Chapter 3: Echelon

03/28/2025 - Gabriel

The insistent beeping of my phone's alarm pulled me from a pleasant dream at precisely 7:30 AM. Sunlight filtered through the wooden slat blinds, casting warm stripes across our bedroom. I reached over to silence the alarm, my hand brushing against the smooth surface of the antique nightstand Wendy had found at an estate sale last summer.

As consciousness fully returned, I became aware of my wife's warm presence beside me. Wendy lay on her stomach, the sheet draped loosely across her lower back, leaving her shoulders bare. Her auburn hair spilled across the pillow in disarray, catching the morning light and gleaming like burnished copper. I turned toward her, admiring the elegant curve of her spine, the soft rise and fall of her breathing.

Almost of their own accord, my fingers traced a light path down her back, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath my touch. She stirred slightly but didn't wake. Emboldened, I moved closer, pressing my body against her side, my morning arousal evident against her hip. My hand slid beneath the sheet to cup the generous curve of her bottom, squeezing gently as I nuzzled against her neck, breathing in the faint scent of her jasmine shampoo.

"Mmm," she murmured, half-asleep, shifting slightly beneath my touch. As my hand moved around to caress her breast, she opened one eye, regarding me with a mixture of amusement and mild exasperation. "Really, Gabriel? Right now?"

I smiled against her shoulder, not relenting in my gentle exploration. "Can you blame me? Waking up next to you is… inspiring."

She rolled onto her back, stretching languidly, which only served to emphasize her nakedness. The sheet slipped further down, revealing the full curves of her breasts, the soft roundness of her stomach. My breath caught—after all these years, the sight of her still affected me profoundly.

"I have that meeting with the board at nine," she reminded me, though her hand came up to stroke my cheek affectionately. "And you know how I am before my shower."

I sighed, unable to keep the hint of frustration from my voice. "There's always a meeting. Or an exhibition. Or something." I immediately regretted the petulance in my tone—it wasn't her fault that our desires didn't always align. Since our third anniversary, our physical intimacy had gradually decreased from several times a week to once or twice a month. I'd come to accept it as our natural rhythm, though acceptance didn't always quell desire.

Wendy's expression softened, and she surprised me by reaching down between us, her fingers wrapping around my erection. "I might not have time for the full production," she said, her voice taking on that matter-of-fact tone that inexplicably aroused me further, "but I can certainly help you with this."

She began stroking me with practiced ease, her grip perfect—not too tight, not too loose. "I'm meeting with that sculptor from Santa Fe today," she continued conversationally, as if we were discussing the weather over breakfast rather than her hand working magic between my legs. "The one who works with reclaimed industrial materials. I think his pieces would complement the southwest wing nicely."

The contrast between her professional tone and the intimate movement of her hand was intoxicating. She knew exactly what this did to me, how her pretense of normalcy while touching me so intimately drove me wild. I groaned, reaching for her breasts, cupping their fullness as she increased her pace.

"You're impossible," I managed, my voice strained.

Her lips curved into a knowing smile. "Yet here you are, Honey, completely at my—"

The shrill ring of her phone shattered the moment. Wendy's hand stilled, and she glanced at the screen on her nightstand.

"It's Marjorie," she said, already reaching for the phone. "She never calls this early unless..." She answered quickly. "Marjorie? What's wrong?"

I watched as Wendy's expression shifted from confusion to alarm. She sat up, the sheet falling away completely as she listened intently. "How bad is it? Have you called maintenance?" A pause. "No, don't move anything. I'll be there in twenty minutes."

She hung up and turned to me apologetically. "There's a water leak in the east gallery. It's threatening the Navajo textile display." She was already out of bed, moving toward the bathroom with purpose. "I'm so sorry, Gabriel."

"It's fine," I assured her, though my body disagreed vehemently. "Go save the art."

She blew me a kiss from the bathroom doorway, her naked form silhouetted against the light. "Rain check? Tonight, I promise."

I nodded, knowing from experience that such promises, while sincere, often fell victim to exhaustion or unexpected work emergencies. As the shower started in the en-suite bathroom, I flopped back against the pillows, staring up at the exposed wooden beams of our ceiling.

