The Fresh Lap of the Crimson Rose


by Bek D. Corbin

Therefore the Moon,
governess of floods,
Pale in her anger, washes all the air,
That rheumatic diseases do abound;
And through this distempature we see
The seasons alter; hoary-headed frosts
Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose.
Wm. Shakespeare, A Midsummernight's Dream

Author's Note: This story is set in the universe of Sarah Barndt's FemCorps. While I have not used any of her characters, except in two passing references, I recognize the originating author's right to be pissed off that I am playing in her backyard. The passage marked with an asterisk (*) is a direct quote from the FemCorps serial.

TV INTERVIEW

CAMERA ONE: Overview of main stage, occupants in shadow. Cue Introduction Music. Map in Main Title: THIS MORNING IN LONDON.

CAMERA TWO: Closeup on Host Presenter, Paul A. Dore. Dore: "Hello, and welcome to This Morning in London, the programme that brings the people who impact on National Affairs, together with the everyday people of London. Today, our guest is from the controversial American organization, FemCorps. FemCorps, as I'm sure you know, is the organization founded by the Marsh Pharmaceuticals firm, in order to counter-balance the pernicious imbalance between the sexes by surgically transforming biological males into fertile biological females. Until now, FemCorps has only operated in the United States, with the exception of offices in Toronto and Ottowa, Canada. FemCorps has decided to reach out, and form branches in the UK, France, Germany and the Benelux nations."

CAMERA THREE: Closeup on main guest, Elaine Harris. On her knee she holds an adorable yearling infant in a pink dress and booties, gnawing on a pacifier.

Dore, overvoice: "Our guest is an American FemCorps tranformee and mother of two, Mrs. Elaine Harris." Mrs. Harris smiles and nods her head. "She has traveled here with her husband, Prof. Gary Harris, and daughters, Vivian, age 3,"

CAMERA FOUR: Pan to audience, closeup on audience guests Prof. Harris and daughter Vivian, a black haired moppet with huge dark eyes.

 

CAMERA THREE: Focus on bably on mother's knee. Dore, overvoice: "and Brigit, age 11 months, to act as a spokesperson for the fledgling FemCorps-GB. Elaine, welcome."

Mrs. Harris: Thank you, Mr. Dore. I'm glad to be here.

CAMERA TWO: Dore: Now, just to be perfectly clear, you were born a man, and decided that you would be better off as a woman."

CAMERA THREE: Mrs. Harris: "Well, the first statement is right on the money, but the second one is a drastic over-simplification. I didn't just get up one day and say, 'Gee! Wouldn't life be just peachy if I only had an uterus?' I entered college as a Geology major, and studied for two years, before I decided to give up my studies to enter FemCorps."

CAMERA TWO: Dore: "FemCorps specifically prohibits their members from seeking a higher education?"

CAMERA THREE: Mrs. Harris: "No, not specifically. There is a specific prohibition against entering the workplace in competition with men. But FemCorps members, both born women and transformees, are very well paid for the service of bearing and raising children. The prohibition against competition is a matter of lessening the harsh level of competition among men, and ensuring that we focus on the task of raising our children right. Most of us defer furthering our educations because we decide that men who will still be competing need the classroom space more."

CAMERA TWO: Dore: Exactly why did you decide to 'enter FemCorps', as you put it? Is it that you felt insufficient to compete as a man, and decided to take the easy way out? Is that socio-biologically sound? Doesn't it perpetuate the genomes of the inadequate?"

CAMERA THREE: Mrs. Harris: "Well, just a minute, in order- First, I decided to 'join FemCorps', because I realized that I wasn't needed as a Man, but I was desperately needed as a Woman. Second, I felt sufficient to compete- not win, but compete. And, honestly, who competes with no possible expectation of winning? The level of competition among men is phenomenally high, but abysmally low among women. I'm still competing- I'm just competing in a new arena. Third, Socio-biology is a completely discredited theory. Fourth, since I am competing- with other women- it becomes a question of whose genomes are inadequate, theirs or mine. The very essence of survival of the fittest."

CAMERA TWO: Dore: "What was it like, to have your entire... maleness, surgically transformed, to have your genitalia transmogrified from testes to ovaries?"

CAMERA THREE: Mrs. Harris: "Well, first of all, the testes were not 'transmogrified' into ovaries. It's a very common misconception, but it just doesn't work that way. You see, everyone is born with a full set of both gonads, male and female. But, with the exception of hermaphrodites, one of these sets doesn't develop while the other does. The feminization process uses a version of the cellular quick regeneration process, that's used to regenerate severed nerves and such, to develop the vestigial ovaries and uterus, while shrinking the testes and phallus. As for the personal experience? Well, I was anesthetized and had a spinal block and I still cried."     

CAMERA TWO: Dore: "What sort of man were you, before?"

CAMERA THREE: Mrs. Harris: "Oh, I'd say I was your basic Average Joe. I liked baseball- still do; I had a girlfriend in High School- for all of three weeks, which put me way up the social ladder from a lot of guys I went to school with. I wanted to be a fireman when I grew up, but settled in High School for being a submarine geologist. I still keep up with the latest developments in submarine mining technology. I had a huge crush on Evangeline Savage, the action movie starlet, when I was 13."

CAMERA TWO: Dore: "Speaking of crushes, what was your first sexual experience as a woman like? Were you a virgin when you first had sex? I mean, were you a virgin as a man, can you give us an informed opinion as to both sides of the equation?"

CAMERA THREE: Mrs. Harris gives a pussycat smile. Mrs. Harris: "Well, let's just say that it was SEX, and leave it at that."  

CAMERA TWO: Dore: "I understand that arranged marriages are part of the FemCorps package. Was your first meeting with your husband with the understanding that you were more or less stuck with each other?"

CAMERA THREE: Mrs. Harris: "That's a Yes and No answer. Yes, arranged marriages are part of the FemCorps 'Package', as you put it. But, its policy that new women are only presented with it as a non-option if they show repeated resistance to accepting their female state. Generally, FemCorps prefers that the marriages be as natural as possible. I met Mark on my fifth arranged meeting through FemCorps."

CAMERA TWO: Dore: "Exactly how are these 'meetings' arranged?"

CAMERA THREE: Mrs. Harris: "Well, do you remember those computer dating services they used to have back in the middle of the last century? It's kind of like that, except that instead of filling out a form, you watch a movie."

CAMERA TWO: Dore: "A Movie?"

CAMERA THREE: Mrs. Harris: "Y'see, you watch it through this special headset that measures your brainwave activity, heartbeat, and respiration, like a lie detector. But the key element is that while you're watching the 'movie', subliminal images are flashed into your eye. A device measures your the response your pupils have to the subliminal image. Y'see, the pupil contracts if your immediate response is boredom or distaste, but dilates if your response is interest. The computer gages your response to the subliminal images in context of the overt images you are being shown. The first one-fifth of the movie is pretty standard, but the next parts are increasingly amended, using the information from the preceding parts as guidelines. By the last one-fifth of the movie, the computer generally has a pretty accurate and unbiased profile. These profiles are used, along with more conventional questionnaires, to put new women and prospective husbands together."

CAMERA TWO: Dore: "And this works every time?"

CAMERA THREE: Mrs. Harris laughs. Mrs. Harris: "Good Lord, No! We're talking about people, not engine parts! My second date was a complete fiasco! And the others, well, I just asked myself if I could Live with this person, and the answer was No. Then I met Mark, and the answer was Yes, and, well, I wouldn't say that I never regretted it. But by and large, we get along. We realize that we're very lucky to have each other."       

CAMERA TWO: Dore: "What kind of preparation were you given for your new role, prior to your actual transformation?"

CAMERA THREE: Mrs. Harris: "Actually, almost none."

CAMERA TWO: Dore: NONE?"

CAMERA THREE: Mrs. Harris: "Well, to 'prepare' us would be to try to decide what we would become beforehand. FemCorps' policy is that each member is an individual, who must come to grips with who they will be on their own terms. Aside from the ones who try to completely reject their feminization, the watchword is 'figure it out for yourself'."

