungle training, back when it was in Panama and really nasty. It was wildly inconsistent with my current appearance, of course, and inexcusable to compromise my cover for bragging points with a bunch of wet-nosed shavetails, but . . . But I did it anyway. Intoxicated is my only excuse.

"Look, Mister, when you’re four days in the mud with the trots from the bad water and God knows what growing between your toes, and you see a snake that just crawled over you take a tree frog that would poison you if IT came your way, and then the frog snatches a moth the size of your palm even as it’s being eaten. Well, then you’ll know what the law of the jungle really means."

A very uncomfortable silence fell on our table, though the look of respect I guess I had wanted certainly showed in their faces. Between mentally kicking myself for falling into the stupid macho game of bragging, I was trying to figure out some way to lighten the mood when Mother stepped in to save me.

"Marilyn, dear, would you like to go with me to the powder room?"

"Of course," I said quickly. We gathered our purses and made our way across the room toward the facilities, the pain from now-swollen feet seeming all too just to me. Mother stopped us before we passed the door, though, steering toward a small alcove.

Her voice was so soft and casual that it took a moment for the import of what she said to register. "Ricky, don’t you think it’s about time you told me what’s really going on?"

"I can’t, Mom . . . Uh, oh."

"Quite," she said.

I had denied a lot of things to her over the years, probably with a lot less success than I had imagined at the time, but this time she stopped me before I ever got started. "I heard my *son* Richard give that same description after *he* first got back from that horrible school," she said, "and I was almost certain even before that. What is going on?"

"Ah . . . yes," I said, stalling. "I, ah, met Richard and he . . . "

"Don’t even try," she ordered bluntly.

Glancing around to make sure we couldn’t be overheard, I tried to decide what to do, what to say. "Mom, this is really, really serious. I’m in a very special, very secret, um, organization and if anyone even guessed we existed some of our successes would be undone, and really bad things might happen - world-class disasters."

"But, you look like a woman, and a beautiful one. And you move like one, and you dance like one, and I don’t believe even Hollywood could fake breasts that perfectly."

"No, they’re not fake, though they can be removed. I’m really sorry, Mother, but I truly can’t explain any further. You just have to keep this secret. Not even Bobby can know. In truth, I’m not sure what I should do about you."

"Richard! I’d never tell anyone. Don’t you remember when I caught you in your cousin’s clothes?"

"What?"

"Child, you’re going to have to quit acting like you don’t know what we’re talking about. It’s silly when you know very well that I *know* you know very well. I caught you dressed in your cousin’s clothes when you were - what was it? Twelve? - that time we were visiting my sister Jessie."

"That was because my clothes got dirty, and I needed something to wear while mine were washed."

"Yes, dear, but no one chose the clothes you had to wear but you."

"It’s all she had that would fit me! At least, the only ones I could find."

Mother just sat there, a smugly disagreeing expression on her face. After a pause long enough to officially express her disbelief, she said, "The point, Richard, is that I never told anyone, not even your father. Whatever is behind what you’re doing now, I won’t gossip about it."

I took a deep breath to calm myself. After a moment I was able to speak relatively normally. "I know that, Mom, but this is way more important than just some personal embarrassment for me. This truly is a matter of national security. I can’t say any more than that."

Standing, I looked back at the main room. "I better be going. You’re the perfect example of why I shouldn’t have come at all, but I’m not sorry I did."

"I’m not sorry, either," she said, showing a smile only issued to mothers and only used when they are really pleased. Then she became more thoughtful and asked, "Ah, how long do you think this will . . . continue?"

"I don’t know. For as long as we’re needed, I guess."

"Do you . . . like this?"

It’s funny, but while I would not have hesitated to tell my team how much I loved being part of it, answering the same question from my own mother was not as easy a task. "Now? I think so. In the beginning, it was, well, let’s just say I would have preferred going through jungle school again. But I have an incredible team, and I think we’re doing something important."

"Is that all?" she asked, gentle amusement lurking in her eyes.

I know I blushed, and it wasn’t just because I had learned that reflex in training. "Maybe not, but . . . well, can you believe my current enjoyment is no more critical than my earlier discomfort? At least for now, it’s what I need to do to serve my country with honor."

"Ah, my Richard. Under all that magic, you’re still my hero."

"Thanks, Mom, but you’ve got Bobby now."

"Yes, but he’ll never be my hero. You’ve been braver every day of your life, at least since it was clear you’d never be tall and strong and physically imposing, than he will even need to be. Don’t think I haven’t always known . . . even before that time at Jessie’s."

"Oh, Mom, I’m so sorry to have embarrassed you."

"Dear Ricky, you have always made me proud. I believe you, that what you are doing is important. And even if it wasn’t, even if you were just . . . different now, you’d still be my child."

