"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.