“Come say hello.” I pulled David’s arm. “You should be in tonight’s conversations.” We dropped our bottles in the recycling and waited in the courtyard for the transport.
Milan stepped out, placing his foot on the pressed rock with care. Inside the transport I saw a second person, a man somewhat younger than I was with silver-touched, faded blonde hair above a lined face. Watching Milan’s slow movements, David offered assistance.
Milan shook his head. “I’ll be all right. Had unexpected surgery this morning to remove an infected sliver in my calf. Afraid I’m a bit stiff.”
His fellow traveler exited easier. “Marcus Twedt,” he said while extending a hand to David. “Dr. Marcus Twedt.” He turned to me and tipped his head. “Director Milan pulled me from a conference to meet with Senior Researcher Regan.” His hand, released by David, was pulled back and stuffed into a pocket.
Milan wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “Dr. Twedt is one of the preeminent physician scholars in the field of mind control and familiar with Senior Researcher Ahlmet’s work.”
An odd feeling crept over me as we exchanged greetings. I turned my head, sure we were being watched. In the kitchen’s bay window Hana nearly pressed her nose against the glass. If she had been sent to report back on what happened while her mistress lived away from the labs, I assumed she could read lips.
While awkward, I turned out of Milan’s loose hold. “Phoebe’s cares is watching us. We’re working to keep a step ahead of her speed in planting listening devices. It would be better if we moved to our clean room. It’s behind the small stables.”
“Maybe Milan and Dr. Twedt would like to go to their room before we meet,” David suggested with a questioning look about my jump into work without more pleasantries.
“David, you’re a good host. Phoebe’s cares has rattled my sense of security.” Milan nodded, a pleasant smile forming on his lips. Dr. Twedt focused on me, perhaps unnerved by landing in the midst of an unsettling situation. “Amber tells me Hana is quite distressed about being kept away from Phoebe.” We began walking toward the stable. “Dr. Frances tested remains of a cookie Hana carried to Phoebe’s lab and found traces of more than one drug in the crumbs.” This was news for David, but he showed no response.
We adjusted to Milan’s slower steps. Dr. Twedt looked at each building as we progressed. “I know of Dr. Frances,” he volunteered. “She had a promising psychiatric practice career ahead of her before the Second Great Depression. The government should not have interfered with her plans.” Although his name screamed old Minnesota, Dr. Twedt’s voice suggested years in the near south. “I’m pleased to consult with her.”
“If anyone understands Phoebe, it’s Frances,” I said. “She came to Ashwood through referral by Terrell Jackson when our daughter suffered with night terrors.”
“Jackson. That’s the former CIA man she married? He had some therapy background.”
“I think he was DOE.” If there was anyone whose history I knew, it was Terrell’s.
“No, I clearly remember he was CIA for many years.” Twedt missed cues that his pronouncement caught us by surprise. At least caught David and me by surprise. Milan concentrated on his stiff leg’s movement across an irregular pathway surface. “His chef experience back in Washington, D.C., was an interesting cover although I remember he mustered out after a number of years at some Midwest estate.”
“Anyone capable of doing more than one thing at a time in those rugged days got caught up somewhere by the agencies,” David quipped while reaching for my hand.
Twedt blew out air through his nose. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. None of it matters today. Disastrous how so many of my colleagues have changed from government flunkies to multi-corps drones over the last decade.”
Nothing should have surprised me living this life in this country. Terrell was my closest friend and this hidden fact betrayed a personal code of honor.
We settled our visitors’ bags in a corner of the clean meeting room and waited for the others. Milan refused to sit although his leg clearly caused him discomfort. Lao entered and I remembered the first time he showed me this space. Seventeen years had robbed the smoothness from our faces. The room’s unflattering light showed a lot of lines and creases. I trusted Lao with our lives, yet wondered if he might report to another influence in the snakes’ den of our society or why he never shared Terrell’s past CIA affiliation.
