Agent Chase, Agent Chastity Chapter One: The Ground Below free porn video

Agent Chase, Agent Chastity CHAPTER ONE: The Ground Below By Diana Kimberly Heche Part 1 In the not too distant future ... AGENT CHASE BINGHAM Chase examined his shoes. They had not been shined in at least a couple of days. This would never do, he decided. He detoured from his brisk walk down the hall into one of the few restrooms open to the public. Grabbing a quick handful of toilet paper, and throwing his feet one at a time onto the sink, he buffed vigorously at the dulling leather. There was marked improvement, although it would never be mistaken for a conscientious shine. But this would have to do. When the Director of the Agency buzzed for you (an exceedingly rare event) you put down whatever it was you were doing and moved in the straightest, quickest line possible to the front of his desk. Chase rounded the hallway corner into the great marble foyer, which housed two banks of elevators. Each had the designated subsections of floors it serviced printed in gold plated lettering overhead. This was very ornate and expensive for a government building. Chase wondered if any of the other Washington agencies were this decorous, but he doubted it. He imagined they were struggling with budget cuts and recession restraints like the rest of the country. Only this agency, by nature of being well under the radar screen, would remain this well funded. At the end of the bank stood the elevator he sought. It was set aside by extreme distance from the others and the engraved brass plating which framed the outside of the metallic sliding doors. Above it, in the same gold lettering as the others, it read simply, "D". Every person who worked in the building knew what that meant from day one: Director. There were no buttons to push, key cards to insert or retinal scans to deal with. The door slid open automatically when Chase moved before the electronic eye. As he moved inside, it was part marvel and part dread he noted this elevator was so exclusive, that the very act of being in its proximity meant you must have business upstairs. A small tele-screen located in the top right corner of the car came on, the Director's assistant, a surprisingly young and attractive woman appeared. Chase wondered idly if she were a "perk", or possibly even a product of nepotism. As most of those around the Director, even the secretaries, were aged greatly with experience. The Director was, after all, arguably the most important person alive. And by extension his staff was, arguably, the most important staff alive. "Name" she said simply. "Agent Chase Bingham." The screen turned to blue, with the white lettering "Please Wait". With the screen still blue, a moment later her voice said, "Proceed". There was not much for the agent to proceed with. The door swung shut automatically and he was shot up the floors of the skyscraper without so much as having to blink his eyes willfully. The elevator doors swung open to reveal a security checkpoint much like those found in courthouses. One, armed-guard watched him carefully while the other examined a monitor as he walked through the scanning machine. Chase's service weapon was locked in his desk drawer, he never carried it in the building. He assumed checking it in with security would not have been a big deal. They were after all for lack of a better word, a building full of spies and operatives. Weapons were standard issue. Satisfied he was not an infiltrator, another door slid open, leading into the waiting area outside of the Director's office. Walking in, Chase was surprised to find it full of agents, none of whom he recognized on phones, talking to each other, and just generally working. Although quite large, the Director's outer office itself was not plush, as the trappings of the elevator bank and building itself would suggest. It was but sparse and functional. With its rows of computer, com-links and wall maps, one had the feeling the entire country could be run from this room if need be. Or, more accurately, if it weren't being run from here now. "Please follow me Agent Bingham". The woman from the tele- screen moved through the crowd guiding Chase into the Director's office, closing the door directly behind him as she left. The Director did not look up from his newspaper, but indicated with a gesture for Chase to sit down. After he seemed to finish whatever article it was he was reading, he looked up to take Chase in. The Agent knew that the Director had read over his file, and studied him quite carefully before he made it into his office. That is how this place works. But there was no substitute for taking the measure of the man. Self consciously, Chase thought about the condition of his shoes again. The Director was a fairly thin man of good health, perhaps seventy, perhaps younger. His hair was gray with stubborn, incongruous, streaks of jet-black hanging on. His face was lined, but it was difficult to tell the strains of time from the strains of the job. And not since the Information Enclosure Act of the early Teens, did America give information out about its behind-the-scenes leaders. "What do you think of this Mexico business?" he asked. So, Chase thought, he was being sized up. Would Chase spout the party line the Agency used to increase its funding, that Mexico was unstable and going to war, or would he say what he really thought? "Simply put sir, they've had a long history of peace, and Garza is a strong leader. They're just going through growing pains as they emerge from being a Third World nation. He'll put the Rebels down, and fast. I doubt they'll be war." The Director smiled at this and stood up walking to Chase, hand extended. It seemed the right answer was what earned Chase the courtesy of a handshake. "That's what I think," he responded, "and I know a hell of a lot more about it than you or any of those 30 odd digital newscasts," he said noting the seemingly endless twenty- four hour all news channels. He moved back to sit on the front of his desk. The Director may be old but he bristled with energy and power. Only President Holden could stand up to this man, Chase decided. "Let's get down to why I brought you in here. Next question. What do you know about the mining colonies?" "Mining colonies? You mean on other planets and such?" This threw Chase for a loop, "Sorry sir. No more than what comes across the digi-news. I know there are several corporations on various planets and asteroids that are drilling and bringing back all forms of minerals and energy sources. But no one really has much of an idea what's going on up there, do they?" But Chase knew the Director wasn't looking for a reiteration of the straight facts. Anyone could do that. He wanted Chase to think this through, giving opinion and speculation as it would relate to a potential mission. The mining colonies and their cloud of mystery have been a thorn in the side of the Agency for quite some years. The Director was most certainly looking for a way for the Agency to get some eyes onto these famously insular worlds. He continued, "It's private property owned by the businesses, and because it takes two years in suspended animation to get up there, and two years to get back, any information