Leaving Ashwood

by Cynthia Kraack

  “Mr. Paul asked what the hell is going on,” Bren shared. “Otis says your father-in-law is having a good morning, but worried about what he isn’t being told.”

  “Best to leave telling of the story to David,” I answered. “Paul knows when I am skipping details, but David knows how to work his father.”

  Faith gave me a look that suggested this information was unnecessary at this time. Andrew moved ahead, anxious to be at Phoebe’s side I suspected. Down the back stairs we flowed, Bren leading at a comfortable pace for all but Milan, whose stiff leg made him trail even farther behind than usual for an elderly desk-bound bureaucrat. Through the sunny lower level hall we moved. Andrew passed Bren as we entered the underground section and sprinted to the safe room’s entrance. We passed Lao who gave clearance for David, Phoebe, and Noah to move into the residence after Frances completed her assessments.

  In a now familiar scene, Frances crouched next to Phoebe administering a sedative. Andrew knelt, his arms encircling Phoebe. From her stiffened back to locked arms and clenched jaw, she appeared more wire-like than human.

  Noah leaned against a wall, the pallor of his face hinting at serious dis­comfort. Faith rushed to her father for the assurance of a hug. I smiled at him over her head.

  “How bad is it?” I asked Noah. A temporary splint offered minimal protection. “Worse than the soccer injury when you were a teenager?”

  “I didn’t pass out this time.” His voice, a more polished version of David’s, was reedy. “Could still do that at any moment. I think it’s broken. Dr. Frances wants a scan to be sure.”

  “Want the wheelchair brought down from Grandpa’s room?”

  The fact that he considered the idea told that his pain was deep. “I can’t do steps.”

  “We’ll do a human lift,” Bren offered.

  Phoebe settled against Andrew’s chest, her mind no longer in control of her body’s response. Frances checked Noah, asking broader questions about his time held by Ahlmet as she manipulated the ankle. Fortunately the only physical contact the two had was a savage rugby style kick to Noah’s ankle once in the safe room. She administered a strong painkiller then checked David’s upper shoulder where he absorbed a solid right slice while charging at Ahlmet. The area would be tender for days, but merely bruised.

  Andrew and I supported Phoebe who moved like a zombie, her thin body heavy against ours. Frances, confirming the possibility of broken bones, approved Bren’s human transport for Noah. No one spoke as we traced our way back to the residence.

  Twedt and Raima left after giving Phoebe the news about her leave, but Milan took over the clean conference room for intense negotiations concerning one of the nation’s brightest citizens who sat in Sector 128 of our cherry orchard until a high security containment unit could be brought to Ashwood. The Bureau sent a transport for Hana who, while morally despicable, had done nothing illegal by releasing a citizen held by estate security.

  Ironically, a medical expert in mental manipulation to support Phoebe waited for entrance to Ashwood while the security containment unit team’s credentials were reviewed. Ahlmet’s attacks increased regardless of the precautions placed around him. Access to her suite was limited to a few of us in small time segments.

  Frances was requisitioned from Community Health to spend the majority of her time monitoring Phoebe’s treatment, and treatment of Noah’s ankle. By noon, the daily work of Hartford, Ltd., was back on track including reports on Deshomm’s latest tactics and our counter actions. In the background, Paul began a new phase of his slow fade by asking to remain in bed.

  My mother would have called this multi-tracking of life crazy making. No other words better described how the daily trek of agriculture marched forward regardless of the life or death of its caretakers. No better description could be used when David and I looked out at where Milan maintained one of the nation’s Intellectual Corps in a small cell surrounded by regional guards on the land surrounded by ripening fruit. I negotiated the issues facing my corporation in marathon hologram meetings until late afternoon, muting the sound for updates on Paul’s status every half hour.

