Harvesting Ashwood Minnesota 2037 (12 page)

Only familiar day laborers from Lakeville or Northfield were hired in the morning market as Lao increased security on the estate. Magda and I stood on the residence’s long porch and looked at vegetable beds waiting for harvest, orchards just weeks away from picking.

“You should be glad Lao was far away from kids when our communications system went down. I’ve never heard him use that kind of language. Of course he had a backup ready in five minutes.” I couldn’t smile, not even at this rare Lao behavior. Magda put a hand on my shoulder. “Hopefully our regular laborers won’t accept news source bribes.” She removed her hand and pulled her hat back up on her head. “The helicopters are unnerving. Why can’t they leave you alone?”

“Because we’ve become media du jour. Maybe tomorrow something bad will happen in Texas and the ambush will be of no interest.” With land transportation still a luxury, I wondered who could afford the half dozen helicopters buzzing overhead. “I need to keep my kids under cover while those devils are out.”

“You have bigger things to worry about than filling seasonal vacancies, so stop thinking about it.” She brushed away a bug. “I have two estates willing to barter for lower combine fees in exchange for a day or two of sending people to Ashwood.” Magda began moving away. “That worked in the past.”

“I forgot we did that.” I sighed, worried about what surprises today might hold. “If you need to do some premium pay or referral bonuses, do it.” As she walked down the steps I wished there was such an easy solution to free David.

The management team showed up at my office for our daily operations meeting after staffing assignments had been completed. Because I forgot to suggest they meet without me, I listened to their words, but couldn’t focus on anything. David’s locked office door screamed that all was not right. I gave up. “If you all wouldn’t mind, I need a few hours for myself.”

They left, respectful of a request I seldom made. I sat at my desk, staring at David’s door on the east wall of the building.

“General Manager Hartford.” A familiar voice came through my communication earpiece. “Are you able to talk?”

“Yes, Milan.” I closed my office door with the push of a button. “I am alone.”

“How are you doing, Anne?”

“Not great. The morning has been tough, and you know about the media frenzy outside our gates. We’re in security mode when we need extra hands for harvest.” I stopped, knowing that Milan truly wanted to know how I felt, not a lot of facts. “I’ll be honest with you. David’s parents and our kids are coping, but I’m angry as hell that David was sent into this situation, confused about what this country is doing in Paraguay, and scared.”

“Scared of what?”

“You can guess. Beyond David’s safety, I’m scared to death that should something awful happen, our family could be torn apart.” I swallowed, took a deep breath. “I’ve lost one entire family in my life and I can’t bear to think of that happening again. These are our children at risk. You’re a father. You must understand.”

Silence. Sharing my greatest fear generated nothing from Milan, the man who held legal power over David’s children. Not even my legal adoption of Phoebe and Noah after our marriage broke the government’s contract.

“Talk to me, Milan.” A small quiver weakened my voice. “Why isn’t there someone in a position like yours out there standing up for Andrew Smithson? How broad is your legal guardianship?”

“What makes you think Andrew’s aunt really wanted to give him to you?” Milan answered. “She and her husband were unable to have children. He did take illegal actions with the boy’s legacy funds, but the full story is that he hid the money so that they could buy safe transport to England and raise Andrew where the older boy is living.” I heard him tapping on a surface, typically a signal that Milan had a more serious topic to discuss.

“Don’t fixate on the Smithsons, Anne.” Milan began his transition. “Your decision to adopt Phoebe and Noah doesn’t displace my assigned guardianship, but it is important in planning their future should David not live until they reach legal majority. I just can’t offer absolute assurance to you that they’ll remain permanently on Ashwood if David dies.” He coughed, a summer air-conditioning kind of sound. “Actually, I’m calling to talk about the children.”

“Can this wait?”

“There’s another news story connected to David that might be surfacing in the coming days.”

Silence now filled my side of the communication. “Yes,” I finally answered.

“The
Times
has been investigating possible irregularities in the government surrogates program. As you discovered when you learned Andrew’s story, not everything was under tight control in the early days.” His voice slowed. Chills prickled through my back as we headed toward some piece of information I knew would be beyond my belief. “What the
Times
will report is that fertilized eggs of a small group of intellectual couples were not destroyed as promised, but were implanted in additional surrogates. Those offspring are being raised by a select group of senior agency and bureau leaders across the government.”

“Are you telling me David and Tia have more children?”

“At least a half dozen.”

“How long have you known this?”

He didn’t hesitate. “In some ways I guess I’ve known since some of them were born. That would be the only explanation why I’m legal guardian to a fragmented group of kids scattered across the country.”

“Milan, I can’t believe this. What about the legal rights of the parents?” My voice rose in pitch while lowering in volume.

“There were some in the early Bureau of Human Capital Management who thought the United States needed to build a generation of geniuses in order to answer future customers of our products.” His calmness didn’t settle me. “Some argued it was irresponsible as a government to limit our next generation of bright thinkers by listening to young intellectuals focused on the size of their own families.” He paused. “If you remove ethical questions, there is logic in the thinking.”

“Finally ethics is mentioned.”

“Today, we have leaders uncomfortable with the way surrogates were used.”

We were both quiet. I felt the body blows of this day’s news tip my natural optimism.

“People in the Median Party?” I gave him no time to respond. “Where are these children, Milan? I would think the courts will say David has the right to know where his biological children, incubated from embryos he never agreed to give away, live today.”

By his quiet, I knew that someone had approached the courts with that question. “Where are his children?”

“I can’t answer, Anne. You have no legal claim to that knowledge.”

“Does Phoebe have a right to know this information in the absence of her father? What about Paul and Sarah?”

