JUNE 6 - 5:34 a.m.
Somewhere over America
The early morning light lanced through the stratosphere, its ruddy glow painting the tops of the clouds in shades of gold and orange. Through this pastel wonderland, the clouds parted and, as if by magic, a small private jet climbed through the cumulous curtain, winging it's was westward.
The Gulfstream IV was small but luxurious. Inside her aluminum skin, the cabin, built to hold seven passengers, was almost completely insulated from the drone of her own Pratt & Whitney engines. Golden light streamed in from the windows, painting the rich mahogany paneling and cream-colored leather seats.
The passengers relaxed in comfort as the jet, worth over two million dollars, leveled off, allowing them to unbuckle their (gold-plated) seatbelts and stretch out.
"So, what's the prognosis on Project EVE?" The speaker was an older gentleman, somewhat heavyset, but possessing a patrician air that was enhanced by the silver hair touching his black hair at the temples. The Armani suit didn't hurt the image other.
"Well, Senator, we've done our test runs, and they've all worked perfectly."
His younger companion replied. Unlike the Senator, he was slender, dressed in a simple black suit. His matching trench-coat hung on the back of his chair, and a shoulder holster hung with it, a large- caliber gun strapped into it's leather container. He continued. "The only draw back is that it only works one way. We can go male to female. We can change female to another female. But we cannot go female to male."
The third passenger, a tall, muscular man in a ill-fitting suit, thanked the stewardess as she handed him his coffee, then turned to the younger man. "If you don't mind me asked, Mr. Olsen, why not?" His own gun, the same model 10mm Smith & Wesson, was clipped into a 'fast action' holster on his belt. Unlike Olsen, he preferred to keep it on him at all times, although it was uncomfortable.
"It has to do with chromosomes." Olsen explained. He'd primed his bodyguard with the question, so he could show off his technical expertise to the Senator.
"Women have XX chromosomes. Men have XY. We can 'duplicate' the X twice, to make a woman. We can alter those X's to change a woman's physical attributes. But, we can't add a Y back into the mix later - at least, we can't now. R&D suggests that we will be able to when the next generation of Cray super-computer comes on line, sometime next year. It has to do with the number of compute cycles needed."
The senator grunted, the turned towards the front of the plane. The stewardess, a tall, strong-looking woman with a long mane of chestnut hair, was emerging from the cockpit, lightly shutting the door behind her. Dressed in the 'traditional' stewardess uniform of blue skirt and blouse, black pumps and 'pillbox' cap, she presented an attractive sight, and obviously knew it - she had retrieved her purse, and was touching up her make-up with a compact.
"Miss. Get me a Scotch, will you?" The senator asked. "Single malt over a single cube."
"Of course, sir" she replied in a husky voice, walking towards them. "Would either of you other gentleman like anything?" She stopped in front of them, replacing her compact in her purse.
"Yeah." The bodyguard said, holding out his coffee. "If you can top off... " His eyes widened as her hand re-emerged from the purse, wrapped around a 9mm parrabelum with a long silencer on it's muzzle. The body guard dropped the mug and went for his gun, cursing.
He never made it. The stewardess had purposefully waited until the bodyguards gun hand had been occupied with the mug, and the extra time allowed her to calmly line up her gun and pump two rounds into the mans chest. He jerked once, then collapsed, a puddle of blood forming on the deep-pile rug.
She swung her gun to cover the other two men and smiled. "Don't bother shouting. I've already killed the pilots, and put the plane on auto-pilot."
Her - his voice was now very strong and masculine.
Olsen paled. "Gatwick!" he gasped, recognizing the voice. He would have never guessed otherwise - the man's feminine disguise was flawless. The senator frowned, his face reddening.
"Olsen, who is this man" he blustered, warily eyeing the 'woman'. "What's going on?"
The disguised man smiled wryly. "Darren Gatwick, CIA." He said, pulling of the long black wig. "I've been assigned to ferret out men like Mr. Olsen her. We've known for sometime that our sister agency, the NSA, had some rotten apples in it's barrel, performing under a separate agenda. But, we didn't realize the funding was being over seen by you, Senator Johnson." He turned back to Olsen. "I want some answers. You're small fry. But, you can tell me who's running the rogue agents from inside the NSA. So, start talking." He grinned. "Make it fast - this corset's killing me."
"Uh... You know I can't... " Olsen said, breathing heavily. Gatwick waggled the gun under his nose.
"Sure you can." He said, kicking off his pumps. He dropped into the chair across the cabin from them. As soon as he hit the soft leather seat, he knew in an instant that he'd made a mistake, as he felt the prick of the hypodermic needle imbedded in the seat back.