  When I went to bed, my mind traveled over convoluted trails of mis­remembered history and current events to hold me in the middle of wakefulness and sleep. David settled between the sheets and began gentle rhythmic snoring before I could find a firm place in my pillow. Counting backward from eight hundred fifty six, a number chosen randomly, I lost track of my place over and over. After an hour, after the third useless mental exploration of what might happen to Phoebe if Ahlmet’s tyranny continued, I pushed back my covers to get up. Hot tea, a boring book, staring at the moon were better alternatives than trying to sleep with an over-stimulated mind churning all that was frightening in my immediate world.

  “Where you going?” David’s hand settled on my ribs, the first snooze of the night slowing his words. “You’re too tired to go wandering around. Nothing you can do for Dad or Phoebe or anything in your busy brain.”

  His palm, almost the size of my hand, rested atop my shirt. When he was away, I missed the comfort of that touch. Tonight I felt more restrained by the weight, the stretch of his fingers around my side. I lay still, hoping he’d fall back to sleep and lose track of my presence. Instead he tugged me closer, moved his hand to rub my back then widened his circle to touch my breast. In the new quiet of my mind I settled as he nuzzled my neck then kissed my ear.

  We made love in a quiet, slow way that comforted without words or groans or serious dissembling of the covers. In the midst of all that disoriented the immediate world, love’s rhythm of chaos and calm brought us back to the simple reality of David and Anne. Letting go of worrying about Milan’s high level negotiations, Ahlmet’s presence, Phoebe’s terror, Paul’s dying for those few minutes gave me permission to rest and be ready for the next day.

  Chapter 22

  I slept for a few hours, the top of my head touching David’s shoulder, until a communicator pulsed me awake. David rolled away, clutching covers in one hand. I eased from the bed. Milan’s voice propelled me from dull to full alert.

  “Sorry to wake you.” Milan sounded more like Paul. “Not a lot has been done for Phoebe, but the Bureau is sending a transport for Ahlmet. He’ll be back in Chicago for his breakfast.”

  “Dr. Twedt said direction via Ahlmet’s implant would eventually destroy Phoebe.” I paced our closet floor, four steps one direction and back. “With him here, Lao has been able to minimize the attacks. The Bureau is willing to put her life at risk.”

  “Annie, keep a cool head. There are big outside players pushing against the Bureau’s decision makers.” A door opened, china clinked on his side of the conversation. “I missed dinner so I’m eating before Ahlmet’s transport arrives. Mine will be close behind.”

  Suddenly I couldn’t face him leaving, knowing I wouldn’t see him again until Paul’s memorial service. The regular breezes of change had become threatening, straight-line winds tugging at the roots of our family.

  “Stay until breakfast and tell me what you’ve learned. You can go back in the estate’s transport.” Unprotected from my daylight filter words came out rushed, emotional. “Please, Milan, just a few hours.”

  “It’s too late to cancel my ride.”

  “Lao told me Sadig is going to be processed by the regional police instead of the FBI. We’ll use the transport sent for you to deliver him to their offices. They’ll be pleased to pull their officers from Ashwood early.”

  “Anne, the transport is being sent for me. It’s not equipped for a prisoner.”

  “We’ve provided a safe haven for you. You can find a way to spend another two or three hours. I’ll be at your door in five minutes.” I pulled clothes from the shelves as I spoke, hung up and carried everything to the bathroom for a quick clean up.

  On my way light shining out from beneath Phoebe�
��s door stopped me. I knocked quietly.

  Frances opened the door, her hair squashed from a pillow, a long jacket covering pajamas. She did a double take at the sight of me wearing daytime clothes at three o’clock in the morning. “Is everything okay, Annie?”

  “I’m on my way to see Milan and noticed lights. How’s Phoebe?”

  She stepped back into the room and gestured for me to follow. Phoebe, curled in the fetal position, lay still in the middle of the bed.

  “I gave her a sedative.” Frances rubbed the back of her own head. “The consultant’s techniques are helpful, but she’s exhausted. The last hour was pretty horrific. I sent Andrew to bed and I’m going to nap here until Amber relieves me.”

  “You’ve got a family, Frances. After I talk with Milan, I’ll stay with Phoebe.”