I watched as she hurried around the room, pulling clothes from drawers and the closet, her movements efficient and purposeful. Even in crisis mode, there was something captivating about her, the way she transformed from my sleepy, sensual wife to the competent, authoritative curator in the space of minutes. It was part of why I loved her, even if it sometimes came at the expense of our intimate moments.

After she left, I lay in bed for a few more minutes, staring at the exposed beams of our ceiling, before finally dragging myself to the shower. The hot water helped ease my physical frustration, though not entirely. As I dressed in my usual work attire: a light blue button-down and charcoal slacks, I reminded myself that relationships had their ebbs and flows. Our intimacy might be in a lull, but there was more to marriage than sex. We shared a deep bond, a genuine affection, and a commitment to our life together. Besides, I knew the recipe for a passionate evening later: a nice Cabernet, some soft jazz, maybe the subtle lighting of our bedroom enhanced with candles.

I made my way downstairs to our open-concept kitchen, with its large windows overlooking the pine forest behind our property. The morning light illuminated the space, highlighting the blend of modern appliances and rustic elements that reflected both our tastes, my preference for clean functionality softened by Wendy's eye for aesthetic warmth. I prepared a simple breakfast of toast and coffee, eating at the reclaimed wood island while reviewing emails on my tablet.

As I finished my coffee, I glanced around our home, the space we'd carefully created together over the years. The living room with its comfortable leather sofa and carefully curated bookshelves.

I rinsed my mug in the sink, looking out at the view of Chantwell in the distance, nestled in the valley below our hillside property. We'd chosen this location deliberately, close enough to both our workplaces but removed enough to feel like a retreat.

I grabbed my keys from the hook by the door, pausing to glance at the framed photo of Wendy and me in Kyoto, a reminder of simpler times before our careers had become quite so demanding. The morning air was crisp as I stepped onto our wraparound porch, the scent of pine sharp and invigorating. My Audi sat in the driveway, its dark blue exterior gleaming in the morning light.

As I drove down the winding road from our hillside home, I watched Chantwell come into view in the valley below. The town had transformed dramatically in the two decades since Echelon Research Institute had established itself nearby. What had once been a sleepy, conservative mountain community of about five thousand people, mostly loggers, small business owners, and retirees, had evolved into something entirely different.

The influx of scientists, researchers, and academics had changed the demographic significantly. Then came the art school ten years ago, moving from its previous campus in Colorado Springs to take advantage of the burgeoning creative community in Chantwell, bringing with it a wave of artists, students, and bohemians. The Chantwell Museum of Contemporary Art had followed shortly after, cementing the town's transformation. Now, artisanal coffee shops occupied spaces that had once housed hardware stores. The old diner remained, but it now served locally-sourced organic fare alongside its traditional menu. Rainbow flags hung in shop windows that once displayed hunting equipment.

Not everyone appreciated the change. I occasionally overheard grumbling from longtime residents about housing prices and how they barely recognized their hometown anymore. The political shift had been dramatic—from reliably red to solidly blue in less than a generation. The tension was palpable during town meetings, where discussions about zoning for new developments often devolved into thinly-veiled culture war skirmishes.

I drove around the edge of town, taking the road that curved back into the forest toward Echelon. The institute came into view gradually: a series of interconnected modern buildings with extensive glass facades, designed to blend with the natural environment while still making a statement about the cutting-edge research conducted within. Solar panels gleamed on the rooftops, and the parking lot featured several charging stations for electric vehicles.

I pulled into my designated space, gathering my laptop bag before heading toward the main entrance. The institute operated in an unusual space between public and private, funded partially by government grants but also by private corporations interested in our research. This hybrid model allowed us greater freedom than a purely academic setting might, while still maintaining enough oversight to prevent the ethical shortcuts common in purely profit-driven research environments.

I pulled into my designated parking space and gathered my things, nodding politely to Dr. Bernard Smith, our brilliant director of computational research, who was arriving at the same time. His neatly trimmed white beard and perpetually frowned brow gave him the aura of a classic absent-minded professor, though his eyes held a sharp, perceptive intelligence. He seemed to always be analyzing everything around him, even in casual social settings.