gathered from human intelligence ... sending agents up there specifically ... is outdated. That four year turn around assumes one could find a way to get up there, look around, and come back fairly soon. All of the people that sign on as miners are locked into a three-year contract. So make that a seven-year turn around in reality. Further, my understanding is that transmitting secure radio waves from that far out is impossible, and even tightly focused messages transmitted on light have a way of breaking down from secure mode before they get all the way back to earth. Partly, I would say, because a transmitter large enough to send a secure message that far would have to be the size of my apartment. Not very easy to conceal on a planet owned by someone else." The Director nodded, "Not very easy to conceal at all. But we have one. Univore Industries, which established a mining colony not far from the others, has one. A large one, approximately one sixteenth the size of this building. That is because Univore is a front for the Agency. We don't do much mining, send ships back and forth, some with miners who do a little digging, many of them empty, but mostly just enough to keep up appearances." Chase smiled at this. It would take ten to twenty years to establish a company, make it a major enough player to mine in outer space without raising an eyebrow from the other energy/mining companies - for none of this was cheap. The Agency's reach and patience boggled the mind of even those who worked for it. The Director's face changed. His visage was cool and business like. "We indulged the mining colonies for a long time. We knew that without regulation that they are regularly skirting around environmental and labor laws. But that's not a national security matter, so we never cared. But now, there is something else going on up there. What little intelligence we can get from our pseudo-colony's listening post is that that there is something-big happening. But, we can't be sure quite what. We need to get an agent in there." Chase thought the Director's last statement through. He didn't see how this was possible. Getting an agent onto a colony was easy enough; they energy/mining companies were always recruiting. Because of the hazards and isolation, the pay was fantastic. In this economy, people suited for that kind of work jumped at it. Much like oilrig duty before the offshore rigs became outmoded. But the energy/mining companies were very covetous of their mining techniques and secrets. It was a very competitive business, and much of it was not on the up and up. Someone who signed up for a mining gig was carefully monitored. Once on a colony, they were allowed no contact with other colonies. The little contact a miner had with earth was heavily monitored. Often communications were cut and spliced to prevent coded messages. The trip to the rocks themselves was a straight two way: to the mining colony and back to earth. Because of the two years it took to get back, by the time a miner had a chance to exploit any knowledge of the latest mining advances, at the speed at which technology moved, they were most likely already outdated. Even then, confidentiality agreements extending another four years were signed. Another reason so little was known about what went on up there. Chase pondered all of this, before regretfully having to admit he could not see an efficient way, "But with all due respect sir, how?" The Director stood from his sitting position and paced slowly about the room. Chase noticed an indoor putting strip in the corner of his office and wondered when a man with the Director's schedule ever had time to putt. "Miners are not allowed to move about from colony to colony. But there's a group of people who are." Chase was taken aback, "There are people on these colonies who aren't miners or energy execs?" "Another little known, virtually invisible aspect of what goes on up there. For the record, another reason miners never discuss what their experience on the rocks involved. It's not just the confidentiality agreements that keep them mum about the colonies." Chase had nothing to say. He waited for the other shoe to drop. It was not lost on him that he was discussing an assignment with the most powerful man, in a long line of powerful men, which the Agency has ever had. Most assignments were doled out by much lesser mission directors or special agents. The Director returned to the edge of his desk. He ran his palm across the side of his face with his hand as one does to check his shave, and continued, "One of the easiest means of intelligence gathering is the female plant. Men have a physical weakness, making it easy for female agents posing as companions to extract information. Powerful men, or men of certain more male-centric cultures, often don't view women as equals. They have a built in blind spot to a women's potential, and rarely see them as spies. They confide in them. Brag to them. Basically they make fools of themselves. History is strewn with these weak men, and will always be" Chase nodded. This was well known. Basic high school history stuff. "But there are no women on the mining colonies. No women in deep space at all. And we can't send any. Suspended animation required for the long trips does something ... strange ... to their physiology. The estrogen maybe ... no one is sure what. Those who do come out of it alive are usually so sick that they die within days. There's no way around it really, anyone who tries to travel two years in a cramped cargo capsule without 'suspended an' goes mad and has major problems with bodily atrophy." "All true Agent Bingham. But you have these huge colonies full of men, who are up there for years, don't you?" he asked. It was a rhetorical question. "Yes. Hence the phrase, 'As horny as a space miner'." Chase added. "As it turns out, these miners are, most likely, less horny than most of the world believes. For the past decade, maybe longer, the energy/mining concerns have been slipping 'Katoeys' onto the outward-bound ships. They are mostly entertainers, and around for general ambiance, but one would be foolish not to suspect some, if not heavy prostitution. Katoeys are allowed to move from colony to colony with virtually no restrictions. The energy/mining companies trust them because they are fiercely private, and behaviorally, very unique and distinctive. Planting an agent among them would be difficult if not impossible. So they get free reign. But we are going to try to slip a couple in nevertheless." Chase was confused, and waited for the Director to pause before asking the question. "Slip in some Katoeys sir? I'm sorry, not familiar with the term." The Director paused and held Chase in his gaze. "It's an Asian term, Thai perhaps. Most succinctly put, it means 'Gender Illusionist'." Gender Illusionists. Of course, Chase thought. Most men can't do without women. In the absence of women, like prison, certain men are assigned, often forcibly, that role. The energy/mining companies could no more have that sort of thing going on than they could have planets full of men bursting with dangerous testosterone. Men fighting and killing each other slows down their production. So they bring in the Katoeys, with miners knowing full