CAMERA TWO: Dore: "That's a trifle harsh."

CAMERA THREE: Mrs. Harris: "Maybe, but it's lightyears better than having a standardized official FemCorps 'woman' mold that you have to fit, or else." 

CAMERA TWO: Dore: "After the actual physical genital transformation, what other kinds of procedures did you go through? Rhinoplasty? Breast Augmentation? Tummy Tuck?"

CAMERA THREE: Mrs. Harris: "None."

CAMERA TWO: Dore: "None? You mean that you were this feminine before the procedure?"

CAMERA THREE: Mrs. Harris: "Oh, for heaven's sake, no. Besides the procedure to reconfigure the genitals, each transformee is injected with non-transferable gene-altering retro-virus. Besides actuating the 'Y' chromosome into a 'X' chromosome- and remember, micro-biologically speaking, a 'Y' chromosome is nothing more than a 'X' chromosome that didn't split-, the retrovirus triggers a 'second adolescence', in which the body more or less remakes itself."

CAMERA TWO: Dore: "With this retro-virus, the complete change must take only a few hours."

CAMERA THREE: Mrs. Harris: "You must be reading some very bad science fiction. There is no magic transformation- it's a normal biological changeover that takes a couple of years to complete. The most dramatic thing in the conversion is the contraction of the bones. A person can lose as much as a foot in height, but the only person who ever lost that much was very tall- 6' 6"- to begin with, and it took two years, four months before she stopped shrinking. The contraction has an effect on the face, mostly a refining of the features, but you can still usually recognize a person. It's a comparatively slow process overall, though it's common for a transformee to be fertile and pregnant within a year."

CAMERA TWO: Dore: "But still, if a transformee wants to be completely accepted as a woman, this 'second adolescence' can't completely remove all signs of their former masculine condition."

CAMERA THREE: Mrs. Harris: "Oh, a transformee can get any of the cosmetic alterations that a born woman can, but it isn't allowed in the first 16 months of transition. After that, if she feels the need, she can pay for it out of her own purse."     

CAMERA TWO: Dore: Mrs. Harris- Elaine, once you have gone through all of this, exactly what is expected of a FemCorps transformee?"

CAMERA THREE: Mrs. Harris: "Well, there is the clause against competition with men in certain, indeed most, jobs, which we discussed earlier. Fem Corps members are expected to get married. They are expected to have at least three daughters, all by their husband, who on his part has agreed to have an implant that ensures that his progeny will all be female. There are a few more particulars, but that's basically it. You agree to be a wife and mother, for which you are paid a nice monthly stipend, which increases with each daughter you bear." 

CAMERA TWO: Dore: "But, on a broader scale, what is expected of the men who come to FemCorps? What kind of men would willingly surrender their manhood, however privileged and well-paid they might be?"

CAMERA THREE: Mrs. Harris: "To be honest, Mr. Dore, the kind of Man that FemCorps wants, aren't really interested in privilege or pay. When I was in college, I desperately wanted to do something great, some thing that would put me in the history books- not to mention probably getting me a wife! But, when I took a good, long, close look at my motives, I realized how selfish and juvenile such dreams of glory were. It was all about ME showing how great I was, and everybody being impressed by me. Doing anything beneficial was only a way to show how great I was. When I decided that actually improving the world was more important than showing off, I realized that everything I could do to make things better already had a waiting line full of guys who were much better qualified than I was. When I took an objective view of the most important things that I could actually accomplish, the number one thing was- FemCorps. I joined FemCorps because it needed to be done- it still needs to be done- and most guys were just standing around with their hands protectively covering their groins."

CAMERA TWO: Dore: "You make it sound as if you think you are more of a Man for becoming a woman, than you would be for landing on Venus."

CAMERA THREE: Mrs. Harris: "Well, not quite, but there is something to it. You only have to land on Venus once. Once you're transformed, you have to be a woman, 24 hours a day, 365 days a year, for the rest of your life. There's no 'do your hitch and get veteran's benefits'. You have to put up with all the bizarreness that both nature and society will throw at you, and it's generally considered good form if you don't bother people complaining about it. After all, while real women have this just land on top of them, we transformees choose to do it."

CAMERA TWO: Dore: "But we're back to my original question- what kind of man is FemCorps looking to recruit?"

CAMERA THREE: Mrs. Harris: "I can't say that there is a specific kind of man that we're looking for. But I think that I can save some people a lot of trouble by saying what kind of man we're not looking for. We're not looking for someone who thinks that this is going to solve all their problems, because it's not. It will solve employment and financial problems, but it won't do a da- single thing about making troublesome things like responsibility go away. Indeed, you will have to be responsible for at least three young girls, all of whom will be looking to you for food, comfort, guidance, stability and the meanings of life. You will be responsible to a man who, besides sex, will be looking to you to provide the understanding and consolation of a loving wife, to make his life bearable. If you are looking for stability, forget about it. The change is one-way, but it's constant and always going in different directions. Your body will ebb and flow like the moon every month - IF you aren't pregnant, and your body becomes a perambulator with legs and a milk bar for nine months. We aren't looking for men who are afraid of pain; besides the pain of transition, you will be expected to undergo one of the greatest pains in life at least three times. And that isn't counting the thousand subtle pains and agonies that bringing a new life into the world mean. And if you want things to be easy- to be able to just kick back, eat chocolates, watch the soaps, and let a man take care of you- don't even bother picking up an application! There are too many slackers and goof-offs, of either sex, already in the world. The world is genuinely better off without the children that such mothers would raise. No, I've changed my mind, Mr. Dore- after all it is a woman's right- I think that I can say what kind of man FemCorps wants. We want patriots. We want men who are willing to sacrifice, not their lives in combat, but their lifetimes in service. Men who are willing to sacrifice their manhoods, because their nation- no, the entire human race requires that sacrifice. We need men who are willing to GIVE, and keep giving, and give without thinking of it as giving.

 

CAMERA FOUR: Pan to a middle aged woman with Big Hair, too much make-up, and loud clothes. "I have something to say! Listen up, you may dress it all up with all the fancy scientific talk and pretty speeches you want, but it all comes down to this- you're a bleeding freak of nature, trying to pass itself off as a woman!" Murmurs of agreement. "You disgust me, coming here, trying to spread your perverted filth in Britain! You Yanks started all this mess, and now the same bloody Yanks that started it all are trying to muck things up even worse, with more drugs and surgery and such! Leave nature to nature! Let things work themselves out naturally, that's all I have to say!"  More murmurs of assent.

 

CAMERA TWO: Dore: "Well, this is what this programme is for- to bring everyday people together with movers and shakers. We have-"

CAMERA FOUR: Middle Aged Woman: "How Dare You come here and talk about being a mother! What do you know about it, you hormonally mutilated faggot!

CAMERA THREE: Mrs. Harris: "Madam, I assume that you are married, I have conceived, gave birth to and am currently raising two daughters. What did you think that these two little angels were- BBC props?"

CAMERA FOUR: Middle Aged Woman: "So What? You still can't possibly have any idea of what a real woman is all about! If you really cared for those girls, you'd give them over to a real woman to be properly raised!"

CAMERA THREE: All tenderness leaves Mrs. Harris's face. Mrs. Harris: "Touch them and die, bitch."

CAMERA FOUR: Middle Aged Woman: "You all heard it! It threatened me! It THREATENED ME!"

CAMERA THREE: Mrs. Harris leans forward with a predatory look on her face. Mrs. Harris: "Oh, Please! Do you honestly think that I haven't had to put up with exactly this kind of farce before? Do you think that you are the first barren middle-aged woman to think that she can cement her position with her wealthy husband by laying claim to a FemCorps child? Or even one of my children? Do you think that I haven't heard exactly that load of bilge from some biddy trying to talk her way into being the arbiter of who is a fit mother?"

CAMERA FOUR: Middle Aged Woman: "You bloody vicious Yanks! Always trying to tell us, who once ruled the bloody world, how to run our own country!"