Frances and Dr. Twedt greeted each other professionally. Milan waved people to chairs.
“Under the intellectual protection language of the National Security Actions of 2025, I retain a legal guardian relationship over Phoebe until she turns thirty years of age.” He shifted his weight, the strain flickering briefly across his face. I struggled to not respond to this bit of information, thinking all the work that we’d done in the past twelve hours to create an escape hatch for her might be wasted. “I care for her, and her family, deeply.” Milan paused. “So, there will be no official record of this meeting,” he restarted. “Here’s what I need accomplished before we go on the record about Phoebe’s future.”
This Milan I remembered from my first months at Ashwood. Much older, he was now a grizzled executive on a rescue mission. The doctors were sent off to complete a thorough examination and prepare a report for his review before submitting it officially. Raima received access to Bureau contracts Phoebe was unable to open from her own data pad hours earlier. Milan asked for a legal outline to be ready for discussion at ten o’clock.
They left to work on his assignments. Milan grilled Lao about Hartford’s systems security then Ashwood’s physical plant security. He frowned when hearing of vulnerabilities left by Sadig, but Lao had people monitoring every weakness, working on corrections or developing temporary barriers. We agreed Phoebe needed to be contained within Ashwood.
I invited Lao to remain as Milan asked questions about Hartford’s restructuring and the Deshomm takeover threat as related to Phoebe—financially or professionally.
“Because Lao rejoined us today, he’ll be hearing this all for the first time.” I covered the plan presented to Phoebe earlier that evening and elaborated on John’s angel investor and two large grants waiting to fund the new research facility that would be built at Giant Pines. David helped fill in details of the TW Water Company where Phoebe would be based.
For forty-five minutes, Milan pulled apart our plans and challenged key assumptions. He was as tough as during the years I’d reported to him when estates, whether government-funded or private enterprises, were all accountable to bureaucrats like Milan. During those years estates’ production fed a starving, bankrupt country and Milan knew how to dig into the numbers. He was not as sophisticated about multi-corps workings.
“Could we talk about Phoebe?” David asked, tired of Milan’s bulleted queries. “Isn’t that what your trip is about? Anne doesn’t need your approval to put her business plan in place.”
For twenty-five years I’d held Milan tight to our family, camouflaging his government-appointed legal guardianship of our surrogate-born children from them under the guise of an adopted uncle. When Ashwood was tethered to the Bureau, no one knew if Milan’s quarterly visits were made to complete site inspections or our children’s academic preparation.
David failed to realize that at this point Milan’s actions would be taken after consultation with Phoebe. Decisions about Phoebe’s status and future directions would rely on her negotiations with Milan. On behalf of Hartford, Ltd., I merely proposed an interesting work opportunity. Tonight Milan, whether short-tempered because of his aching leg or acting appropriately in a time of crisis, didn’t coddle David. They sat across the oval table. David’s demands irritated Milan.
“I’m doing what needs to be done, David.” Milan finally sat and raised his bum leg to rest on an empty chair. “Frances and Marcus will bring her here so she and I ca
n talk. I needed to know that Anne’s business plan is sustainable and there is a valid set of work that meets the criteria expected of someone of Phoebe’s potential. Our government has a lot invested in Phoebe’s training and won’t walk away before society has a return.”
My husband stood. “If the Bureau holds her in those labs until she is thirty, she’ll follow her mother and grandfather into suicide. I hold you responsible, Milan. You.”
“As I told Anne a few days ago, it is known that Phoebe is not well suited to the labs’ lifestyle. That info is part of her official file, for good or bad. Removing her from the labs looks logical on the surface, but this young woman is of great interest to any number of agencies and multi-corps.” Milan checked the time. “If it is possible, this mind-control issue might be a bigger story.”
“She’s not going to be collateral. My daughter is flesh and blood and deserves a life of more than work.”