“Neither of us is prepared to have this discussion right now.” Milan’s tone changed from confiding to directing. “I wanted you to know so you can prepare David’s family. Media is already camping at Ashwood to cover the Paraguay situation, but some might be waiting for this story to break open.”

“How do I ‘explain’ this to our children? They’ve only had six hours to understand that their dad is missing and in danger.” Carefully, to not make any telltale sounds, I put my head on the edge of my desk, thought about sitting under it and hiding from Jega and all the other DOE faces in the outer office. “Milan, is there any new information about David?”

“Nothing.” His voice softened. “The United States is still unraveling who staged the ambush. Six groups have claimed responsibility. Patience, Anne.”

“I’m thinking of taking the children to South Dakota for time with their cousins on the Regan ranch.” The thought just came into my mind. “Any problem with clearing that travel?”

“It’s not a good idea now, Anne.”

His answer was logical. Ashwood could provide protection from the media. Suddenly I realized Phoebe and Noah could become public personalities. “Can you tell me how many other couples had their genetic materials used without permission? Are we talking a hundred couples or a thousand?”

When Milan hesitated, I stopped breathing and hoped for an immense number. “About a dozen couples, all DOE.”

“Why feature the Regans?”

“Tia was the brightest scientist in this country at the time.” He didn’t mention that under her brilliance ran deep instability, drug use, insecurity. “Her story is one of the more interesting ones.”

“My children could be exposed to the world.” I stood, used my limited authority as a successful estate business director to issue an order. “You have to protect these kids. Milan, you know Phoebe’s night terrors have become worse these past months. Do what you can.”

“We’re doing our best.” He coughed again. “I thought the cover would blow off this story years ago. A few highly positioned individuals have lost their jobs already. More will follow.”

Twice I stubbed toes as I walked back to the main residence to find Sarah and Paul. My feet dragged, my muscles fired slower than usual, and I knew I had taken the last stress I could take for the day. I headed for the kitchen, not for food, but to find Terrell.

I found him in the midst of workers. They wore summer garb—girls allowed to choose sleeveless dresses in the house or shorts and light shirts. Continuing a Tia tradition, all the workers’ clothing was in bright colors. Terrell wore his chef clothes to impress the crew during these first days.

“Have a few minutes, Terrell?” I asked after he finished giving one worker instructions.

“Always, Ms. Anne.” He wiped his hands on a towel tucked into his pants. “And I have iced tea plus fresh biscuits with honey.” Before I could respond, a large, cool glass was in my hand, and he walked alongside me with a plate of food. “You look done in and I don’t remember seeing you show up for lunch.”

“Milan called.” Terrell tucked his free hand under my elbow, led me around corners I know better than anyone in this house.

Somehow in his first day he managed to move a few things around in the cook’s office and bring back an old overstuffed chair I liked. “I thought we moved this to storage because a foot was wobbly.” I sat in the chair tentatively. It did not rock to one side.

He raised an eyebrow and sat down as well. “Friends made sure that chair was waiting here this morning. I haven’t had the chance to find out who brought it in, and now I know they also took time to do some repairs.” With a smile he pulled the plate of biscuits back toward himself. “Maybe I better set these aside?”

I didn’t intend to cry. My generation of women learned to be more like men with emotions, but the events of these two days had pushed me so far beyond a sense of control or personal safety that I let tears happen. My father once told me I cried prettier than anyone he’d ever known and suggested I use tears carefully or a future husband would fall apart. These weren’t pretty tears. These tears formed rapidly and rolled down my face without a single sob.

“How about you use my towel,” Terrell suggested as he removed the iced tea glass from my hand and put the linen in its place. “I don’t know what Milan had to say about David. I have a few calls in with past associates who know people though. We’ll find what these DOE contact people don’t even know.”

“There’s another story about to be published.” My voice, already low, sunk with the effort to talk through the emotion. “Terrell, I can’t believe what I’m going to tell you, but I thought if I tried telling you I could find the words to tell David’s parents.”

“They found him?” Terrell’s thin, beautiful brown face leaned in toward me.

“No, nothing to do with Paraguay.” I gulped down air. “A reporter’s been working on a story about a practice within the Bureau of not destroying genetic materials of a small subset of intellectuals, including David and Tia. Surrogates carried those babies, which were placed with high officials.”

“My God.” He sat back. “Unbelievable. Between learning that you are actually Andrew’s mother and this story, the surrogate program sounds like something out of a sci-fi book. People are going to get all riled up about that program again.” He rubbed one hand over his face, looked at me. “So Phoebe and Noah have a brother or sister?”

“Six brothers or sisters.”

His amazement showed me how the public would read this story. Surrogacy, practiced to protect the working productivity of female intellectuals, still repulsed many citizens. This story would create a wicked storm of publicity when regular women were required to have a regional permit to carry a child.

“The reporter has names of a dozen couples whose fertilized eggs were used. That’s all I know.” My tears were done. I placed the towel across my knees and pulled the iced tea glass back from Terrell’s desk. “I trusted the Bureau integrity and promises of protection.”

“What about your kids?” Terrell’s soft spot for young people, and particularly Phoebe, sounded in the gentle tone of his question.

“They could be thrilled to know they have siblings, or deeply confused. This could affect their entire sense of identity.” I swallowed tea, realized how dehydrated I had become. “Phoebe’s night terrors are bad already. I wish we could have a real ongoing relationship with a therapist right now.”

“I can help with that.” A therapist before the big
D
, Terrell had been a good resource for working with troubled kids who came to Ashwood. “I have a few friends who are still licensed to work in pediatric therapy. They’d work with Phoebe for cash instead of government allocations.”