Her smile showed acceptance and reassurance, but also something more. Something that brought tears to my eyes even as I saw a glisten in hers.

Softly, tenderly, she asked, "Are you happy?"

My words stuck in my throat. That question was so much like the earlier one that it seemed redundant, but in her gentle words I saw the difference between liking a job, and real happiness. Maybe there were some things I hadn’t admitted even to myself, but none of that was important in the light of her love. Even though I couldn’t speak, I leaned over and hugged her, letting my head nod against her shoulder in answer.

"Then that’s all I need to know," she said, patting my shoulder.

After a moment I managed to get myself back under control and said, "We better get back."

She nodded and stood. "I do appreciate your being here for Bobby. His big brother might not have been able to make it, but having a beautiful woman show she’s proud to be escorted by him is about the next best thing."

"Actually," I said, offering an excuse for an accusation she had not made. "I thought I might keep his . . . attention focused on this dress as a form of . . . misdirection so that he wouldn’t recognize me."

"I must admit, that dress is an attention-getter."

"Do you like it?" I asked, twirling a little.

"What there is of it. It’s a good thing you’re all grown up now, because I’d never have let a daughter of mine out of the house in that."

She looked sharply at me for a moment, frowning, then she laughed and all the remaining tension leaked away. "Nor would I let her out with her makeup streaked like that. Now we really DO need to use the powder room."

She took my arm and led me to where I could rebuild my face, and after a few very necessary moments, we rejoined the boys.

 

Marilyn leaned back in her chair and sat silently. The team didn’t realized she had finished for a long moment, then Carol burst out. "What happened after that?"

Their commander sighed softly, then said, "Nothing much at the party.

We danced some more."

"Didja kiss him?" Carol asked.

"Carol, he’s my brother!"

"HE didn’t know that," she snickered.

"No, he didn’t. But no I didn’t kiss him, except just a quick peck on the cheek."

Carol snickered again and said, "I’ll bet." That earned her a no-nonsense frown from Marilyn which did a very effective job of quieting the boisterous redhead.

Marilyn sat up in her chair, straightening her slender shoulders in an unmistakable sign of resolve. "And when I got back, I reported myself to Sam Gates for a security violation."

"You did what?!" Vanna asked, apparently taking over the role of chief interrogator.

"I told Sam about my screw-up," repeated Marilyn. "Anyway, let that be a lesson to all of us. We just won’t be able to contact our real families, even in our new identities, until, well, I don’t know. Certainly not as long as we look like women."

After a pause long enough for them to absorb Marilyn’s announcement, Jaymi asked softly, "Why didn’t you just, ah, go along with her suggestion that you might have done this because you wanted to? That you were, um, transsexual?"

"Think about it, Jaymi," ordered Marilyn.

The dark-haired girl’s face frowned in an obvious lack of comprehension until she was rescued by her longer-haired sister. Sandy said, "Because it would have been just as bad to have her thinking, and maybe telling someone, that her elder son - the Army officer - had become a woman and now had some secret job. If the idea that genetically male Army officers are able to look like beautiful women gets out . . ."

"But she wouldn’t tell anyone," Jaymi protested on behalf of a woman she had never met.

"She might. Not intentionally, but all it would take would be, um, hesitation or something when someone asked about her son Richard, and, well, if the wrong people were listening . . . "

"That’s pretty paranoid," Vanna said.

"Which is exactly the way we all need to be, all the time," Marilyn declared. She looked at her team to see if they had any further questions, clearly hoping there wouldn’t be any. But that hope went unfulfilled.

Jaymi asked, "What did Sam Gates do? When you told him?"

"To me? Nothing," replied Marilyn. "We’re in such a unique situation that his only real option - at least in my case - would be to disband the team. He wasn’t happy, but I’m not the one who has to pay the price for this mistake."

"Who does?" "What price?" The questions stepped on each other as several girls spoke at once.

"My mother," Marilyn said softly. "From now on, though she doesn’t know it, her phone is going to be tapped. She’ll be followed. She might make some new friends who aren’t what they seem to be. She’s lost a significant part of her privacy, and all because of my selfishness."

Silence sealed the memory of her explanation into their minds and showed that it had been written on their hearts. After pausing long enough to show that she was fully aware of how serious this was, Marilyn brought the impromptu interrogation to a close with a brisk observation that reminded them all they had work to do. "At least none of the rest of you met any family members over your furlough. Though, as Sam indicated, some of you danced a fine line with security even if you didn’t trip over that line like I did. Now, if there are no further questions about my own screw-up, we all have things to do."

All but Sandy filed out of the room. The dark-haired girl who looked so innocent but had suffered so much, walked over to Marilyn and pulled the curvy blonde to her feet. Without a word, Sandy hugged her commander. Then, still not speaking, she walked out after the others.

 

(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.