well what is going on. The miners accept the illusion. Female companionship is synthesized in the best way they could. It is just like a prisoner who enters into a lopsided relationship of convenience with a "bitch" during his incarceration. When the miners return to a normal lifestyle, the indiscretions of the planet are never discussed again. The Director stood up again. The meeting was obviously over. No more needed to be said. It was never asked, but what was to be done to hung plainly in the air. This is why, Chase thought, he needed to tell me himself. It was a tough assignment that involved going into deep cover for at least five years. Chase suspected that whatever was going on up there had moved to the top of the Director's in-box. Chase was being handed a mission of quite some import. "Mission Director, Special Agent Anwalt will brief you. Please report to her immediately." Chase stood, shook the Director's hand, with a partial bow. "Director," he said by customary way of salutation. "Agent Bingham." The Director responded. *** On the ride down in the Director's elevator, Chase mused over the events that had just transpired. Typical of the Agency, one could be sitting at a desk for months reading over paper work, reviewing intelligence and the next day find themselves in a long term deep cover assignment. Very few Agents ever complained or begged out of an assignment, which went against the very nature of the type of people who filled this building. Most knew at a very early age that they wanted to be here, even if "here" was a vague notion of a behind-the-scenes government arm which made sure the world played by the right rules. Agent Anwalt was a taller than an average height woman, thinly muscled with not a bit of fat. Her features were pleasant, but held a vague indiscernible hint of plasticity to them. Chase later learned this was done by surgery, as were her breasts which were exaggeratedly large, and her hips which swerved in a very pronounced curve. A woman this tall and thin would not normally be this curvy. It, like her face, added a faint air of falseness, yet desirability, which was the desired effect. Agent Anwalt, although biologically a woman, was placed in the Katoey community to observe. The Agency, quite logically, assumed it was easier to have a woman act like a woman with a tiny wisp of inauthenticity in her behavior, than train a man from scratch. Further reason to plant biological women was Katoeys, Chased learned, were surgically altered to have their bodies mimic women in every way but genitalia. The single minded devotedness to mission meant that any male agent in this building would have taken the task, no matter how difficult, unpleasant, or dangerous without a dissenting word. Being surgically altered to be a female in form, would be an unpleasant task to most. But, that kind of surgery would make it impossible to pull an agent quickly and put him on another assignment. Even the normal lay over between missions would require considerable time and expense in between. It was, up until now when the need was overwhelming, plainly, wasteful. It was that thinking, and not consideration for the considerable psychological repercussion of turning a man into a woman, which drove the Agency's decision making. Special Agent Anwalt sat on the edge of her desk, much like the Director had, but her long lean legs were crossed in a decidedly feminine fashion. Chase made a mental note that executive training must teach those who manage others, that the edge of the desk represents a position of authority and power. After introductions, and the briefest of small talk, they got down to business. "Agent Chase, have you any experience with cross-dressing?" "No." Application for the Agency occurred when one was sixteen years old. Even then, one was made to believe that it could be a special branch of the FBI or even CIA that was their destination. The Agency, like M1 in England some years back, was an open secret never copped to. After applying (if you fit the mold) they then guided you depending on your aptitude, toward the classes you would take and the disciplines you would learn. They watched you and all those around you very carefully. So, if Chase would so much as have put on a wig, he would have admitted it. Because not only would they undoubtedly know, but it would be in Chase's personnel file which now sat open on her desk. "Okay, we will get to that later." She looked back at his file, as if looking for something. Chase knew this was a courtesy to pretend that she did not have the entire thing committed to memory. He did the same thing when reading out of other Agent's files in their presence. "Well it says in here that you exceeded in both your martial arts and your dance classes, excellent." All agents took ballet and forms of martial arts to perfect balance and bodily control. "You will need it, the Katoey community is a performing sort. I have blisters on my feet to prove it." It was the first time Chase had seen the special agent smile. She instinctively reached down to the heel of her low, sensible, pumps as if she could rub her feet through her shoes. "There's so much for you to do Agent," she said, "I'm practically unsure where to start." At this Chase smiled at this bit of self-deprecation. No one gets to be a special agent by being unsure where to start. *** Chase knew before he was told that he would be living on the Compound. He had previously spent time in the enclosed living and training area before other missions. He knew this mission, which would require not so subtle surgical alterations to his body over time, was exactly what this place was for. The Compound sat on a huge swath of land owned by the Agency. On the map, it appeared as "Ft. Harrison Army Base," but that was just to explain what was being done with the land as well as making security fairly straightforward. In reality, it was a half military/covert operations training facility and, in many respects, half "Old Hollywood magic". Dotted throughout the landscape were large sound stages (like those used for film some time back) which were converted to mimic various locales and scenarios. Before an agent was inserted into something like a Mexican Rebel camp, they spent days, sometimes weeks, in a the best possible mock up of that camp complete with other agents in various "roles" to familiarize themselves with the surroundings. This enabled an agent to be at ease in the real setting and more readily prepared for any off kilter situations that may arise. Checking into the compound and out of his daily life was fairly easy. A simple visi-mail to his assistant which read only, as always, "Take Care of It" which was the established code telling her to take over the reigns of his life as he disappeared into mission mode. She would switch his bills over to be paid automatically from his account. She would send pre-written birthday messages and gifts. This would of course generally give the appearance that while he was out of the country for his "sales job" and very difficult to reach, he had not fallen off of the face of the earth. Chase walked into the apartment which would be his for the next ...however long it took ... as he realized he had not been given a definitive training schedule. He noted its decor was decidedly done in feminine colors and sensibilities. This was, of course, natural. Going into deep cover required the identity the agent assumed, to be as natural as second skin. Chase tossed his bag onto the bed, which was gaudily decorated in silk leopard print sheets. 