“Hello,” the man’s voice sounded like putty.
“Mr. Vasquez, I have some news about your daughter…”
* * *
Sylvia Cho threw up in the toilet. A routine now; a cliché. She didn’t care for it. There was nothing beautiful, motherly or fulfilling about hurling your guts out and gagging. Fulfilling. Ha. Fullemptying. That’s what pregnancy had been so far. Fullemptying. And she knew the worst was yet to come. The swelling, the aches, the weird appetites, the lack of appetites, the stomach burn, oh, and the dying. You couldn’t forget that. One in 800 women died in child-birth. OK, that wasn’t true of the Pacific Coast Region, per se. Still. This affliction could kill her.
Along with her career. Turning down a job wasn’t an issue. People did it all the time. Turning down this job — a fully funded, social piece — would be painful. Turning it down because she was in a family way, that would get her name deleted from a lot of lists. There were always new kids coming up, always old geezers looking for one last chance, the middle, by nature, meant pressure. Going back to corporate videos? Passable. She’d still function. Would those offers dry up? How far would a baby knock her from the table? All the way back to “How to find the fire extinguisher on your floor” videos? Could she ever? Again?
Sylvia sat on the floor, back against the potty. The cold tile stung her bare legs and she liked it. The sensation took away from the tiny carousel spinning in her entrails.
The Aptitude Placement Office told her to become a landscape architect. At 18, she had no clue that was anything, let alone a career. She liked flowers, she scored well in math and the tests had, she realized years later, identified her creative strengths. “Movie Director” wasn’t on the list. There were only a handful of those in the world. Why get a kid’s hopes up? Point them towards an attainable skill the company could use. Let this chick learn how to place viable foliage. That’s a job.
Sylvia glanced up at the flowerbox in her bathroom window. Tuberous begonias. Fat, watery, wide and red, she still liked flowers. She had learned how to take care of them, along with image acquisition, editing, lighting and sound design, scripting and all the other skills she had to suck up on her own time.
“And your actual training?” the manager of programming said. She’d never forget it. She could — and did far too frequently — play the scene back in her head with brutal clarity. She’d given him her first short film for his festival. He watched all 10 minutes, without twitching, shuffling or confirming in any way that he was still alive. Then he asked what else she did. Actually. As if she were bereft of moving picture skill.
He had been the first and far from the last, to insult her ability. She kept a list of people who didn’t return messages, ignored her, or the worst of all offenders: the ones who look over, past or around you while you’re trying to talk. She didn’t want to keep a list. She just couldn’t forget all the men and women who told her she couldn’t make films. Those who gave Sylvia an honest, ‘we’re not interested’ to her face didn’t make her list. She didn’t know why she wasn’t to everyone’s taste, but she accepted the fact. As long as you acknowledged her. Fair enough.
Not so fair were the people who bought or financed movies based on nepotism, bribery or stupidity. She remembered them. They all, in their own little way, made her better.
The first professional video project she was offered was a short format piece touting a micro car. The marketing manager wanted a director who fit the demographic for the product. Urban woman, early twenties, Ambyr professional grade 15 through 13. The manager had seen her film project at a festival and liked the edge it held. Sylvia had just started at an industrial complex near Pittsburg, as an apprentice grounds keeper. The marketing manager asked her new boss for her hours. He declined. Sylvia spent the next four months drawing, digging and dragging foliage, stabbing the ground with a spade, pretending it was her boss’s gut, snapping roots and twigs as if they were his spine— until her transfer request came through.
One day she sat to check her mail and viewed a micro car commercial— girls shopping and clubbing and cruising boys. She cried.
Sylvia cried again, sitting in her bathroom, staring at the begonias, bright against the frosted glass. The strangest things made her cry lately. That proposal about real-life pirates. Two little girls holding hands in the mall. The empty milk jug.
The closer you are to the bottom of the pyramid, the more people there are telling you what to do. And what you may not do. Success, for Sylvia, was never about money or even power, in its raw form. She’d climbed to the point where only a handful of men and woman could move her around like a gnome in a garden. On her plateau you could move yourself around, by your own design.
She could climb back down, right?
No, she couldn’t. She couldn’t jump, either.
And she’d make damn sure she didn’t get pushed.
* * *
Emory worked. More or less. They needed his input on specs for a new pressure monitoring system. What would be the impact on productivity? The eternal question. Perhaps the only question. Everything you learned in school — economics, ergonomics, physics, mechanics, any other ‘ic’ the academics got around to creating — flowed to the sea of productivity.
Today, he couldn’t do it. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t read the analysis. All the numbers and acronyms jumbled in his head and faded to the image of Niagara Falls with a giant fork. At least that image of the girl getting knifed to death moved back a step.
The Milkman was never supposed to interfere with his job. He made that deal with Lilly, and with himself. It was a hobby. His version of golf or building radio controlled airplanes. As long as it stayed in the basement, everything would be A-O-K. And if it didn’t? Emory never contemplated the consequences. He knew he should have. He had software for dynamic tooling, capable of modeling possible outcomes from his extracurricular activities. He never bothered to run the tests. Why ask a question to which you don’t want the answer? He needed to maintain his conviction that the Milkman would have no impact on his productivity.
It was all about impact on productivity.
OK. Slurry processing from the batch plant—
“Emory.”
Emory looked up. Jack Everette tipped his upper body through the office door. His boss.
“I’m working on it,” Emory said. “You can’t rush greatness.”
“Conference room.”
“I’m not ready.”
