"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."