'Good god,' he thought to himself, 'not only am I going to be a trans, but one with shitty taste.' Looking around, for the first time, he let himself accept how extremely difficult this mission was going to actually be. COURTNEY Like her far more famous namesake, Courtney was rapidly aging. But unlike the iconic, much beloved, million disc- selling singer she mimicked on stage every night, this Courtney had neither the money nor resources to fight it. There would be no pampered life style or the magic of the surgeon's laser for her. She had spent all of her money years ago to become the recording artist's doppelganger through those means. This Courtney was forced to depend more each year on low lighting and heavy make up to keep her career alive. And the bitter irony of becoming too old to play a woman who was thirteen years older than her, yet looked five years younger, was not lost on this thirty- eight year old impersonator. But show business is cruel, and show business for a female impersonator -or gender illusionist as they called them these days - playing the club circuit in Los Angeles, was often down right vicious. As the offers to do impersonations slowed alongside the real singer's career, this look-alike found a mildly livable income impersonating Courtney on her back. In the tightly packed, alcohol flowing rooms, in which she lip- synched her way around the stage, she could always spot her mark. There was always one male in the room who wanted to believe her hypnotic swinging hips and well practiced moves were those of the real Courtney. He could picture nothing more than reveling in illusion that it was indeed the real thing giving him the smoldering look from the stage. "Do you have a car?" Courtney asked the owner of the pair of eyes that had followed her every move while she performed tonight and then jostled the crowd afterward to offer to buy her a drink. He was clean cut, young, and nondescript. He also looked like someone who could afford to have a car in this economy where many could not and were forced to ride the subtubes. He would do just fine, she had decided when he approached. "I want to show you something special," Courtney ran her hand lightly across his chest weaving as much sensuality into her voice as her tired body could manage, "what do you say we go to that car of yours?" And before he even said yes, Courtney knew he would be like all the rest of them. He would be momentarily put off by the concept she was a Katoey, and hesitate despite his body's signals to the contrary. She would whisper something in his ear about pleasing him like no woman could, and he would put his false hesitations aside. Later, cramped in her back seat, passions would flow. He would allow himself to dream she was the real thing. And in the moment of ecstasy, in a voice of half whisper half moan he would call out the name of the singer he had loved since he was a teen, "Courtney! Oh, Courtney!" But when the sexual energy wore off, this heterosexual, clean cut young man would realize, no matter how much she looked like her, no matter how much he enjoyed it at the moment, he had just paid to have sex with a Courtney impersonator. Not just a Courtney impersonator, but a man impersonating a woman. He would be polite (the clean cut ones always are) but unlike the tire squealing trip to this alley way, he would not offer her a ride the two blocks to the club. And unlike the lust filled looks he gave her in the club, he was now looking at her closely, seeing the crows feet around the eyes, the too heavy make up around the face. Courtney would light a cigarette (she smoked a ton these days) and hopped out the car onto the five inch heels she performed in to make the walk back to the club. He would make a halfhearted goodbye, too distracted over the conflicting issues of his sexuality to say anymore. She would straighten out her clothes, the entire time smoking, calculating how many more trips to strange cars this weekend would pay for next month's rent and how it had all come to this. But on this night, even as events unfolded, as she knew they would, she found herself walking back to the club, something was different. She felt she had hit bottom. Looking heavenward in despair she noted, sitting distinctly bright in the dark, hazy, Los Angeles sky, something that caught her eye - a satellite, perhaps an orbiter in particularly low flight. Courtney stood, looking at the sky long and hard this night. And in a choked, whispering voice, as filled with despair as it was with hope, she gave voice to the decision she had just made. It was time to trade it all in for something entirely different. She needed to go somewhere she could be wanted. "The mining colonies," she asserted to the sky above. *** With pollution levels as they were in Los Angeles (this was after all a city where people still drove cars) outdoor cafes were rare and generally found in the more rundown sections of the city. In Los Angeles, especially after the devastating earthquake of a decade ago, the rundown areas were plenty. Those restaurant owners, who could afford to cycle the air in enclosed patios, always did. With the recession entering its fourth year, and unemployment at a record high, it was difficult enough to get patrons to spend money on frivolities like eating out, without subjecting them to rigors of the LA atmosphere. Sitting outside of the tiny Thai diner, Courtney and her friends were in their typical loud and boisterous mood. Courtney didn't feel particularly lively, but that was the established code of behavior. It gave these five people what they paradoxically needed the most, attention from those around them. It also gave them a wide buffer zone from those who would do them harm, through insult or any other means. Even in an age where gender illusionists, "Katoey" was only a phrase known to those around the "scene", have even starred on the odd digi-casts in strictly female roles, there was still an unease when encountering them in real life. Especially, the illusionists who were a throwback to an earlier time, choosing to dress in large flamboyant colors and large other worldly wigs. Of the table at which Courtney sat, two of the five women were of the flamboyant sort, or what was known not long ago as a "drag queen" before that type of performer went out of style. Their names, "Lady Australia" and "Queen Righteous" said all that needed to be. The third, Tanya, a quieter sort, who demurely dressed with style, attractive in a downplayed way, was a little too large and masculine to be honestly mistaken for a woman. Only Courtney, and the twenty-one year old Thalia, could tell a person they were biologically female and be believed. Queen Righteous flipped strands from the electric pink wig on her head from her face, and got back to the subject at hand. Her voice held a serious tone, which was very unusual for her, "Yes, I know a few girls who have gone up to the mining