  A yawn stretched her small face as Frances shook her head. “We’ve got a plan. If anything changes, I’ll call you.” She shooed me toward the door. “By the way, I was in the residence to make an adjustment in Paul’s oxygen when Phoebe called me.”

  Moving through the night security protocols to Milan’s command post, I wondered if the time to move Hartford, Ltd., from Ashwood was approaching. We could move to the metro and spend weekends here. Or, I could move to the metro weekdays and let David manage Ashwood.

  Paul’s slow disintegration opened the emotional suitcase where I kept the memories of what was lost or past. At just after three in the morning, the darkened heavens held more assurance than dawn’s unknown. The heaviness of my soul’s age slowed each step and thought.

  Milan, wearing the loose tie-waist pants and long-sleeve shirt of Ashwood’s field staff, looked like a man who had not slept for many days. A pair of wire-frame glasses balanced across his skull. Grooves on the bridge of his nose suggested these also were borrowed. When I looked into his face, I remembered Milan as an early middle-aged man in a dark blue suit, felt the strong arms of my father-in-law surround me on my wedding day, heard my children laugh in the sweet tones of youth.

  “Come in.” As he stepped back, I looked at his feet expecting his usual well-crafted shoes and saw instead a pair of sandals made this winter for Paul that arrived too late to be needed. “Would you like a cup of tea or glass of water?” Milan asked unaware of painful windows opening and closing in my heart.

  “Nothing, thank you.” I noticed he had tidied the room and packed his briefcase. The dress suit he wore on arrival hung in a garment bag from David’s old travel gear. “Not many have seen you dressed in field worker clothes.” Had the circle moved another quarter turn during the depression either of us could have spent our years dressed in similar uniforms.

  Milan, the executive bureaucrat, didn’t respond to the comment. Despite the hour, this conversation was business.

  “Ahlmet’s transport arrives in approximately twenty minutes. The second one will be fifteen minutes later. I won’t leave until he departs.” He pushed aside his plate and utensils before pulling out chairs at the room’s small table. “Lao is handling Ahlmet’s transfer to the Bureau crew, which leaves us a half hour to talk.” The glasses slipped, settled an inch above his silver eyebrows. He pushed them back to the crown of his head. “That’s time enough for me to update you and talk about what is on your mind.”

  We sat. Milan drained a glass of water. City dwellers treasured the sweet taste of our unpolluted drinking water.

  “This is a story as old as the hunger for power in our country. Ahlmet has become the brain trust of the defense sector. Imagine armies implanted with brain controllers to overrule basic survival instinct. While Phoebe is a possible savior of the world with her work on water, the men with missiles still trump our environ­ment.”

  He held out his glass, looked at water droplets instead of me. “The military industrialists are rich and feel certain they own everything necessary to protect themselves and their people from impediments like continued global warming. They have bunkers the size of mansions in places off the maps of most governments and underground growing sites protected from tornadoes or drought. They will defend the government bankrolling Ahlmet’s work on technology U.S. citizens would protest.”

  Milan’s assessment presented no surprises. I declined most business opportunities with military ties. Our organic vegetables and high quality grains were not raised for officers’ tables. It was a tricky strategy in a more robust world economy where corporations bought up other corporations and few raw goods moved directly from farm to consumer. Dodging the five-hundred-pound gorilla called Deshomm could have serious business implications. Our fields could suffer mysterious overnight rot, our financial accounts become unavailable, key managers might disappear.

  “Do you ever want out, Milan?” He danced with more gorillas and devils in his career than I could imagine. “Don’t you want to have lunch with your wife and enjoy what’s left of life? Navigating through this corruption must get old.”

  “That’s a separate discussion. We need to talk about Phoebe.” One hand tapped the table, short imperfect nails topping fingers wrinkled with age. He could have used anti-aging creams, one of my indulgences. I told myself I needed to stay more youthful as Hartford’s leader in the commercial world where executives freely used surgical, medical or chemical means to defy age.