"Gabriel," he greeted me more cheerfully than his expression suggested. "Good weekend?"

"Very pleasant, thank you," I replied, matching his measured tone. "Yours?"

He waved a dismissive hand, chuckling. "A blur of code and algorithms. Same as any other."

The man had no private life to speak of when he wasn't at the institute. At least not as far as anyone could tell.

"Well, I hope you at least managed to eat and sleep," I said with a smile.

"Sleep is for mortals," he quipped before nodding, making his way toward the parking lot.

As I approached the main entrance, I spotted Edward Barrett by the security station. The head of security stood with his feet planted firmly apart, his muscular frame filling out his tactical uniform impressively. The holstered gun at his waist wasn't for show—Edward was former special forces with the kind of thousand-yard stare that suggested he'd seen things most of us couldn't imagine. His face was weathered, with a scar running along his jawline that he never discussed.

"Morning, Mr. Ritter," he called out, his voice a gravelly rumble. Despite working together for years, he maintained a formality that I'd never quite managed to break through.

"Good morning, Ed. How are things today?"

He shrugged his broad shoulders. "Quiet. Just how I like it." He scanned the treeline surrounding the facility. "Had to chase off some hikers yesterday evening who got too close to the perimeter. Told them they were on private property. They argued it was public forest land." He shook his head. "Had to show them the survey markers."

I nodded, understanding the delicate balance we maintained with the surrounding community. "Thanks for handling that diplomatically."

Edward grunted, which I'd learned to interpret as acknowledgment. "Your wife's exhibition opens next week, right? The one with all the Native American artifacts?"

"Yes," I replied, somewhat surprised he'd remembered. "Wendy's been working on it for months."

"My mother was part Cherokee," he said unexpectedly. "Might stop by."

"I'm sure Wendy would appreciate that," I said, filing away this rare personal detail about the usually taciturn man.

He nodded once, then turned his attention to a delivery truck approaching the gate, our conversation clearly concluded.

I passed through the sleek glass doors of Echelon's main building, nodding to the receptionist as I crossed the polished concrete floor of the atrium. Morning light streamed through the massive skylights above, illuminating the space where various departments' achievements were displayed in tasteful exhibits. The central staircase spiraled upward through all four floors, its wooden treads and glass balustrades a marriage of warmth and modernity that characterized the institute's architecture.

As I made my way to my office on the third floor, I could already hear raised voices coming from the direction of my department. I suppressed a groan when I recognized them: Tristan Grimaud and Portia Fletcher, engaged in yet another heated dispute. Their arguments had become a near-weekly occurrence, and frankly, I wasn't in the mood to referee so early in the day.

Tristan spotted me first, his lanky frame straightening as he adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. "Mr. Ritter! Excellent timing. Perhaps you can explain to Dr. Fletcher why shared equipment schedules exist in the first place."

Portia whirled around, her dark curls bouncing with the movement. Even flushed with anger, she was striking—high cheekbones, warm brown skin, and the kind of presence that commanded attention in any room. "Gabriel, thank god. Maybe you can explain to Dr. Grimaud that some experiments can't be interrupted just because his precious thirty minutes on the centrifuge have arrived."

I sighed, unlocking my office door and gesturing for them both to enter. "It's a bit early for this level of… professional disagreement, but come in. Let's sort it out."

My assistant, Alva Tanner, looked up from her desk in the anteroom to my office, her eyebrows rising slightly above her rectangular glasses. At thirty-five, Alva maintained the perfect balance of approachability and efficiency, her bobbed chestnut hair always neat, her clothes professional but comfortable, and her expression perpetually poised between stern and amused. Today she wore a charcoal pencil skirt and a burgundy blouse, her usual silver pendant catching the light as she turned.

"I see the dynamic duo is at it again," she murmured, just loudly enough for me to hear. "I'll hold your calls for fifteen minutes. After that, you have the budget review with Accounting."