CAMERA THREE: Mrs. Harris: "Letting alone that the Sun now sets on the British Empire, the simple fact that you just don't seem to be able to accept is that WE ARE HERE, and we are NOT GOING AWAY. Whether or not FemCorps-GB takes off or not, or whether the FemCorps branches on the Continent succeed or not, FemCorps-USA is an already successful endeavor. There are thousands of natural women and transformees in FemCorps-USA, breeding daughters. Madam, if you and your fellow bridge club members bring down FemCorps-GB, you are cutting your own throats. You will have fewer and fewer girls born in Great Britain. Your sons will become more and more unmanageable. You will literally tear yourselves apart. In three generations, your cities will be all but deserted; made ghost towns, not by atomic weapons or gengineered plagues, but by the selfish greed of stupid women who want to hold onto being a valuable commodity, regardless of the cost to their fellow Britons."

CAMERA FOUR: Middle Aged Woman:(Author Note: At this point, the reader is free to insert three to five minutes of whatever semi-coherent ignorant ravings they feel necessary to make the scene work for them. Personally, I have better things to do with my time.)

CAMERA FOUR: Overweight man of about 35 years: "But why should we allow America to wield such power over something as basic to English freedom and liberty as our ability to control our own procreation?"

CAMERA THREE: Mrs. Harris: "You shouldn't, and we aren't asking. While all FemCorps branches will receive funding from the Marsh Foundation, each branch in every different nation will be an individual and autonomous entity, staffed and directed by the nationals of that country. FemCorps-GB will only look to FemCorps-USA for already existing technology and procedures. But FemCorps-GB will inevitably develop its own procedures and policies, to deal with the unique aspects of the British character."

CAMERA TWO: Dore: "You said, 'Your sons will become more and more unmanageable'. Isn't that a rather fatuous statement coming from a representative of a nation as famous for its casual violence as the US?"

CAMERA THREE: Mrs. Harris: "The level of violence in the US is FemCorps' most telling advertisement. Before FemCorps went online, the levels of rioting, violent crime and outbursts of homicidal rage were at an all-time high. In the years since FemCorps was accepted, those same levels, measured by the same criteria, in the same areas, over the same space of time, are almost ONE THIRD of what they were before. Before Chromozine 22B was introduced in the UK, a death at a football match riot would have been scandalous. But now, when I open the London Times, there is a regular section, devoted solely to death notices from football riots, race riots, gang wars and berserker rages. We Americans tend to look at Britain as the Mother Country. We expect better of you."
#####

          I unclipped the microphone from my blouse and got up. It was my first interview in Britain, but it was far from my last. Most people look forward to long vacations in Europe, but to be honest, I was already looking forward to going back to Philadelphia. Gary and Vivian walked toward me through the audience crowd. I pointedly ignored the questions, demands and insults of the various Brits that demanded my attention before the three people that actually mattered. I handed Brigit over to Gary, and picked up Vivian. I'm an Equal Opportunity Cuddler.

          A hand reached out from the crowd and gripped Vivian. I seized the hand by the wrist, and recognized the loud-mouth bitch who'd been giving me all that grief. "What did I tell you, woman?", I snarled in my steeliest voice. She backed down, but I still saw the hunger in her eyes. She saw a child, an oh, so very rare girl-child, belonging to someone that she could convince herself didn't deserve her. I've dealt with it before, with both men and women. One tried to use the courts- the FemCorps lawyers made mincemeat out of her. Others have tried more direct means- both Vivian and Brigit have very subtle location tracing devices hidden on them at all times. I inherited my father's Irish hazel eyes and willingness to fight; I inherited my mother's Greek hair, features, and unwillingness to forgive. Be warned.

          A very large London constable named Kaye escorted us to the Strand Hotel. I'll say this for FemCorps-whatever-nation, they aren't the sort to pinch pennies. As we got Vivian and Brigit, stored away in the nursery (Now that's what I call a luxury hotel! Nurseries for the protection of children and the nerves of parents!) Gary and I were able to have a little alone time before any new FemCorps business raised it's ugly head.

          "Well, that could have gone better", I sighed as I slumped down on the bed.

          "You did great, Kid. You always do." Gary said comfortingly. He sat down beside me on the bed and put his arm around me. Gary isn't the biggest of guys, but they felt big enough to wrap around me and protect me from all the parrot-voiced harridans and pompous oafs and supercilious presenters that England and the whole world could throw at me.

          "I wish we were back in Philly. Even one of Professor MacArthur's god-awful 'defend-your-existence-or-lose-your-chance-at-tenure' parties would be better than six more stops of this in the UK-"

          "-And nine more on the Continent, don't forget!"

          I whimpered. The worst of all this was, that as bad as it was, it was FemCorps business. By bringing him and the kids along as a 'working vacation', I had not only flushed Aruba as a vacation possibility down the toilet, I had also shot my 'I don't want to go to another damn faculty party' credit for at least a year. Oh, well, the FemCorps people had guaranteed us that we would be able to get in some primo sight-seeing. We damn well would, but I had a sneaking feeling that the fearsome British Press would be following us every step of the way, taking snapshots and potshots at every turn.

          Gary leaned in and kissed me. "Y'know, you never did get to give that 'relations with the opposite sex' talk that you practiced. Care to update your research?", he said as he lowered me back to the mattress. Besides making sure that I only have girls by Gary, the Chromosine-22X he takes also boosts his sex drive. So, Gary tends to try to get into my knickers every chance he gets. God Bless Him!

          Even after five years of feminization and two children, there is still a little part of me that is amazed that men are attracted to me. As Gary slipped my tweed blazer off of me and cupped one of my breasts through the blouse, there was that small voice in the back of my head that I hear every do often, saying 'Oh, God, it's really happening!'. Not guilt, just an echo of the wonder I felt the first time that I stood naked in front of Gary, and he recited a Keatsean ode to beauty. (Not bad for a professor of Electrical Engineering!)

That spark of wonder does marvels for keeping the spice in our love life.

          Gary was going for his third try (thank you, Chromosine-22X!), when there was a knock at the door. We finished rather preemptively, with the most perfunctory of orgasms on my part; Gary made sure that I came before getting out of bed. He's a college educated man, and he knows a dangerous situation when he sees it. I scampered into the bathroom, and he put on his pants and a dressing robe to get the door.

          As I was getting 'decent', I heard Gary talking with someone who spoke in one of those lovely British 'Public School' accents. It was the first I'd heard since I landed at Heathrow, and I'd really been looking forward to hearing lots of it. Wrapping a bathrobe around me, I headed out to see what the man wanted.

          The man my one and only was talking to was the stout, beefy kind of Englishman that Nigel Bruce used to play, only with a three-digit IQ. "Ah, Mrs. Harris! My apologies- ahem." My guess is that's Brit-speak for 'I didn't mean to walk in on your snogging session'. "My name is Gavin Percival-Lott. I'm the head of Public Relations for FemCorps-GB." He extended his hand.

          I gave it a non-commital shake. "My condolences. I take it that you're here to Shepard me onto the next sideshow?"

          "Now, Mrs. Harris, I'll admit that the 'This Morning in London' programme could have gone better-"

          "Yeah, the famous British postal system could have actually delivered the tar and feathers that crowd put in an order for six months ago!"

          "Mrs. Harris, what happened to you this morning is nothing. The very social pressures you were talking about on that programme are conspiring to prevent our remedy from going into effect. Anti-American sentiment, homophobia, class resentment, and a very British fear of new things are constantly gumming things up. It took us three years just to acquire the properties to set up shop in the north counties. The Press has been undecided about us- their reactions waiver between ridicule and venomous hostility. Mrs. Harris, we need something to happen, and it has to happen soon. We've had branches in six cities in the UK for over a year, and though we've had thousands of inquiries, we've had less than a score of actual committals. Worse, these new women are still unmarried! A 7-to-3 male-female ratio, and men simply won't go anywhere near a FemCorps transformee!"