“You, of all people, understand what it is to be a government intellectual worker.” Milan placed the words carefully in the room. “Phoebe accepted her place in the Intellectual Corps and their expectations of performance. Andrew has also spent many years working at a faster pace than you knew, David.” He reached inside his jacket for his data pad. “That’s reality for our talented citizens.”
“I didn’t mind serving to pull this country out of the Second Great Depression. But, I’ll be damned if my kids are going to serve to line the pockets of the multi-corps.”
“The circle’s come full around,” Milan said. “From too-big-to-fail to squeezing the governments that saved them.” He looked over the top of his old-fashioned glasses. “Who would have thought that this would be our fate?”
“The water company’s key people currently work out of a little town about ninety miles northeast of Green Bay in Door County.” Around the table, we all looked up as David spoke. I had not been to Green Bay since before the Second Great Depression. “They used to be in Chicago, but moved about ten years ago. We could set up a sophisticated lab on the shores of Lake Michigan and attract bright folks tired of metro living.”
“Do what makes good business sense,” Milan said while backing away from the table. “You are premature to build plans around Phoebe at this point.” He stood. “Frances says it would be better if I meet with Phoebe in the residence.”
The estate quieted. David and Milan both walked toward the door, neither appeared willing to step aside.
“Would it be all right if I accompanied you, Milan?” I timed my question so he would turn and David might move through the door first.
“You can fill me in on lives of the other young people who have returned to the mother estate.” Milan slowed, tilted his head to invite me. As I rose from my chair, Lao checked his communicator, a frown formed across his forehead.
“Anne, we have an unexpected visitor approaching the gate.”
“Hopefully no one hoping to spend the night.” I quipped. We filed out of the room. David was far ahead, answering a communication.
Lao closed the door, ran his DNA coder over its lock. “The evening is about to get very interesting. Our guest is a young senior research scientist by the name of Ahlmet traveling under a false name. Estates regional security caught the discrepancy after allowing the transport through their gates.”
“Unrequited passion trumps every rule set in place by logic.” Milan shook his head then laughed out loud. “Damned idiot. Intelligence doesn’t guarantee social brilliance.” He removed his glasses, tucked them into a pocket. “First day back and you’ll have two Intellectual Corps members under your protection, Lao. Few private parties will ever say that. Use the security code assigned Ashwood for Phoebe and let someone know what’s going on.
“Best to let Ahlmet enter so we know where he is. Go ahead and strip him of communications devices, then bring him to this conference room. Tell him I will be back to see him in an hour. We’ll let him simmer for a while. Absolute silence should be punishing for him from what I read in his profile.”
David headed toward the executive office building without turning to check on us, a sign that he was needed on a call. I added instructions for Lao’s people. “Don’t tell David about Ahlmet.” I wasn’t sure David could pass on an opportunity to do his best to convince Phoebe’s former lover that the implant needed to be disabled. I wanted them in separate spaces. “No one outside security should be told about Ahlmet for now.”
Milan nodded in agreement. “I told Twedt this young man wouldn’t be able to stay away from our Phoebe. Is there any reason to let him see her?”
“Did you know that she and Andrew were involved before Ahlmet? She seems quite comfortable letting Andrew care for her and share in decisions.”
Milan huffed. “If we weren’t dealing with her entire future, possibly saving her life, this could be a rather interesting twist. Actually I think I knew. Don’t ask how.”
Lights were beginning to take over inside for the late evening sun. In the cool, soft-colored interior there was a sense of calm that hid the life-and-death drama being played out in Phoebe’s quarters, where she fought Ahlmet’s devil, and Paul’s suite as he slept unsure of waking in the morning. Our shoes made small squishing sounds on aged hardwood floors undamaged by Phoebe, all her siblings, dozens of young workers, and a handful of family pets. We passed the long wooden bench made by David before my time.
“If Phoebe would like you or Andrew to stay, that’s her choice.” Milan slowed where two halls met. “I don’t have the slightest idea where to find her.”