"Shit!" He struggled to rise, but the fast acting sedative was taking effect - his body seemed to drain of energy as his vision darkened. The gun slipped from his suddenly nerveless fingers, and he slumped back into the embrace of the leather seat.
The senator grinned an rose. He went over the well-stocked bar and poured two fingers of Glenlivet over a single ice cube. "You know" he remarked conversationally. "That trick seat has come in damn handy. Whenever somebody nosed too close, I'd invite him for a 'secret' meeting aboard my private jet. Then, after inviting him to have a seat, I'd fly him to my private retreat, drag what he knew out of him, then dump the body." He sipped his drink, and regarded the 'en femme' agent. "Same routine with this one?"
Olsen slowly smiled. "Oh, I have a better idea senator." He said, mixing himself a martini. "He makes a very convincing woman. Why don't we help him make his act perfect?" He grinned at the senator and popped the olive into his mouth. Slowly, the senator smiled back.
* * *
DATE AND TIME UNKNOWN
Somewhere in America
Darren awoke nearly instantly, his quick mind leaping from a deep, drug-induced unconsciousness to immediate wakefulness. But, he remained perfectly still, eyes closed, as he stretched his senses to the limit, searching for every bit of information before he acted.
Immediately, he knew something was wrong. His finely honed body felt strange to him. A weight sat on his chest, and an - odd - feeling was the best he could describe what emanated from his crotch. Other, less quantifiable feelings tugged at his mind from all over his body. Ignoring this for the moment, he turned his mind outward, registering the blankets covering him, the muted sound of traffic emanating from somewhere to his right and below him. His eyelid revealed some sort of illumination was operating in the room he occupied. By no sound gave any indication of any other presence. Slowly, he opened his eyes.
He was in a bedroom. Decorated in pastels of rose and salmon, with pink and blue wallpaper trim along the ceiling. A window to the right admitted the sunshine, as well as the sounds he'd catalogued earlier. Slowly, he lifted one arm to remove the covers - and stopped, staring at his hand.
Only, it wasn't his hand. Smaller, smoother and more delicate, it's slender fingers were graced with long, neatly trimmed nails. The wrist was slender, leading to an equally feminine arm. Slowly, he used his new appendage to draw back the light bed-spread, and eased himself into a sitting position. Forcing himself to ignore his changed body - and the strange sensations that movement created - he took stock of the bedroom.
Decorated in a decidedly feminine decor, it boasted a large, four poster bed that he'd awakened in. To either side of the bed, matching end-tables stood. Beside the mirrored closet doors, a vanity table, strewed with feminine articles, sat in splendor. A closed door led from the room.
Carefully, Darren rose, and approached the full-length mirrored closet doors, his body feeling awkward and unbalanced. Steeling himself, he stood in front of the mirror, and looked himself - no, herself over, starting from the bottom and working up.
The woman who looked back from the mirror was like something out of an eighteen-year-old boys fantasy. The delicate feet were topped by gracefully rounded ankles. Above this, her legs stretched upwards, long and shapely, the creamy skin smooth and flawless. Her ships swelled above this, slender but womanly. Between her silken thighs, in a neatly trimmed patch of blonde pubic hair, rested the pink opening of her new vagina. To complement this, as a turn in the mirror verified, was a full, shapely derrire.
Smoothly rising from the width of her widened pelvic area, her new waist slimmed remarkably, showcasing a flat, firm stomach. The years of exercise that Darren had performed was gone - although perfectly smooth and flat, the abdominals were no longer rock-hard and sharply defined.
Thrusting proudly from her chest was perhaps the most perfect pair of tits Darren had ever seen. Firm and round, they seemed to ignore gravity completely. The were remarkably large, yet shoed no sag. The creamy globes were topped by small, nub-like nipples of light-pink. She forced her eyes higher, to the head atop her long, swan-like neck.
It was a cheerful, open face. Full, luscious lips below a pert, upturned nose. Sparkling blue eyes with long, dark lashes, and high, arching eyebrows. Her complexion was flawless and supple. A mane of platinum blonde hair wreathed her pixie-ish face, looking like an abandoned haystack from her 'bed-head.'
But, to his surprise, Darren's new body didn't quite pass the line into 'bimbo' - rather, she was spectacularly sexy in a 'friendly, girl- next-door' sort of way. Friendly, reasonably intelligent, and beautiful, as well as sexy.
"My god." Darren muttered... then blinked, surprised at the rich soprano of her new voice. "They used EVE on me. The bastards!"
