The three spymasters sat innocuously at their dining table in the restaurant. The place was quiet,
but with a lively emugh crowd to distract anyone from snatching any details from their conversa-
tion. Ms. Fenstone was in the centre, an ageing black face and overlong fingernails, and just about
the most well connected power broker in these United States. She was eating steak, rare. She liked
the slight tinge of blood in her mouth after each bite, it felt like the only natural thing in her diet,
which otherwise composed of nutrient shakes and constant pain pills.
Flanking her were Director Simon Williams, and General Secretary Martin Moore. Both important
men, but neither as important as Ms. Fenstone. Their conversation had been scant, but the content
had been worth billions on the information black market. They spoke of dictators rising and falling,
the bankroll of a certain terrorist cell, and their plans for research and development. Moore and Wil-
liams hadn’t brought much to the table other than their respective agency’s pocketbooks, but Fen-
stone had brought something more brilliant than anything they’d ever seen.
“What if I told you,” she spoke, in between bites of steak, “that I can not only deal with any looming
threats, but I can turn them toward your advantage, within say, a two week turnaround.”
The suggestion was so glibly put, but she meant it, and had the means to back it up. It was just a
matter of either of the two becoming interested. Naturally, they both raised an eyebrow. “Collagen
nanopiping, it’s the future of skincare products from a consumer perspective, it brightens the skin
and literally rewrites the genetics of the cells to become healthier and more radiant. But if I wanted
to sell cosmetics then I would have gone into the family business. No, I want to sell solutions, solu-
tions to this nation’s problems.”
Williams and Moore were aghast, but they didn’t yet follow.
“The plan goes a little like this. Let’s say that there’s some half baked liberal crackpot stirring up
anti American sentiment in Europe. A british comedian or poet or intellectual, starts turning the
public against US foreign policy. This is a man who needs to be dealt with. I send one of my friends,
my dangerous friends, over to whichever piss stained hovel our problem is sleeping in, and he
drops a couple of millilitres onto the target’s forehead. Within moments, she’s rewritten, and ready
to tow the party line. 100% satisfaction guaranteed. They’ll even serve willingly once the material
has permeated all the way to the brain stem.”
She continued eating, but the gentlemen were confused.
“Sorry,” Williams stuttered, “but did you say female?”
“I did,” she shrugged. “The substance rewrites the chromosomes of the target to XX, female. We
don’t know why, but we don’t really care if it serves our purposes. The target disappears and what’s
left behind is our very own little subservient slut. I’m sure you gentlemen can get down with that?”
They eyed each other nervously.
“But you can probably guess I’m not short changing you here. We’ll have a demonstration now.”
As if by magic, a waiter appeared, carrying a mobile phone on a silver platter, it was laid down in
front of Ms. Fenstone, and then activated. She spoke into the receiver with a dull and empty accent.
The signal reverberated through three different officers before gaining clearance by a top scientist.
The first field test of their lives’ work. The target, Donald Smythe, British journalist and green energy
campaigner, who had just began a program of anti-American vitriol in his newspaper. He never
even felt the drop in his ear while he slept