          "No born women are joining?"

          "Oh, over three thousand! But they seem to regard it as money for nothing! If anything, the quality of the women who have been joining is causing our cachet to plummet. We asked for a successful married transformee to act as our spokeswoman, mostly to dispel the rather unfortunate image of transformees that has taken root."

          Your children are very important to this mission. In Britain, as almost everywhere, young Girl-children are regarded as a near sign of Divine approval. This is the thing that we've been trying to get to- a British baby girl, from a FemCorps-GB mother. Once that 'surface tension' is broken, things will go much more smoothly. The problem is getting there. We hope that the image of your daughters, being born of a FemCorps transformee- even an American one- will suffice until our own first is born."

          "Couldn't you just use artificial insemination?"

          "Thought of it- the PR boffins said that the element of artificiality in the basic FemCorps concept was so high that artificial insemination would be far over Britain's tolerance. It would be regarded as a cheat- and the English have a bit of a thing about fair play."

          My Irish ancestors nudged my shoulder, aching to say a few choice words about English 'fair play'. I shushed them- never let your ghosts do your thinking for you. I sighed "Okay, your Lordship, what's next on the agenda?"

          Percivale-Lott smiled gently and said, "Just a Mister, Mrs. Harris, not a Lord. Not even an Honorable. As for the agenda, do you think that your girls would be up for a quiet trip to the main London facility?"
#####

          A good deal has been written about the eeriness of an empty theater. Personally, I think an under-utilized hospital has it beat in spades. What if they had a biological revolution, and nobody came? While there was a well-behaved cordon of placard wielding cranks, the real culprits that were probably keeping potential recruits away was the Press. They started taking pictures of any man or woman who even walked on the same stretch of pavement as the FemCorps HQ, just in case they might go in. After all, the latest freak in the freakshow was news! <Gag!>

          We gave the Press every opportunity to take snaps of our blessed little family- better progenation through Chromosine-22X! It took a bit of the sadness out of our sad little visit to a very sad place. Then it happened.

          She came out from between a pair of parked cars. She must have played field hockey, or soccer- or is it football over here?- or something. She rammed Gary into me with her shoulder, almost making me drop Buggit (Vivian's baby-name for her- I just know that she's going to hate it in seven years! Vivian's is Vibby, and I'm going to make sure that Brigit knows it) and tore Vivian from his grasp.

          I gave a barely human scream of rage, handed Buggit to her daddy, and tore off after her. PC Kaye was right on my heels, but really! Expecting a London bobby to keep up with an enraged half-Greek mother!

          She carried my Vibby in her arms for about half a block and ducked into a waiting vehicle. It started to pull out, but I grabbed the open window and hung on for dear life. I clawed over Vibby and the woman, to the man driving the car and took the wheel. I was snarling like all three gorgons at once, the man was gibbering, the woman was swearing like a longshoreman and Vibby was crying. I pulled the wheel as hard to one side as I could and kept it there. The driver was trying to keep it in the street, but I forced the car aside, where it piled into the other cars. The force of the impact pulled my hand from the wheel and threw me against the door of the nearest car. I was too angry to really feel it, but I knew on a rational level that I'd at the very least thrown my right arm out of it's socket, and probably bruised a few ribs. Like I cared.

          PC Kaye reached in the other side of the car, and brushing the near-hysterical driver aside, pulled the keys from the ignition. Wish I'd thought of it. I heard Kaye's decidedly working class voice booming, "Aye don't bloody well care WHO y'are, Jack! Either o' you try anythin' an' I'll pin y'bloody ears back!"

          I pulled myself up from the asphalt- or tarmac, or whatever they goddamn call it on this goddamn pesthole of an island- and reached in the open window to fish out Vibby. Vibby tried to launch herself into my battered arms, but the woman who'd snatched her held on like a tax collector. Then I got a good look at her- it was that goddamn (wow, I keep using that curse word. gotta remember to mix it up a little)- that fucking parrot-voiced harridan who'd been up my nose on the TV programme. I lost it. I tore Vibby out of her arms and started to beat the crap out of her. The bitch in the car, that is. The only reason that bitch is still alive giving everyone around her grief is that I had to use my left arm, because my right one was full of Vibby and maybe broken as well. If my mother had married a nice Greek boy, like gran'ma wanted, the bitch in the car would have been dead anyway.

          Gary ran up, his arms full of a screaming Buggit, his eyes full of concern. I didn't quite hear what anyone was saying, as I slid down to the tarmac, and concentrated on holding the precious package of snuffling that had almost been stolen from me. I vaguely remember being packed into an ambulance, and wondering why it was going hee-haawww, hee-haawww!, instead of going whooo-whooo-whooo!, like a real siren.
#####

FIELD CAMERA FIVE: A London street scene. Field reporter Fiona Hughes. This is Fiona Hughes, live near the London headquarters of the controversial American organization, FemCorps. A stunning new development arose when FemCorps' new spokesperson, Mrs. Elaine Harris, physically attacked outspoken FemCorps critic, Mrs. Delores Garden of Croyden, with her bare hands...
#####

          I came out of the sedative in a London surgery. No, not an operating room, surgery is what Brits call a hospital. Lord, why can't the English learn to speak their own language? My right arm was in a mobile cast, I could feel a brace on my ribs, my head and face were bandaged, and there was another brace on my neck. I felt worse than I looked, and I looked like shit.

          A man in a white lab coat and a stethoscope came bruskly into my room without knocking. "Oh, you're finally up. Very well, Mrs. Harris, down to business. We require that you sign these papers immediately." He handed me a clipboard with a thick sheaf of documents clipped to it. "If you don't sign, things can get very messy very quickly. I need those papers with a Notary as soon as possible. Well, what are you waiting for?"

          Still little logy from the sedative, I looked at the documents. I didn't see the name of any hospital anywhere. Who was this Roland Garden, and what did he have to do with me? "What are these? Who are you?"

          He stood stiffly and said in a matter-of-fact way, "These are the usual release and permission forms. Purely a matter of standard procedure. You are aware that the woman you attacked has pressed charges against you."

          "PRESSED CHARGES! Against ME! The uncanny bitch tries to snatch my baby out from under my nose, in front of the Press, puts _Me_ in the  hospital, and SHE'S pressing charges?"

          "Well, that's a matter for the courts, now isn't it? Just sign here, here, and here."

          "You haven't answered my question, Pal! Who Are you, and what are you doing in my room?" I looked around for a call button or whatever they use over here.

          He pulled out a pen and stuck it in my left hand. "Sign."

          I peevishly threw the pen on the floor and found the call button. He pulled out another pen, and repeated it, giving me what I suppose he thought was an intimidating glower. Hunh! The man has obviously never caught a tenured professor in a mistake when he's speaking as an expert in a field he knows nothing about! "Sir, you will kindly either identify yourself as a person who has a legitimate reason for being in my room, or leave now!"

          The nurse finally came in. The man turned to her smoothly and said, 'Ah, hello Sister-" Oh, right. They call nurses 'sister' over here. Yet another pointless thing they've dragged into the modern age from antiquity. "Nothing to be concerned about. Mrs. Harris woke up, and became hysterical-"

          "Hysterical, my Ass! Sister, is this man a doctor at this hospital?"

          The nurse had been reflexively deferential to the man- probably due to the white coat, stethoscope and pricey suit and tie- but stepped back and took a careful look at him. "I don't recognize you. Who did you say you were, Sir?"

          "Sister, I assure you, everything is absolutely all right. Mrs. Harris is hysterical. I recommend another round of sedatives."

          I bridled at this. "Bullshit! Where's my husband? Where's Constable Kaye? Where's Mr. Percivale-Lott?"

          At the sound of the commotion in my room, PC Kaye loomed in the doorway like a blue mountainside. "What's all the noise about, then?"

          "Kaye! This man sneaked into my room, and tried to bully me into signing these papers while I was still groggy from the painkillers!"