  “Frances described Phoebe’s last few hours as pretty horrific. How do we save David’s daughter? Isn’t it possible to disable this implant or remove it? Would that damage Ahlmet’s research?”

  We were both wired and tired—not the best state for people of our ages in a serious discussion. Milan leaned his elbows on the table, extended one hand to touch my arm. I knew he had bad news.

  “There are complications.” In the old economy, doctors had these kinds of conversations with patients’ families in small rooms away from the treatment areas. “Ahlmet’s device is in a very early experimental stage. The only implant he’s attempted is the one in Phoebe, which violated every human testing protocol. His sponsors are reluctant to have it extracted before more data is collected. A surgeon could damage the device.”

  “So Phoebe sues for violation of the human testing protocols.” I raised my eyebrows. “The media will have a field day. Mind control always riles the crowds.”

  “It’s not that simple, Annie.”

  “And I’m asking you to be Phoebe’s guardian, not just a Bureau rep, and make it that simple.”

  “They’ll say she agreed to the implant. That they were lovers and supported each other’s work.” He paused, waited for me to accept the story. “Phoebe is her biological mother’s daughter and has a reputation for mood swings and some unusual behavior. That will become part of the discussion.”

  The sound of transports in the courtyard distracted us. I moved to the window to watch Ahlmet, surrounded by security agents, walk from the business offices to the largest vehicle.

  “Interesting,” Milan said in the quiet. “An armored transport. They must believe communications were intercepted and Ahlmet is at risk traveling. I wonder why they didn’t air lift him.”

  The other vehicles waited. “If one of the other transports is for you, at least your ride back would be safe.”

  He checked his communicator and shook his head. “My ride is thirty minutes out.”

  “If you don’t have a jet to catch, please let us send Sadig back on your transport and stay a while.” I sensed consideration. “Shouldn’t you talk personally with Phoebe?”

  Ahlmet looked back at the residence before ducking into the transport. His hands were still bound in front, an odd security contraption snugged up to his throat. Unpleasant words appeared to be exchanged between Ahlmet and an agent approaching him with additional restraints. An Ashwood guard escorted Hana to the convoy from a sleeping dorm.

  “He’s being treated as a criminal. Horrid to think that all will be forgiven when he gets back into his lab.
Glad to see that cares leave as well. Strange person.” I turned away from the window, hoped Ahlmet hadn’t disturbed Phoebe’s rest during his exit. “Stay. Phoebe needs your guidance.”

  “There’s an event in Minneapolis that has leased all licensed transports later in the day.”

  “Andrew or David will drive you.” I hugged him when he capitulated then contacted Lao about sending Sadig in the next vehicle.

  Back at the table Milan rested against his chair. “To be honest, Annie, I’m stumped about where to push next. There are key federal contacts who can influence decisions more than the outside players. You didn’t hear this from me, but the lab structure needs a shake up. This might be the action that causes change.”

  We talked about staffing issues facing the Intellectual Corps and the possibility of the government re-instating mandatory assignment of a small set of genetically managed children. The Stolen Children case started by Paul and Sarah abolished that, but bureaucrats and research-driven multi-corps hungered for a captive resource. Buoyed by coffee and fatigue, we found our way back to Phoebe.

  At four forty, Frances called to ask if Milan could visit with Phoebe. As we left, the transport originally scheduled to arrive a half hour earlier pulled into the courtyard. The driver got out to stretch and explain the delay.

  “There was some problem with the vehicle before I left Minneapolis and they replaced something. Then the regional police kept me from making up time.” He spoke with a slight Chinese accent. “Some big criminal had been dragged out of the estates so the squads are trying to get back to their coordinates. Had to watch my speed.”

  The guy had no idea he was talking to one of the top regional Bureau executives as he ran his mouth to a man dressed in common clothes. Lao shook hands with the regional security agent riding with Sadig. They climbed into the transport. Milan, Lao and I walked to the residence. Clouds moved across the sky, the air had a heavy feel.