colonies and come back. They don't talk about it much. I think that has as much do as being told not to say anything by the mining companies as anything traumatic happening up there. From what I can gather, the miners absolutely love them. They have large lively clubs on those rocks that are apparently like something from the 1940s. Most of the girls perform on stage, like us, only big coordinated numbers. Then, perhaps, they'll come out and sit with people in the audience. All very high class stuff. All the bartenders are Katoey as well as the, get this, cigarette girls. "Cigarette girls?" the loud Lady Australia burst forth with down under accent, "Really?" The Queen just shrugged. Her voice was at conversation level. It was odd to see her not playing to the cheap seats. "Yeah, and very well paid, from what little I could squeeze out. From the sound of it, the nightlife is super lavish and entertaining. The booze is almost free, and certain substances are used as an open secret. As long as it doesn't slow down a miner's productivity." "Why do you think they spend all that money and time ... I mean shuttling the Katoeys up there, underwriting the booze?" Thalia asked. Courtney spoke up and theorized, "During the first half of the day, the miners are thinking about the night before, and the second half, looking forward to the night coming up. That way, I figure, they can keep them distracted and drive them hard like mules." Queen Righteous, nodded, and added another thought, "And, of course, spending all that money at night, it puts the miners wages right back in the mining companies pockets." Courtney, rolled her neck, her spine cracked temporarily releasing the tension that was always there, "How would I find out about catching a ship to one of those rocks?" Everyone stopped eating, looking at Courtney at once. It was Lady Australia who broke the silence, her accent from Down Under stronger than usual, "Excuse me?" Courtney took a deep breath, "I'm going. I mean I want to go up. And I want to know how. Things aren't going great for me now, and I need a change of pace. A change of scenery." "Is it money? Because you know we can help you out," said Tanya. It was the first time she had said a word that morning. The mood around the table had switched to one of definite concern. Flying thousands of miles into space to live on a mining rock was a drastic solution to any problem. "Yes, it's money. It's always money. But that's not why I am going up. I've spent most of my life, and all of my time and money, to look like, and be Courtney. And I am a damn good one. Hell I ought to be with twenty-six surgeries. But I'm starting to lose stage time to girls who aren't as good, but are a little younger. They all play Courtney in her prime," Courtney pulled out a cigarette, looking around at other tables, realized with some regret that there were still those who were eating, and put it back into the pack. It was hard enough to find a place to smoke in this society, without breaking the smoking laws and being banned from eating out all together. The sheer desperateness of her statement took the wind out of any of the sails of those who wanted to argue her out of it. Queen Righteous spoke up after a moment of silence, her voice soft and comforting. She seemed to understand, "Look. The way I've been told is the mining companies are just looking for Katoeys that look the most like girls. You look like a real girl to me, and all the guys I know too. Up there, you probably wouldn't even have to rely just on being Courtney. You could use your talent to sing and dance and be natural. Well as natural as a man with tits that size can be, that is." To Courtney's great relief, everyone laughed taking the edge off of her despair. She hadn't meant to bring it out at the table like that. Life was not easy for any of them. They chose a very hard path to march down. It was an unspoken rule that they used their time together to pick each other up and not what Courtney just did. Understanding this, Queen Righteous finished the conversation before guiding it to other places, "I know someone you can talk to. But it may take a while. Even months. No one really owns up to the fact that this is going on. It's all very mysterious stuff." She turned to Lady Australia, "But if you're serious about making the cut, keep this one hidden, she'd scare the paint off of a wall." The table exploded with laughter as Lady Australia put her hands on her hips in mock indignation ... Part 2 Agent Chase Bingham had trained on the Compound for missions before. It was, as a rule, grueling, intense training, both physically and mentally. The requirements for this one, Chase noted quickly, were no different. His mission was to be what was known as a "first stage entry", meaning simply, he infiltrated the situation and plainly just observed. No overt action, which usually meant sabotage or, in some rare cases, assassination were required unless Chase judged there to be an impending and quite serious threat. He would not carry weapons and he would not carry listening devices. He was to go in, observe, gather intelligence to both brief the Agency of the situation up there, and to pave the way for other agents who may have a more active role, to follow him in. His days were typical of an agent in pre-covert mode. The morning was spent in calisthenics, in this case, light weight training and running. The afternoons were full of classroom work, primarily being briefed on what was known of the operations and set up of the physical lay out of the mining colonies, hierarchy, and workings of the administrative side. The evenings covered cultural training, a time spent to familiarize a person with their cover by being completely "in character". Chase Bingham's cultural training involved, to his great amusement, not only learning the ways of the Katoey community, but putting together a high energy dancing and lip-synching act, a consistent element of that way of life. The six months of training also involved the added element of what seemed to be constant and painful surgeries. Carving a female body of the male one they were given to work with, seemed to be taken on with an almost perverse gusto by the Agency's scalpel wielders. But, Chase realized that they, like every one around here, were just perfectionists trying to get every detail right. And since the wrong one could get an agent killed, Chase grudgingly appreciated their effort. The most difficult part of this, Chase decided, was growing accustomed to the physical training regimen while basically moving about in an entirely new, differently weighted body, which was often still sore. The surgeons had added a formidable list of hip, breast, buttock and cheek implants. His nose had been reconstructed and, oddly since it would be known he was not a true female in any sense, his Adams Apple suppressed. He also was required to lose a staggering 15 pounds from a frame carrying close to no fat. But, like the considerable volume of liquid used to inflate his decidedly larger than comfortable breast implants, the particular attention paid to the pain staking surgery on his face, rounding the curves of his lower body, right down to the choice of a blond mane over a darker one. The