          "Mrs. Harris, I assure you that these papers are completely-" As the mystery man was trying to weasel his way out of it, Kaye exchanged one of those very professional glances with the nurse, the kind of look between the informed that tell more than 40-page reports do. Without a word, he grabbed the white-coated man's good arm and had it up behind his back. Switching the hold of the arm to his off hand, he started patting the man down, and came up with a wallet.

          Kaye released the man and looked through the wallet. As the man started to blither, Kaye ignored him and said, "Desmond Murdock, Solicitor." Kaye flicked a glance at me. "That would be a lawyer, Mrs. Harris." I gave a grimace of distaste.

          Kaye picked up the clipboard and looked at the papers. "Oh, dear, dear, dear. Tryin' to get the lady to sign away her rights to sue while she ain't in her own mind now, are you, Desmond? Oh, HO! What's this now?" Kaye looked at me, mildly astonished. "Mrs. Harris, were you aware that this second to last document would sign over your parental rights, and name Mrs. Delores Garden as your daughters' guardian?"

          "WHAT?" I grabbed the clipboard with my good- for the moment- left hand, and flipped through the legal argey-bargey.

          "Didn't think so." Kaye hitched himself up, all proper London Bobby-style, and blandly addressed the lawyer in doctor's clothes. "Mister Murdock, it is my duty as a duly authorized officer of the City of London's own police force to inform you that you are no longer welcome in this lady's recovery room, nor- beggin' the Sister's indulgence- are you any longer welcome in this hospital, at least for the duration of Mrs. Harris' stay. You will leave now. And make no mistake, Counselor- this matter will be brought to the notice of the Lord Chancellor's Office."

          After the lawyer left, I looked up helplessly at Kaye and asked, "Who the hell are Roland and Delores Garden, and what do they want with me?"

          "Oh, that's right, you couldn't've been told. The woman who grabbed your daughter? That's Mrs. Delores Garden. The man at the wheel? That's her husband, Roland, a bit of a wheel at Anglo-Petroleum."

          I am reliably informed that they heard my scream of outrage in Calais.
#####

          The next few weeks were a blur of official proceedings, legal meetings, damage control sessions, and aggravation from the British Press. You think the American Press is nasty, when it gets its teeth into a scandal? The American Press is a litter of puppies next to the British Press' pack of Hounds of the Baskervilles. It got so bad that I sent Gary ahead to Paris with Vibby and Buggit, to get them out of the line of fire. What a situation to be in, in a country that won't let you buy a shotgun!

          At the first pleading, I thought that I made a very sympathetic figure, in my arm-brace and discretely bandaged face. Then Mrs. Garden rolled in, in a wheel-chair and neck-brace!

          Fortunately, FemCorps stands by it's own, especially those that are going beyond the call of duty for the Corps. The barrister they hired could have put Leo McKern of Rumpole of the Bailey fame through a shredder. She produced photographic evidence that Mrs. Garden didn't use either the wheelchair or the neckbrace in day-to day practice, and got a Bench Order telling the bitch to leave them at home. The rest of it was tedium peppered with liberal doses of pure veddy-English nastiness. There were a couple of street riots over the issue- I'm still not exactly sure about what which side was fighting about. The Press and Popular Media turned me into a sex-changed Punch and Mrs. Garden into a reactionary Judy. What confused me was the tangle of voices aspect to it all. Nobody seemed to want to champion my side, but there was no consensus in favor of Mrs. Garden, either.

          When the Pleadings were over- I admit that I'm not completely up on British Court Procedures, so bear with me- the Trial Proper (I think) was set to begin. As the barristers were about to start, the Sergeant-at-Arms piped out, "His Lordship, Justice Fewschett will speak."

          Justice Fewschett, a rather withered looking man of at least sixty in the required bag-wig and red gown. He cleared his throat. "Despite the manifold political ramifications of this matter, WE are only concerned with Justice and The Law here. Or, so it should be. In practice, there is more of the Horse-trader and Power-broker in these matters than Lady Justice, or Handmaid Law. For the sake of the restored Order and tranquility of the Realm, We are dismissing both these cases. To put it bluntly, We do not believe that there is a British Jury that could agree to convict Mrs. Delores Garden, so further proceedings would be a waste of the Court's time and the Taxpayer's money. As to the matter of Mrs. Elaine Harris, I would rather be boiled alive than sentence a mother to gaol for attacking the kidnapper of her child, whatever the origins of that mother's child-bearing ability, while letting the wanton kidnapper go free."

          I take back all the snarky things I thought about the wigs.

          Mrs. Garden sprang up and started to cuss out the judge. The judge banged his gavel. "Mrs. Garden! We do order you to remain at least 100 meters away from Mrs. Harris at all times, and a kilometer away from either of her children, should they ever return to England. And if you ignore this command, while We doubt that a British Jury could agree to convict you, it is completely within Our power to incarcerate you indefinitely for Contempt!"

          Y'know, those red robes really are rather snappy!

          Mrs. Garden hissed "You wouldn't Dare!"

          Fewschett leaned forward with a hawkish glare. "Many strange things have happened in the British legal system, Mrs. Garden. In the 19th century, there was the Jennings case in Chancery court, which lasted for over a century! From 1854 to 1861, a man named Peter Allen Jones was kept in Contempt, because he wouldn't apologize to a judge! He was only released when he apologized to the magistrate's successor. Up until now, I've always thought the Prisoner of Dunway Gaol was a travesty of Justice. Now, We see how it can be a very tempting thing to a magistrate. Sergeant! Take this woman to the holding cell. Starting tomorrow, let's see if she'll up to breaking Jones' record!"

          When I get back home, I've got to send this judge a tin of good American coffee. He can't be happy with the wimpy stuff they get over here.
#####

          Once the legal nonsense was over, my tour of the FemCorps-GB facilities resumed. Interestingly, there actually were a few new recruits at the London branch, and the people screening the applicants were very happy with the upswing in the quality of the applicants. But still, the place echoed with lack of proper use. The Media camp outside didn't help any, either.

          The FemCorps branch in Birmingham was, if anything, worse. It was more like a morgue than a hospital.

          I sat down and had a rather gloomy talk with the locals about the prospects for the branch. Someone tried to make light of it, calling it FemCorps-GB's Finest Hour. But Finest Hours are always best enjoyed in recollection. Living them tends to suck badly.

          I was about to round up Constable Kaye and leave, when one of the 'matrons' came up to me. "There's somebody here who would like to talk to you."

          I went into a sitting room. Standing nervously by the window in a parka- I think they call them anoraks over here- was a teenaged boy. He turned around. I could tell that he was on edge, so I smiled and gestured to a chair, close enough for a degree of intimacy, but far enough that he wouldn't spook. I do this a lot, gentling nervous post-adolescents, as part of my function as a faculty wife. Oh, the things they don't tell you in preparation! I had a hard time guessing his age- he could have been anything from 15 to 18, at a stage in life where a few months can mean a great difference. He was short, about 5'7", and slight. He had an oval face, with delicate features, large sad blue eyes and the peaches-and-cream complexion that the rest of the world can only envy the English. His flyaway blonde hair was hidden under a cap with a crest of some kind on it, and under the anorak, he wore what I think was a private school (no, they call them Public School, if I remember correctly) uniform, with a suit jacket, school tie, and a scarf of the same colors as the tie.

          I smiled at him and said, "Thank goodness you came when you did! I've been in England for weeks, and I've yet to have a proper English After-noon Tea! Every time I sit down for some, they always insist on handing me what passes for coffee, because I'm an American." The matron took the hint and wheeled in the tea cart.

          One thing about England- the only people who actually get to the point without going around Cape Horn to get there are the people in TV studioes. For everybody else, there's a 20 minute minimum for small talk. Double that if you're dealing with a teenage boy who's acting like he's in the Lion's Den.

          We spoke about nothing in particular, about this, that, about the problems that FemCorps was having, about the facts- as opposed to the press- of the matter regarding Mrs. Garden, and so on. Finally, he mustered up the courage to ask the Big Question. In that lovely cultured 'public school' accent, he asked, "Mum, exactly what did you get out of joining FemCorps?"