Blinds were down in Phoebe’s room. She sat in an old armchair covered by a blanket shipped new from Chicago. Her head lay against the back of the chair with hair spread against its rose-colored upholstery. Andrew gently worked a brush through tangled curls with such comfort it was impossible to escape the intensity of their emotional connection.
“Phoebe.” Milan’s voice broke Phoebe’s reverie and she opened her eyes, dilated pupils suggesting Ahlmet’s siege continued through the doctors’ examination. She looked exhausted, weakened, frightened in spite of sedation.
She sat upright in the chair, tried to push herself out of it.
“Stay.” Concern and affection gentled Milan’s voice as he took in the scene from Andrew’s ministrations to her pallor. “I hear you’ve been having some rough times.” He pulled over a wooden chair from the desk, put it next to where Phoebe sat.
“We need to talk. Mind if I share the footrest? I had some minor surgery on my leg this afternoon before I knew about what was happening with you.”
“I’d trade places with you if I could,” Phoebe said while moving her feet to one side.
“From what I hear, I wouldn’t doubt that.” He settled. “Do you mind if Anne or Andrew stay while we talk?”
“They’ll have to sit on the bed or the floor unless we all move to the next room.” She tried to sound light, to smile. “It’s fine if you say that’s okay.”
“I want to hear you tell me what’s happening, what you know about why it’s happening. When we’re through with that, we’ll talk about your work in the labs and what you want to do about your contract renewal.” His voice changed, still concerned yet back to fact-finding. “I need to know if anything’s changed about your thoughts on that subject since we had dinner in February and who you’ve talked with about your contract since then.”
I did sit on the edge of the bed. Andrew leaned against the wall near Phoebe’s chair. I noticed how she continued to move her hand under the light blanket. Apprehension, perhaps fear of triggering another mind control siege, hovered around her eyes and mouth like a woman in labor waiting for the next pains.
“It would be easier on Phoebe if you could just read the doctors’ report,” Andrew suggested. “She’s been through hell for the past hour and a half. Talking about the attacks triggers more.”
&nb
sp; “Lao has Ahlmet in custody.” Milan spoke to Phoebe. “He’s in a secure place where communications are blocked.”
Phoebe looked my way and I nodded to confirm Milan.
“Why is he in custody?”
“Because he tried to enter Ashwood.”
“Oh, my God.” She said nothing else about Ahlmet, maybe testing that nothing would happen to her during this discussion. “I don’t know if I was able to tell the doctors much because I couldn’t talk through my thought disruption.” Phoebe swallowed and girded herself for potential attack. “I told Ahlmet we were through about an hour before Mom called yesterday. He began communicating with me through a thread he’d inserted in my neck area while I was asleep. He wanted to ‘surprise’ me. Told me that every time I thought about him, he would know and control those thoughts. Gave me a small sample.”
She was crying, not under siege, but angry, frightened, and exhausted. “It’s an awful feeling to describe. The more I try to stop the control, the more dissonance I experience—swirling, dizziness, disorientation. Like I want to hit my head against a wall so hard I would pass out.”
“Does he tell you how to feel or what to do?” Milan asked the question without inflection.
“He has made a few suggestions. I probably can’t keep up the resistance long-term.”
“And your work?”
“If Ahlmet is here, he has permission to travel from someone in the labs. Who would that be?” She answered Milan’s question with a fact and question of her own that I wanted answered.
“I’ll find out. You and I have about forty-five minutes to talk about many important subjects.” Milan turned the conversation back to her. “Do you think your work is suffering? Is there the possibility of a confidentiality breach?”
Phoebe stepped back into her professional persona—careful about challenges to the quality of her work, her integrity, her reputation. Her hands moved back on top of the blanket, her face flattened into an impersonal expression. I’d seen that look slip into place during communications from her lab crew in Chicago.
Leaving Ashwood Page 12