Deniability
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

The Oval Office seemed somehow smaller than she imagined. The curved corner-less walls gave it a surprisingly warm feel – it was after all, the shape of a womb. The color was apricot – warm and sweet. The trim was matt white – clean and tidy. There was a lounge area that looked softer than soft. But at the windows was the business end – the empty desk.

They remained standing as the President entered. He took his seat and did not invite them to sit, so they remained standing.

“An hour ago I told the President of China that we had nothing to do with this feminizing epidemic,” he began, clearly irate. “Medical advisers told me that it could be natural phytoestrogens, whatever those might be. I just need to know that we had nothing to do with this. I have already gone out there and denied this because I assumed that I would have been briefed beforehand if we were even contemplating this. So, tell me. Tell me what I need to hear.”

General Marchant cleared his throat. He was not a man to mince words normally, but now the mincer was warming up.

“If you want deniability then the option is clearly to go with the advice from the medical experts, Mr. President…”

“Don’t give me that shit. I may have got elected on the “Honest Politics” by-line, but if I have to lie I will lie, so long as I know what the truth is!”

“Which is why I have brought in Colonel Margot Hallet, Sir,” said the general, moving to one side to reveal the colonel.

The President of the United States was an elderly man, and a man of impeccable character, but he had been an admirer of women all his life. This was a woman worthy of admiration. Even if his loins were too old to register anything, his breath seemed momentarily suspended. The US Army Class A dress uniform is not renowned for showing off the female figure but this was perfectly cut to show the bust and the waist, and the legs that he could see without obviously craning to look beyond his desk, looked perfect in black hose. But it was her face and hair that shone. Her face was soft and round unlike all the female soldiers that were at his service, and her blonde hair was full and styled into a glossy French roll that just seemed to cry out to be undone so that it could fall about her shoulders. It was hair of the kind he loved to bury his face in.

“Colonel,” he said, with that slight crack in his voice that was his trait. “What is your role in this?”

“Well, Sir,” her voice was equally as alluring so the President could not help but smile, as a man does in the presence of a pretty woman. “I have been involved in the assessment of options to reduce the trend in China towards … well, belligerency. It is something that we have been studying for some time. Some of our team have suggested that it might be linked to the lack of marriageable women in China. If I could explain …?”

“Please do,” he said. He might have been less patient with a man. He stood. “Let’s sit in more comfort.” He wanted to see her legs, as much of them as possible.

She did not disappoint. She was wearing heels that were hardly regulation but made her look damned good from behind. In another time and another place he may have found a way to feel that butt, but those days were long gone. He could still look, if not ogle.

Once seated with legs crossed to best effect on the Commander in Chief, she continued: “China, like some other Asian countries, has historically and traditionally regarded female children as a disappointment, if not a burden. Selectivity has resulted in what is called a sex ratio imbalance. There have been many more boys than girls born for more than the last 20 years. The predicted effect has become apparent most recently. Competition for available women has resulted in anger and violence at the lowest levels of society. Chinese leadership has been concerned for some time.”

“We have noticed it creep into international policy too, Sir,” interrupted General Marchant. We call it “Virile Nationalism”; a reflection of the increasing number of angry young men coming into power.”

“So, what have we been doing about it, Colonel?” The President preferred to hear her voice.

“Well, Sir, we have been looking at ways to increase the number of available women and decrease the number of what the general calls those ‘angry young men’, by whatever means. It is bloodless strategic warfare. Surely that is the best kind of war, Mr. President?”

“So you are telling me that we have committed an act of war against the People’s Republic of China?” Rather than look at her as she sat beside him he looked across at General Marchant and the Secretary of State.

“Not deliberately, Sir,” said General Marchant. “You see, it was more a battlefield trial which got out of hand. It was just that given the results with trials here at home, and the consequences for some of our personnel … it just seemed that an isolated experiment on the enemy was the best way to test it at the next level.”

The President’s jaw dropped open, as it did on occasions. He said: “Do you mean to tell me that we have developed a weapon that turned men into women and that we have deployed it into a sovereign nation without their knowledge.”

“Well, it can’t turn men into women,” corrected the Colonel, toying with the hem of her skirt in an ultimately successful effort to quell the President’s rising exasperation. “They are still men but feminized to the extent that you would not know it. Some surgery is required to make them functioning wives, but they can never be mothers. But we are already seeing positive effects at the xero point of deployment. The long term effect will be to alleviate the domestic instability, as the Government of China will soon realize.”

“You say it is out of control – it is contagious?” The President’s question was a good one. She warmed to him and he felt it. He had chosen to sit beside her so that he would not stare at her, but his eyes met his and she seemed so close that he needed to restrain himself from reaching out to stroke her chin. Those blue eyes seemed to pull on him like gravity.

“No Sir,” she seemed to whisper just to him. “That would be too dangerous. There is a single vector. She had a limited number of targets in a small town. It was a way to keep control. But unfortunately she has taken her job too seriously. She has seen the good that she can do and she has been passing on the mutation – the non-infectious mutation - to as many as possible. Outside directives she moved to Shanghai and then Xiamen, and for the last few months she has been active in Beijing. Very active.”

“How is it passed on,” asked the President.

“Sexual connection,” she breathed. It sounded to him like a suggestion. His long moribund cock seemed to stir in his shorts. It was beyond him and had been for years, but now he craved it. He craved her. It seemed as if only the two of them were in the room, sitting on that sofa in that egg shaped room.

“The Chinese President was not too forthcoming, but what are the effects of this … weapon?” The Secretary of State spoke, reminding them the President that they were not alone.

Colonel Hallet turned her head so that the President could admire the perfect profile. The hair shone like polished gold and a small diamond stud sparkled in an exquisite earlobe. She addressed her questioner: “It attacks the endocrine system. The body responds to androgens as if they were estrogens. The flesh and hair become soft. Body hair falls away. A feminine body shape develops within weeks. Then the body starts to emit strong female pheromones. And then there are some changes to the mind of the subject.”

“Really?” The President wanted to have her talk to him, and him alone.

“Well Mr. President, regardless of the prior sexual orientation of the subject they become wholly attracted to men. This was our objective. We did not want to break down the Chinese military by feminizing the population. We wanted to fix Chinese society by providing more women partners and eliminating, or at least ameliorating, the sex ratio imbalance. Of course, women can still serve in the armed forces, as you can see.”

It was a serious meeting, but with those words referring to herself she allowed a smile. It was like drawing the curtains to a sunny day. The President’s ancient heart nearly shot out of his chest.

“So these new “women” are attracted to men, and men are attracted to them?”

“It can be a bit of a problem,” she said shyly. “I should know.”

“You?”

“Well, I have not always been Margot,” she said. “There were no subjects available but I believed in what we were doing so much that I volunteered. I was Mark Hallet then, but I can’t deny it – I am much happier as Margot.”

The End

© Maryanne Peters 2021