          I sipped the Earl Gray tea and let it seem like I was mulling over my answer for a few minutes. Actually, I've been asked this so many times, I've got a rather nice speech worked out in answer. Heck, I'd print it out on cards, but that would seem flip. "Well, dear, it's not a matter of what you get out of joining- it's a matter of what you give back. A while back, at a FemCorps seminar, I met a woman from Wichita- that's in Kansas, dear, where they started the 'Wizard of Oz' in, yes- who told me something that her step-son told her. It stuck with me, and I think it covers most of the territory. He said 'We NEED women in our everyday lives. Wives, not just to give us sex, but to make us feel good after a bad day. We need moms to hug us; grandmas to be proud of us no matter how stupid we are; Aunts who send Saving's Bonds for our birthday.*'. Now, dear- by the way, what's your name?"

          "Arthur, mum."

           "Now, Arthur, do you have any women in your family?"

          "Yes'm. Mother, an Aunt, a Grandmother and a Grand-Aunt."

          "Any sisters, or female cousins?"

          "No, mum."

          "Stop 'Mum'-ing me. It makes me feel like a flower-box. Now, Arthur, have you noticed a change in the general atmosphere around your house? Sort of a strained feeling, like there's a tension that isn't being relaxed?"

          "Yes'm- I mean, Yes, I have. It's sort of like Mum and Gran' and Aunt Charlotte and Dewey-"

          "Dewey?"

          "Mrs. Dewey, the housekeeper."

          "Oh. Go on."

          "It's like they're working too hard, and not having any help. They look at us men like we're getting on their nerves, and we aren't really doing anything."  

          "That's because in their eyes, you're not, and you can't. You see, the primary difference between Men and Women, is that Men want to get things done, while Women want to get things done just right. Like in the Blondie comic strips, where Dagwood is herniating himself lifting a couch, while Blondie is standing there trying to decide exactly where it's supposed to go. She wants it to in exactly the right place, while He just wants to put the bloody thing down and get it over with."

          So, while your Mum and Gran' and Mrs. Dewey are trying to get things exactly the way they're supposed to, you men come along and hurry things along, getting them all muddled up. And since there aren't any younger women that they can trust to see that things get done right in the future, they have to work four times as hard to try and get things right while they can."

          And these little things are very important, Arthur. Men never really understand that. They can be busy, going off and doing big 'important' things, because seeing to it that things on the home front are livable is supposed to be 'women's work'. As James Brown used to sing- James Brown? He's an old time R&B singer, dear- as James Brown used to sing, 'It's a Man's world, but it wouldn't mean nothing, without a woman on Earth'. Women give Men meaning, Arthur. Why bother going out and slaying dragons, if you have no princess to bring the trophy back to? What mirror can a man see a hero in, except in the eyes of a woman?"

          Beyond the simple necessity of breeding, that is the true work of Fem Corps. To give all these furiously competing men something to compete for."

          I saw something in his eyes that told me that he'd gotten something out of my info-dump. I just hope what he caught was what I was pitching. All too often, I hear people saying that I told them things that never came out of my mouth.

          We finished our tea, talked of the obligatory trivialities (almost two hours, he tried to explain it to me, and I still don't understand cricket!), and snuck him out the side door, while the Press wasn't watching.

          After he'd left, one of the matrons told me that his school uniform was that of Rugby, one of the premier 'Public Schools' in Britain, and the setting of Tom Brown's School Days. They were very impressed, and there was some speculation that if a boy from Rugby were to join FemCorps, that the Corps' cachet would be greatly enhanced. There is so much I just don't get about this place.
#####

          The rest of my trip through England went along the same lines- empty facilities, hostile Press, and TV talk-shows that were more like the Spanish Inquisition (and nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition! Sorry, had to) The flight through Orly was like a passage out of bondage. When I met Gary at the airport, I almost had to be restrained from doing him right there, in front of the kids.

          I expected the French to be a harder sell than the English. As it turned out, the French seemed to belong to two schools of thought- they either thought that I was the Devil Incarnate, or they thought I was the Second Coming of Venus. I have never been so consistently propositioned in my life. I either had to pry my hand out of theirs, or I had to hit them with a board to get them to admit that I existed. The French women, unlike their English sisters, were only too happy to get some of the pressure taken off them. And Vibby and Buggit were the biggest photo ops since Brigit Bardot.

          Amsterdam was easily the sanest place that I've ever been in. In general, Dutch thought it a good idea. They showed no great enthusiasm for it, but given the living proof of my two little darlings, there were several commitments in the first few days.

          The Germans? Let's just say that the Germans were weird, and leave it at that.

          If you were curious, the choice of countries was deliberately skewed at those countries with a strong Protestant element. This is because of the Vatican's deliberate and subversive silence on the entire issue of FemCorps. For decades, the Roman Catholic church had been strong because it had emphasized fertility. But it couldn't acknowledge FemCorps without taking back a lot of Papal Bulls about 'leaving nature alone'. So now, the Protestant countries that embraced FemCorps would outbreed the Catholic countries that rejected it. Give it ten years, and I expect we'll see a reversal of opinion. Then we'll talk about FemminaCorpe-Italia, or FammeCorpa-Espana.

          All in all, our experience on the Continent was far more pleasant than on the Sceptred Isle, and we even got in that sight-seeing that we were promised.
#####

          Four years later, I found myself in Great Britain again, this time at the personal invitation of Her Grace, Lady Guinivere, the Duchess of Caerleon. I'd heard of Lady Gwen- who hadn't? The British Press was touting her as the great beauty of the day, and the fairest bloom of the English Rose since the much mourned Diana Spencer.

          Lady Gwen was The Thing that FemCorps-GB had been waiting for. She was beautiful, she was gracious, she was witty, and she could play the British Press like Clapton could play a guitar. She had Class in Spades, but she also had the Common Touch in Spades. She had breeding, brains, taste and tact. She had been the most courted woman in England for two years, until she accepted the proposal of His Grace, Lord Tristan Pelhasse, Duke of Caerleon, a man twenty years her senior. Her forthcoming marriage was the biggest thing to happen since Prince William married whatsername.

          She almost single-handedly saved FemCorps-GB. She completely blew away all the snarky jokes and stereotypes of FemCorps transformees that the Brit media had built up. She gave the other transformees someone to look up to, and use as a role model. Not only were English transformees viewed in a better light, they responded to this new respect in the best way. More recruits came forward, and requests for introductions to FemCorps members, born and made women, were piling up. The nasty, sneering stereotypical transformees that had been a staple of BritComs disappeared, and more gracious, sympathetic characters were introduced. One actor who had been playing a transformee underwent the process, and came back as the same character, with a new attitude. And it was due mostly to Lady Gwen.

          Which is all very nice, but what did this bigtime Brit aristocrat want with me, the woman who barely kept from being tarred and feathered the last time she was through?

          The butler, or Major Domo, or whatever they call the guy with the boiled shirt in charge keeping track of things, informed me that her ladyship was waiting for me in the west parlor. I made sure that Vibby and Bugsy (she no longer answered to Buggit, and Vibby only answered to her baby name under very loud sufferance) were presentable, and went to present them.

          We went into a sitting room. Standing serenely by the window was a lovely young woman. She turned around. She could tell that I was on edge, so she smiled and gestured to a chair, close enough for a degree of intimacy, but far enough that I wouldn't spook. She probably did this a lot, gentling nervous peasants, as part of her function as a member of the nobility. Oh, the things they don't tell you in etiquette manuals! I had a hard time guessing her age- she could have been anything from 18 to 25, at a stage in life where a few years don't mean a great difference. She was petite, about 5'2", and slender, with the kind of curves that refined young English ladies simply aren't supposed to have. She had an oval face, with delicate, refined features, large dancing blue eyes and the peaches-and-cream complexion that the rest of the world can only envy the English. Her silky blonde hair was done up in a deceptively simple style, one that made the most of her cheekbones. She wore a chic little outfit in pale blue, with a full skirt and a tight-fitting jacket. Her jewelry was simple, elegant and worth more than our family car.