idea was simple: The more "real" female cues he gave off, the more desirable he would be by the standard of a male miner. And gaining their confidence and attention was the key eliciting information. The behavioral modification courses were a little tougher than usual. Chase handled them like the pro that all in the Agency were. He had trained posing as members of other cultures and classes before. While this was different in the respect that it required him building a vocabulary of behaviors from scratch, he soon mastered it. But the training was as reactive as it was pro-active. Being in the form of a woman, one designed with such obviously feminine assets literally took walking a mile in the other person's shoes. Chase had to (in addition to monitoring his behavior) discern the various modes of behavior being directed toward him. Differences stemmed from the simple fact that men in general feel much more open about looking at the opposite sex. A long stare that would have set off alarm bells in any other covert garb. Meaning even that perhaps he had done something to blow his cover, needed to be assessed to determine if it was the normal male reaction to such a shapely form, or if indeed he had been "made". This, was not something that came naturally. Special Agent Anwalt and Chase made many an excursion off of the compound, to get Chase comfortable with the looks and attention he would receive. After a total of nine pain staking months later, under the intense tutelage of the special agent, he was deemed ready. *** Chase had not been to Los Angeles in quite some years. He was never a fan of the city, which despite its obvious and rapid decline, still inexplicably tread on the reputation of being the golden City of Angels on the Pacific Ocean. This image, of course, was perpetrated by the entertainment industry, which in digi-cast and movies insisted on painting this city in tones and colors that were more representative of decades gone by. The reality, especially in light that much of what had been destroyed in the Great Pasadena Quake had never been rebuilt, was far different. While the major corporations and entertainment studios swung into action, reconstructing their places of business, small piles of rubble representing what were mom and pop businesses, still remain as is. Looking out of the car window Chase, thinking about all of this, was partially amazed and partially disgusted that this was one of the few cities on the planet that still relied heavily on car travel. Most cities had nearly done away with it completely years ago. He voiced his feelings to Special Agent Anwalt. "Agreed. That said, Special Agent Anwalt and Agent Chase may dislike Los Angeles, but Jade and Chastity," she said referring to the names they were using while in covert mode, "love this city. Despite its bad points, it is still a city of make believe and illusion. Since this city now revolves almost exclusively around the world entertainment market, every potential actor, or digi-play writer comes here to cut their teeth. Everyone here wants to be someone they are not. They pretend to be someone they are not. It's still a land of make believe. And in a community such as the Katoey one, a world based on illusion and make-believe is perfect." Anwalt checked her on-board guidance system, the traffic patterns along their route was detailed on the small dashboard map with the glowing numbers below it indicating both time and distance to the programmed destination. It read: four kilometers, ten minutes. Time to assume character. "As we've discussed a thousand times," the special agent began, "I do almost all of the communicating. They will not like you nor accept you at first. Because you came out of surgery looking far more female like than we could have anticipated. You will represent a threat to them. Every new 'girl' that comes into their very insular, very closed and territorial world does. It took me months just to get accepted. And there are still those that treat me as an outsider. They feel they have been cutting their teeth in this town for quite some years, for you to come in and take up one of the finite positions under the spot light, literally and figuratively, will naturally cause ire. We're in Los Angeles, so one-way to think of it is much the way established actresses resent the blazing up and comers. But, we'll deal with that as it comes." Anwalt had mixed feeling about the success of Chase's physical transformation. She felt it mimicked the female form a little too accurately, a little too voluptuously. Chase was a little too attractive. Knowing the community they were dealing with, she argued long and hard with the mission controllers that this would be a major hurdle in Chase's working into the confidence of the other t-girls. The powers that be argued in turn that they had faith in Chase and he would be able to infiltrate the Katoeys in LA, with Anwalt's help. If it took a little longer because of potential jealousy issues, so be it. What was most important to them was his ability to manipulate the miners once on the mining rocks themselves. And this required a realistic, and attractive, female form as possible. To help combat this, the agents decided Chase's alter ego Chastity would hail from Birmingham, Alabama. The agents were hoping to establish a natural and instant sympathy the t-girls would have for someone in their unique gender blurriness having to exist in a small unforgiving town. It also prevented problems associated with having to heavily research the "scene" and all the players Chase would have to pretend to know, from cities like New York or San Francisco. Anwalt swung the car into the parking lot of the cafe, which Chase noted to his great dismay, was outside. He had spent a lifetime avoiding smoking and noxious fumes, only to have to inhale Los Angeles' less than healthy air. Anwalt looked him over quickly, reminiscent of a mother sending her child on the school bus. But unlike a mother, she said, "More cleavage. These Katoeys are an exhibitionist sort." Other than the too realistic appearance, Anwalt seemed satisfied. With a smile complete devoid of humor she said, "Showtime". As Agent Bingham always did, he took a deep breath, and moved his mind completely into the his covert role. He was now Chastity, a t-girl who felt she was god's gift to that community. Confident, assured, and full of life despite her apparent reserve, she wanted to get to the mining colonies because she deserved the attention they would lavish on her. Swinging his legs out of the car, perching upon impracticable high heels, he looked to Anwalt, now to be called Jade, and winked. "What a fabulous day to be us." Chase said through the persona of Chastity. The special agent's eyebrow raised for a moment, and came down realizing that Chase was "on". With a silent gesture of the head, she indicated for Chastity to follow her inside. Anwalt had been right. When "Chastity" and "Jade" walked onto the patio, Chase could feel the eyes burning on him. One Katoey in particular, a woman who looked surprisingly like the aging version of the singer Courtney, could not hide her fear-tinged disdain. The others, were at least, able to resume a fake air of pleasantry, greeting Jade like