"Thanks, Alva," I replied gratefully. "Coffee would be—"

"Already on your desk," she finished, the corner of her mouth quirking up. "Good luck."

I closed the door behind us, moving to my desk while Tristan and Portia remained standing, pointedly keeping their distance from each other. My office was modest but comfortable—bookshelves lined one wall, filled with reference texts and research journals. The opposite wall featured a large whiteboard covered in my neat handwriting, outlining various department projects and timelines. The window behind my desk overlooked the forest, a view I often found calming during difficult conversations like this one.

"Alright," I said, taking a sip of the coffee Alva had prepared. "Let's establish the facts. Tristan, you had the centrifuge booked for 8:30 this morning?"

"Yes, as I have every Monday for the past three months," Tristan replied, his French accent becoming more pronounced in his agitation. "It is clearly marked in the scheduling system. But when I arrived, Dr. Fletcher's samples were still running, and she informed me, quite rudely, I might add, that I would simply have to wait."

"Because my protocol requires exactly ninety minutes," Portia interjected. "If I had stopped at the arbitrary time he demanded, we would have lost three weeks of work. Three weeks, Gabriel!"

I held up a hand. "Portia, did you know your experiment would run over into Tristan's scheduled time?"

She hesitated, which was answer enough. "I… miscalculated. But once it was running, stopping wasn't an option."

"This is precisely the problem," Tristan said, throwing his hands up. "She consistently 'miscalculates,' yet I am expected to accommodate. Meanwhile, my research falls behind schedule because I cannot access the equipment I have properly reserved."

"Oh please," Portia scoffed. "Your precious bacterial cultures could have waited another twenty minutes. My cell lines cannot."

I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling the beginnings of a headache. This particular conflict had been escalating for years, beginning as professional disagreement and evolving into something that felt uncomfortably personal. Tristan, brilliant but utterly lacking in social awareness, approached everything with rigid adherence to rules and schedules. Portia, equally brilliant but temperamental, worked in intuitive bursts that rarely conformed to neat timetables. On paper, their research was complementary; in practice, they were oil and water.

"Here's what we're going to do," I said firmly. "Portia, from now on, if you anticipate needing additional time, you'll build that into your schedule and book accordingly. Tristan, we'll implement a fifteen-minute buffer between scheduled equipment uses to account for inevitable delays." I looked between them. "Additionally, I'm asking both of you to attend Dr. Yamamoto's conflict resolution workshop next week."

"But—" they both began simultaneously.

"This isn't optional," I continued. "Your ongoing disputes are affecting more than just your own work. Other researchers are starting to schedule their days around avoiding both of you..."

Tristan adjusted his glasses, a nervous habit. "I simply expect professional courtesy and adherence to established protocols."

"And I expect some flexibility when the science demands it," Portia countered.

"Both valid points," I acknowledged. "Now, can we agree to the solution I've proposed, or should I escalate this to the department heads?"

The threat of involving higher management was usually effective. After a moment of tense silence, both reluctantly nodded.

"Excellent," I said, standing to indicate our meeting was concluded. "Tristan, you'll have exclusive use of the centrifuge for the next hour to make up for this morning. Portia, please ensure your samples are properly stored until then."

They left with minimal additional sniping, though I had no illusions that this resolution would last. Their fundamental incompatibility seemed to deepen with each interaction, despite, or perhaps because of, how closely their research areas aligned.

As the door closed behind them, I sank back into my chair with a sigh. The clock on my desk read 9:12 AM. Not even halfway through the morning, and I'd already mediated a scientific border dispute. Such was the nature of my role as Operations Director: less about conducting research myself these days and more about ensuring that brilliant, difficult people could do their work without killing each other.

I pulled up my calendar on the computer, scanning the day ahead. Budget reviews, facility maintenance reports, and a meeting with the ethics committee about a proposed neuroscience study. All important, all necessary, but none as intriguing as my 2:00 PM meeting with Ramona and Phoebe. What could a virologist and a neural interface specialist possibly be working on together? And why the secrecy?

I took another sip of coffee, grateful for the momentary quiet and already looking forward to finding some answers.