          She smiled at us and said, "Thank goodness you came when you did! I've yet to have a simple Afternoon Tea! Every time I sit down for some, they always insist on going all out, because I'm going to be a duchess." The maid took the hint and wheeled in the tea cart.

          Bugsy clutched her plush unicorn to her chest and looked up at Lady Gwen. "Are you a real princess?", she squeaked.

          Lady Gwen smiled indulgently, said no, and explained in the simplest terms her changing status. Bugsy wasn't buying any of it. You can't fool a five-year-old; a princess is a princess is a princess.

          Vibby was getting crumbs from the tea biscuits all over her. She shared them with both Bugsy and Lady Gwen, as she tried to muscle in on Bugsy's conversation, as was her right as a big sister. Lady Gwen talked at length with them about vital topics such as crowns, knights, dragons, and unicorns, which she would know all about, being a princess and all.

          From unicorns, the discussion ran naturally to horses. Not having an unicorn handy, Lady Gwen decided that the girls might like to look at the place's stables, where there just might happen to be a horse or two lurking about. She rang for the Major Domo, and instructed him to show Vibby and Bugsy the stables. The last I saw of him, he was being dragged along by the irresistible might of two little girls.

          Watching them leave, Lady Gwen laughed, and sat down. She took a long look at me. "You have absolutely no idea why you're here, do you?"

          Why argue? "Nope. Not a clue."

          "Ah, well, I rather fantasized that you'd been intently watching my career from far off, exotic Philadelphia... But then, how could you? I never did tell you my whole name. You see, Mrs. Harris, when I left school at Rugby to visit you in Birmingham-"

          Rugby. Birmingham. I snapped my fingers. "The Birmingham facility. You were the blonde kid in that ugly parka- I mean, anorak. Did you get back to Rugby without the reporters getting a hold of you?"

          Gwen beamed at being remembered. "Yes, I did, as a matter of fact! And I am proud to say that I finished seventeenth in my class, with honors in Economics. My father was all set to send me down to Oxford, when I sprang this on him. He almost dropped of apoplexy!" She giggled at the memory of what must have been an extremely harsh incident at the time. "My father was going to disown me, and my older brothers were all set to beat me into the ground, when Mother and the other women in the family put their collective foot down. Gran' and Gran' Auntie Maude have had the men in the family well and properly whupped from Day One on this. Pity they didn't have anywhere near as much luck with the Media."

          "But I thought that you were the dimpled darling of the Press! I can't pick up a newspaper or magazine without reading how wonderful you are!"

          She sighed. "Yes. Now. But when it first came out that the youngest son of the Vicount of Haslettford had joined FemCorps, I became their favorite punching bag. Every vile faggot, pervert and drag queen joke they had got trotted out of the bag and hung around my neck." Her large blue eyes went sad with that memory.

          "And then?"

          "And then, I filled out. It's hard to completely dismiss someone you want to get in bed with rather badly." Her eyes now twinkled and a smug look of triumph wreathed her face. "And then I had a rather well publicized series of dates with Freddy Huxley, the Earl of Linford's heir. Freddy was two forms ahead of me at Rugger, and rather sweet."

          "Yes, I can imagine this has been rather hard on the British Public School system."

          She raised her eyebrows. "How So?"

          "Well, I imagine that it must be very hard on an upperclassman to properly bully a slightly effeminate underclassman, who might turn around and become a great society beauty a few years down the line. After all, how do you terrorize someone you might be asking for a date some day? It undermines the entire basis of the system. Young scholars might actually start treating each other civilly."

          Gwen leaned her head back and roared. "By God! There's a wrinkle Thomas Hughes never thought of! Do you mind if I use that at the next party I'm at?"

          "It's yours. But, if it's not pushing things, exactly why have you called for me? It's a lovely thought, but a letter would have been so much simpler."

          "Ah, yes." Gwen stood, and reached out her hand. I stood and took it, sensing that something important was about to happen. "Mrs. Harris- Elaine, would you do me the honor of being my Matron of Honor at my wedding?"

          My jaw hit the floor. I know this, because later I had to scrape floor wax off my chin. Matron of Honor, at the society wedding of the year? "But the competition for any position on your entourage must be absolutely cutthroat! Why Me?"

          "Well, first of all, the competition is cutthroat, and I don't want any cutthroats at my back when I'm marching down the aisle!"

          Secondly, the pickings for any female position are pretty slim these days. The rest of my bridesmaids are all going to be FemCorps, too. Making a Virtue of a Neccessity, Mr. Percivale-Lott is picking out the very cream of the current crop of FemCorps' unbetrothed members- pending my approval, of course. The three I've accepted so far are actually quite lovely girls, and they'll be even better when they get a little polish on them. FemCorps-UK has hired the services of an Etiquette Mistress who could make the forward line of Manchester United mind their manners, so I'm not worried."

          Third- well, we Brits treated you pretty shabbily the last time you were here. You deserved better, especially after all you did for us."

          All I did? "Well, the scars are healing..."<wheeeze!>

          "Fourth- I can't imagine a better woman to stand by me at this moment. Bugger the political message! You represent everything I want to stand for! Besides, it will say something to the Harpies about FemCorps solidarity!"

          And lastly-" She reached out and held my hand. "I owe everything I have right now to you. You not only gave me the courage to break off of the track that my father had planned for me, but you showed me that living a life as a woman could be just as noble and meaningful as any life as a soldier. You showed me the path, and I will always be grateful." She reached around me and gave me a heartfelt hug.

          Jeez, the things you do without realizing it!
#####

          The Wedding was a superbly orchestrated circus. Vibby strewed the bridal aisle of Westminster Cathedral with rose petals, as Bugsy sat steaming next to her father on a pew, 'cause Vibby got to do everything, just 'cause she's seven, and Bugsy's only five! <pout!>

          Lady Gwen came gliding down the aisle on her father's arm, a vision in white lace. I came a few steps behind her, followed by the lovely FemCorps debutantes; we were wearing gowns that, in blatant violation of sacred wedding tradition, were not only coordinated, but actually tasteful and becoming as well!

          The ancient place of worship was packed, and it is a tribute to the advances in technology that the cameras recording the event neither displaced too many Nobs, nor disturbed the gothic ambience of the place.

          Gwen arrived, one hesitating step at a time, at the altar, where Tristan was waiting for her, along with his best man. Tristan was tall, reasonably good looking- if you go for the Lord Peter Whimsey type- and quite possibly the most envied man in Britain at that moment, maybe Europe.

          The time-honored vows were offered and taken; when the token question of 'If there is anyone who has just cause that these two might not be joined in Holy Matrimony' was offered, there was a long, tense pause. Between the very vocal women who still hated FemCorps- and Gwen's- guts, and Gwen's popularity with the male populace, there was a very real possibility that somebody might raise their voice and a stink.

          The long pause lapsed, and the ceremony continued. The only aspect of the ritual that was glossed over was the throwing of the bridal bouquet. While half the unmarried women there were FemCorps, the other half were born women with no connection to FemCorps, or reason to love transformees. Normally, the bouquet toss is only amusing; this time is could be bloody- literally. Tristan and Gwen 'escaped' under the arches of steel, and several months of planning were almost over.
#####

          The reception was held at the Strand hotel, and it was only slightly less grand than the wedding itself. Give the Brits their due- they know how to do a wedding right!

          Bugsy was a little too enthusiastic with a piece of the wedding cake, (a photo of it showed up in the papers the next day. I'm keeping copies to blackmail her with when she becomes a teenager) and I had to take her into the ladies' room to clean her up a bit. Once she was presentable again, I sent her back into the party, to wreck a little vengeance for burning the White House back in 1813.

          "You're not what I was expecting." The voice surprised me from behind. I turned around to face a stoutish well-turned out woman in her mid-fifties.