a long lost sister, despite the fact she was bringing obvious competition in their midst. They questioned Jade as to her whereabouts for the past few months, and she supplied a simple, non-detailed story about driving to Birmingham and staying there for awhile to save Chastity from a "situation". No one discussed what the situation was, but as Katoeys facing unique hardships every day, they could only imagine. Chastity was introduced to the five women at the table, two of which were obviously large men (who didn't care if anyone knew it) in over the top clothing designed to shock and grab attention. Another of the women looked as though she could be female, but was also dressed in fairly wild clothing. Only Courtney, much like Chastity, was in the garb and had the look of a "regular girl". She was dressed in a simple pair of shorts, sandals with a slight wedged heel and a long sleeved T-shirt. While Chase, for his part, was wearing jeans and a sweater. Only the extreme snug fit of the sweater designed to show off the volume of his bosom, and unusually high heels, gave hint to a life style of exhibitionism. Chase, after quickly acclimating to the colorful company at the table, let Jade do all of the talking. Only occasionally complimenting one of the girls on a piece of clothing or make up, or answered a pointedly personal question like were his breasts "real". It had been decided that Chase as Chastity would allow himself to slowly grow on these Katoeys and put them at ease as a means of fully infiltrating their ranks. Unlike the second part of the mission, actually spying while on the colonies, this first part held almost no risk. Screwing up here made it more difficult to learn how to book the flight, but not impossible. But Chastity could see quickly that while the two large and vibrant t-girls, Lady Australia and Queen Righteous may be the mouthpiece of this clique, Courtney was, by virtue of looking like a woman, and a famous one at that, the soul. She was the egg to crack. "How often do people ask you for Courtney's autograph?" Chase asked. Courtney gave him a small, but almost grateful smile. It was an obvious ploy from Chase, but he was certain, one that would work. He was going to plainly kiss up to this woman until she found his attention not just flattering, but vital. He could feel that there was something a little sad about her, and he was going to play on those emotions to their logical conclusion. *** It took another ten months before Chastity was considered one of the girls. When Agent Chase Bingham first learned about how operations worked for the Agency, what impressed him the most was not the high-tech gadgets or the James Bondesque aspect of it all, but the patience of the entire thing. A covert operator could be planted five years or even longer before they actually were asked to spy actively. And while not half a decade, Chase had been preparing for and in the field for this mission for over a year and a half. His instincts to "out of the group befriend" the lip- synching entertainer, gender illusionist, Courtney was a stroke of good luck. Not only did Courtney, through her long ties to this world, show Chastity all the ropes and help "her" meet all the right people; Courtney herself had tired of the earth bound Katoey life and was strongly considering the colonies. Only her Katoey girlfriend's strong insistence she stay, and the difficulty in finding someone who knew how to get up there, kept her for going so far. But Chase by way of Chastity, of course, only encouraged her departure. So it was not with great surprise when Courtney approached him with plans to move her idea into concrete action. Having told Chastity to arrive at the Thai cafe early, before the others got there. She spoke very quickly as though they could arrive at any moment. She obviously wanted to keep her plans secret from them. "I think they're gangsters, to tell you the truth." She said this languidly, as if talking about a new pair of heels she bought, not giving life to the fear that she felt, "Everything is very hush-hush and top secret. I tried to get them to let you come see them, but they were having none of that. Even though the entire time, they kept talking as though they were planning an expense paid trip to Las Vegas for a gender illusionist contest and they needed girls to enter it. Never once were the colonies mentioned. The couple of times that I tried, they looked at me as though I had lost my mind, and explained patiently, that only miners were sent to the rocks. And they knew little about that in any case. But, somehow ... somehow ... I tell you, despite this way of conversation they made me understand that they were in fact talking about sending me ... us ... assuming they'll take you without checking you out first ... up there." Chase was impressed by these Courtney defined "gangsters'" ability to keep degrees of separation between them and those they sent up. Very well run. Not only did they keep up appearances, in case they were being filmed or taped, but Chase was sure that a certain number of those girls who showed up would actually end up in Vegas, while others just disappeared onto one of those cold floating rocks in space. Very, very professional. But what else should he have expected from the energy/mining companies?" "So, Chastity, are you ready to go do some impersonations in Vegas? We would have to leave tonight." "Am I? I've heard super things about the rocks. I can't wait." "Don't tell the girls, but meet me in front of my place at eight-thirty tonight. We'll catch a subtube. Pack your bags for two weeks. We're almost there." Yes," Chase noted, thinking again about his year and a half on this mission so far, "almost." *** Plastic. It was the simple discovery of an almost indestructible form of plastic that made life on other planets possible. At the turn of the century a polymer was discovered that could withstand extremes of both heat and cold. This plastic could be made to be see-through, yet withstand something as incredibly testing as a meteor shower. The applications were instantly and readily apparent. Large bubbles, housing entire colonies of humans, could be built. Cheaply. Pump in oxygen like a balloon, and - Voila! Sunlight could get through, allowing photosynthesis and farming, yet harmful rays kept out. It was to be the discovery that planted man, like seeds from a dandelion, all over the cosmos. That was, of course, before it was discovered that those carrying two x chromosomes, women, died in suspended animation and that no human had yet survived the long trips without grave consequences to mind and body without it. Now, the great discovery was used to house thousands of miners and to further not man's discovery of space, but the corporate bottom line of already fat companies. Chase had been thinking about all of this while he and Courtney were taking the subtube to Santa Monica, where they were scheduled to meet the people who were running the "gender illusionist" contest in Las Vegas. But of course, he would not reveal his pondering, no matter how innocuous to Courtney or anyone else. Unless an agent's cover specifically called for displays of knowledge or intelligence, that was a trait that was quickly submerged. "Make