          "Have we been introduced?" The best way to get a well-bred Brit off your back is to point out that you haven't been introduced. It puts all the onus on them, and you can always refuse the introduction.

          "Yes, as a matter of fact, we have." Shit. "I am Lady Barbara Lundy, Tristan's aunt- his mother was my eldest sister. We were introduced at the reception line." A reception line introduction- a shoddy excuse for being able to get in my face, if ever there was one.

          I braced myself for the worst. "So, what were you expecting?"

          "To be honest, I'm not really sure. The way that Gwen speaks of you, I was half expecting you to fly in on glowing wings of celestial glory."

          I gave a rueful laugh. "Ah, well, Gwen does seem to put me up on a pedestal, doesn't she? It's a tad embarrassing."

          She scrutinized me closely. "Maybe. But it's all too understandable. You inspired Arthur to become Guinivere- oh, by the way, the Arthurian reference was strictly intentional."

          "You knew Gwen back when she was a boy?"

          "Oh, yes- our families have been going to Rugby since Dr. Arnold's day. Arthur was a third son and knew it down to the marrow of his bones. He knew that he was the one that never counted, and never could, no matter what he did. But you showed him a way that he could not only count, but triumph! And if she's turned you into something of a little plaster saint inside her mind, well, that's just as understandable. She developed this wonderful image of what a Great Lady should be like. She couldn't put her own face on it, so she put yours. It isn't really you, but it isn't that far off the mark either."

          "I beg your pardon? You have obviously never seen me first thing in the morning during my period!"

          "That's not what I'm talking about. In Evil under the Sun, Agatha Christie has Hercule Poirot tell a woman, 'In order to count, a woman must either have goodness, or brains'. When I first read that, I thought it was rot. Now, I'm not so sure. Women who pride themselves on their brains have a nasty tendency toward being selfish. I know that I do. But, recently, I've become so disgusted with the quality of women you meet among the so-called 'quality'. Grab, grab, grab! Me, Me, Me! More, more, more! Makes me sick! You know, the only woman that I know that doesn't give me a headache to talk to is Sylvia Arden, who grew up in Council Housing, and has the manners of a costermonger! But she has a good heart- no polish, but she genuinely cares about the people around her. She is a genuinely good woman, and I thank _God_ for every faux pas she makes!"

          You're like that-" I started to object. "No, I mean it." The woman was obviously working something through, and needed me to do it. So, I kept still. "You are a truly good person. Mind you, you're not the candy-floss kind of goodness you see at Pantomimes, all sugar and fluff and no backbone. You see things that need to be done, and you set about to do them. Four years ago, you came to a foreign country where you weren't wanted, and put yourself on display for idiots to shout at, because you saw the need. A total stranger grabs your child on the street- do you scream and vapor? No! You go tearing off after her, and get her back, despite the fact that it lands you not only in hospital, but in court. You are insulted and abused, but you keep your promise to FemCorps-GB. Why? Because you gave your word!"

          "I wish the rest of your country agreed with you. The last time I checked, they were still telling nasty stories about me!"

          "Of course they were. You impressed them. If you hadn't, they would have forgotten about you long ago. More than that, cocking snooks at you is a safe way of insulting Gwen, without the risk of getting their faces bashed in by her more- primal- admirers. But there's more to this than cheap comedy. Are you aware that Gwen is pregnant?"

          Her revelation didn't phase me at all. "A quiet private ceremony, and then a more lavish public ceremony a few months later? Lady Barbara, that isn't a scandal- it's practically a FemCorps tradition!" Lady Barbara lit up the way that any Brit does when tradition is mentioned. It really didn't surprise me- when we arrived, it was very clear that Gwen had already been accepted as the Lady of the Manor at His Grace, the Duke's ancestral pile.

          "When the girl is born, I am slated to be one of her Godparents. I want you to share that responsibility. Gwen wants it too. Mrs. Harris, will you be little Gloriana's Godmother?"

          This was getting progressively weirder and weirder. Godmother? "Gloriana? You've already named  the kid? Of course, you don't have to worry about what sex she's going to be, right? But I live in Philadelphia! I can't afford to come over here on a regular basis! The cost in peanuts alone would break me!"

          "I think we can talk FemCorps into footing the bill. Having met you, I believe that your input will be crucial to little Gloriana's upbringing. Why? Because, I know brains, how to get from Point A to Point B. Gwen? She knows Grace, that wonderful ability to make people want to be better than they are. But neither of us have your reflexive ability to commit ourselves to something that is unpleasant, but necessary. Once, on the telly, you said, 'We need men who are willing to GIVE, and keep giving, and give without thinking of it as giving.' That is your genius. That is what Gloriana is going to  need to learn. And she had best learn it straight from the source- You."

          I was more than a little blown away. "And why exactly is this girl, who at this very moment, is little more than a zygote, so important?"

          "Why Mrs. Harris! I thought that you had brains as well as goodness! Her mother is one of the most sought-after women of this age, and she will grow up in a media fishbowl. How she grows up will materially affect British society, for the better or the worse. Let's make it for the better, shall we? Besides, I happen to know that King William's wife is five months pregnant- with a boy."

          "The kid has barely undergone mitosis, and you're already arranging a Royal Marriage?!"

          "Merely pondering the possibilities."

          "Okay, Barb, I'll take the job, but only to keep you from flying off into Never-never Land. By the way? Those trans-Atlantic flights? First Class, both ways, for me, my husband and the kids, _And_ a steady suite- all expenses paid- at the Strand, or it's no deal!"

          She agreed, and we rejoined the reception.
#####

          The next time that I met Gavin Percivale-Lott was just after Gloriana's baptism, where I accepted my ball and chain with as much panache as I could muster. I met him at the bustling London headquarters. The change from the near deserted site was startling.

          "Mister Percivale-Lott, the young man at the front desk at the Strand said that you wanted to speak to me before I caught the next SST back to the States."

          "Yes, Mrs. Harris, yes. By the way, you do realize that those Concorde tickets are expensive, don't you?"

          "Oh, I certainly _do_! That's why FemCorps is paying for them. Being a Godmother to potential Royalty is a Job, and those tickets are one of the perks."

          "That's _one_ interpretation. Now, while we agree that those tickets are necessary to carry out your duties as Godmother, they are, as we both agree, very expensive. It could be argued that the expense of _First Class_ tickets obligates you to us again."

          "Oh? In what way?"

          "Well, FemCorps has had little to no success in expanding into Japan-"

          "No."

          "But-"

          "No. My plate is _Full_, Percivale-Lott! I have a husband with a tricky career to help along-"

          "Which is no doubt immensely helped along by having very highly placed friends in International circles. Think of what having the Duke and Duchess of Caerleon over to one of your school's functions would do for his career!"

          "And two young daughters to care for, not to mention the third which is in it's first trimester-"

          "Congratulations! I'll-"

          "Stuff it. And now a God-daughter, who will be the dimpled darling of an entire _Nation_, to show the basics of Right and Wrong. My plate was full- now, it's overflowing! I'm smart enough to know my own limitations, and this is it! Get someone else!" And before he could pull anything more from his tweedy sleeve, I was gone.
#####

          Percivale-Lott sighed as the door shut. He didn't really blame her. She was right- she did have more to do than was really fair. But necessity rarely thinks in terms of fairness. He punched in the phone number of FemCorps-International. "Hullo, Morgan? This is Percivale-Lott. I just pitched the FemCorps-Japan idea at Elaine Harris, and she didn't swing at it. She quite decidedly did not swing at it. No, I don't think that arm-twisting will help. I mean, she came through with flying colors in France, Holland and Germany, and she is a material influence on Gwen Pelhasse. Throwing her into that mess in Japan wouldn't be a straw onto the camel's back, it would be a steel girder! A replacement? Well, there is this housewife in Wichita, a Melinda Zaleski. She scored very high on the same qualities that we found so useful in Elaine Harris. Why don't you send this around to the Kansas Branch, and see how she turns over?"
FINIS