them underestimate you" was the mantra of the Agency training courses from day one. Chase looked around and noted they were not the only ones headed to the "contest". While perhaps it may have been slightly noticeable to the uninitiated eye that very few of the women on the subtube were shorter than five-six, were dressed in fairly provocative club wear for a Tuesday night, they would have not known that any of these women had been born men. This was, Chase decided, the cream of the crop, so to speak. Being aware that his own appearance was a top-notch creation, he was glad the Agency overrode Special Agent Anwalt's concerns about his looking too good. From the subtube, and one cab ride later, they arrived at the small building designated as the meeting point along with forty other of the Katoeys. It was a simple office, one small desk in the tiny waiting area, with posters of both Las Vegas and some of the more famous Katoey entertainers of the past twenty years. It all looked very real. Chase's eye, however, noted the discrepancies quickly. The phone was of the latest visi-tech variety, while undoubtedly useful for the complex needs of the energy/mining companies, far too high tech and expensive for a company, which ran Katoeys back and forth to contests in the desert. The furniture too, down to the fake wood paneling favored by construction companies, was too functional and straightforward, also very corporate. Not what one would expect of a business dealing with over the top colorful clientele. Chase could feel Courtney's nervousness as they stood in the room surrounded by the other, younger women. Chase could not discern whether her nervousness stemmed from the obvious competition or the realization that not long from now they would be on a cargo rocket blasting out of the atmosphere. Chase eased her nervousness in the same way he gained her confidence, overt, if not misplaced flattery. Whispering he said, "I bet these youngsters wished they had that Courtney Class now," using a trademarked phrase coined by the real songstress, that she used to refer to herself. At this Courtney smiled and visibly relaxed. A moment later a man stepped out of the tiny back office and looked over the women carefully. All of the women, except Chase, had been pre-screened, so he knew in advance more or less who was going to show up. He walked over to the agent and looked him up and down. He leaned forward to blatantly look down Chase's blouse. Chase leaned forward a bit to aid him, he knew this was to see whether Chastity's breast were implants or padding as this was a "real breast" only crowd. Still, he carried a look of doubt about the agent on his face. Chase was certain at this point that showing up uninvited as he did, even with someone who had been checked over thoroughly by the company, was a non- starter. The man walked around the room and assigned each Katoey a bus number, "Bus One, Bus Two, Bus Two, Bus One." He did this as though looking at a pre-designated list, but Chase knew he was doing the assigning, and judging, on the spot. Bus Two was quickly filling with, what Chase noted, were not only the better looking of the Katoeys, but the widest variety of types. If two women looked to be of a similar type too closely, like the two who closely resembled current sex icon Pamela Lee Tan, one was assigned Bus Two, the other Bus One. Chase decided quickly that Bus One would actually land in Las Vegas and only Bus Two would make it into space. Courtney, perhaps because she was the singer's very close look alike, or perhaps because she was older, but nice looking and filled a type, was assigned Bus Two. The man walked over to Chase looked at the list, the one Chastity couldn't have been on, and said, "And the extra slot goes to Bus One. The rest of you ladies can go home." About ten women were left and groaned as they shuffled on their impracticable high heels out the door. So, Chase thought to himself, the energy employee, fronting as an employee of a Vegas entertainment company, suspected Chase of being something he was not. Otherwise, Chase reasoned, he would have just sent him home with the others. But instead, he was going to put him on the bus that would, most likely, actually end up in Las Vegas. If Chase were a reporter or a simple snoop (he doubted seriously the man believed he was a spy) Chase would be able to do nothing but confirm the Las Vegas story. But this was a careful company. They knew nothing about Chastity, "she" had not been given an invitation as did Courtney, and they were not going to take the risk. It was time for Chase to act. Gesturing to both Courtney and himself he said, "We work together. We always work together," Courtney looked a little puzzled, they never worked together, but thankfully the energy man did not see her look. He studied Chastity more carefully. "We've known each other forever, and its really important we're on the same bus." "The buses go to the same place, one just leaves a little later than the other," he said. Stressing the word "important" Chase just repeated himself, "It is important that we're on the same bus." "Okay, okay. You're on Bus Two, and you," he pointed to another Katoey, "are on Bus One." The energy company employee saw the scenario as Chase hoped he would. Chase's irrational insistence on being on the bus meant he knew there was a difference. At this point, it was far easier to send this Chastity character onto a rock where the Katoey could be monitored, then let her back onto the streets with the knowledge of how this diversion works. Chase brief smile was careful not to express the extreme relief he felt. *** It was unlike Chase to sleep, even when tired. But buses made him sleepy. The smooth fashion, at which they hovered a few feet off the ground made one loose the sensation of traveling, the constant vibration of motion made it easy to become drowsy. All of this was aided by the fact, that this particular mode of transportation didn't have any windows, except for the narrow driver's slot in the front. Having dosed off made it difficult for Chase to gauge how far they had gone, but he judged them to be somewhere in Arizona. This is where most private industry sent their satellites into space. He was correct. Streaming off of the bus, the Katoeys each, in turned gasped at the sight all around them, the Arizona Launching Pad. Small concrete nondescript buildings were scattered across miles long concrete slab. Long runway landing strips were placed in vertical lines throughout the complex. But what took the eye immediately, were, standing many stories high, steaming gas from the outlet valves, gigantic, fueled and ready to go, rockets. One Katoey fainted. A man stepped out of the one of the bunker like buildings, Chase noted grimly that they were built that way to withstand when these things fall out of the sky, and approached the bus. He had an open and friendly face, still obviously amused by the wonder in the eyes of those taking in a spacecraft for the first time. He looked down at the woman who had fainted, now being treated by her friends, with not the least bit of surprise. "Ladies," he said, "why don't we get you properly dressed for the ride," smiling again, "I'll carry her." [To be continued]