“Don’t imagine you ever would be for this.” Jack leaned back out and waited.
Emory stood and stepped into the hallway. Jack motioned for him to move along. Ahead of him. Odd. Did he forget a meeting? Did some emergency bloom, under his nose, without him knowing? Or, should he be more paranoid. They walked to the conference room. One man sat at the table. Simple blue suit, no tie. Trench coat over the back of a chair. He’d planted his elbows on the table and held his head up with his thumbs. His brown hair couldn’t have been a five millimeters anywhere on his head. The cut didn’t prune all the gray and did nothing to hide the wrinkles sprouting from his eyes. New wrinkles, Emory thought. New gray.
“I’ve got it,” the man said past Emory. “Thanks.”
“No problem, sir.” Jack closed the door behind Emory.
Jack said ‘sir’ to a guy younger than him. This guy didn’t get up, shake hands, grin and comment about the weather. He performed none of the usual business rituals.
Oh no.
“Emory Leveski?” the man asked.
“Yes.”
“Detective Eddie McCallum. Ambyr Systems Security.”
Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.
“What can I do you for you, sir.” He suddenly knew how Jack felt. This guy pulled the ‘sir’ out of you.
“First, you can take a seat.”
Emory crossed and sat on the other side of the bamboo conference table. The op watched him walk, looking him up and down without concern for social norms. Emory’s mouth dried. Hi
s guts tightened. Again. This time they felt like they bulged between fingers of a mammoth internal fist.
“Can you tell me where you were last night, Mr. Leveski?”
Don’t lie, Emory said to himself. Much. He knows some things. Not all things.
“Time,” he said as it occurred to him. “I mean, what time? I was a couple of places, until I was home in bed. So, is there a time you are concerned about?”
McCallum watched him. Emory thought the man had tiny MRI machines for eyes, piercing and probing. He wanted to talk. Gab away. Mention Lilly and the baby and all the nice things in his life. He forced his lips closed, like a diaphragm in pressure regulator.
“Around 8:15,” McCallum said.
“8:15. Mmmm.” Emory couldn’t think up a lie that wouldn’t make things worse. He couldn’t spill the truth, either. That would expose his secret life. And John Raston’s. And possibly the other volunteers who risked their careers to feed him data. Security could pinpoint his car any time in the past. That must be why they were here now.
“That’s probably around the time I was in a parking lot.”
“Any parking lot in particular?”
“I couldn’t say,” Emory said. “I just pulled in to get off the road.”
“Why is that?”
Couldn’t say a call. They’d have his records. Couldn’t say a drink. That bar wasn’t an Ambyr place. The cars were all makes from another company. He didn’t know which. He couldn’t delay any longer, either.
“I was supposed to meet a friend. But we couldn’t decide on a place. A place that was equidistant. And I didn’t want to drive in the wrong direction any longer.”
McCallum’s face crinkled in disbelief. Emory sensed the technique. The expression on the op’s face had been carefully chosen. A tool. A signaling device to prod Emory into further action.
“I’m a…” Emory stammered. Fuck. “I’m a systems specialist. I can’t stand waste. Even in my personal life.”
“So you just pulled into a random parking lot and…” McCallum trailed off, waiting for Emory to finish the thought.
“Call,” Emory blurted. Fuckety fuck. “I waited for my buddy to call.”
“Your buddy’s name?” McCallum flicked his sleeve back. The cloth would not have interfered with the cuff’s recording abilities. Emory understood the theatrics. Understanding it made the show no less effective.
“John Raston,” he had to say. He couldn’t help it. He had no other choice. His brother, his sister, his friends Carl or Scott, anyone he could think of couldn’t fake their way through a call from ASS ten minutes from now. Not from this guy, who looked like he had seen everything there was to see and was slightly pissed off that you hadn’t.
“Address?”
“Not sure. Long Meadow’s the street. Up in Wheatfield.”
“Great.” McCallum continued to look at Emory. Mouth closed. Emory decided to do the same. He’d ride out this silence. He would.
“See anything?” McCallum asked.
“In the parking lot?”
“Yes.”
“No,” Emory said. “Should I have?”
McCallum shrugged his shoulders.
“What’s this about? Did I do something wrong? Pulling into another company’s parking lot? I didn’t think that was against policy.”
“No, Mr. Leveski. Not at all. I’d hoped you’d seen something out of the ordinary.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Thank you for your time.” McCallum stood. He poked his cuff and snatched up his coat. “I’ll tell your supervisor you were cooperative.”
Emory sat alone in the conference room, relief passing through him like a fever. Warmth, followed by slight shaking. He sat for… he didn’t know how long. His boss let him sit. Security business trumped making sponges.
Chapter Five
The little bean-like creature floated in its fluid-filled capsule, eyes wide, too curious to blink. Hands splayed and rubbery. Legs cocked, ready to leap. This tiny thing wanted to see it all and do it all just as soon as he or she could breath air on its own. Sylvia watched it on the big screen. The microphone the technician ran across her belly took in sound waves. A computer took those and modeled the creature and the capsule. Then the model rendered on a large monitor hung over the table, so she — so any mom laying here in wait, prickling with anticipation, desperate for news, barely breathing because so much of her brain’s capacity had been diverted to the 4.2 million questions at hand — could see, for the first time, the being living inside her.
“Do you want to know?” the technician asked.
“What?” Sylvia asked back. The question stunned her. Know what? She wanted to know everything. Was the baby healthy? A brain? Lungs? Could they foretell complications? Like… she didn’t know. She didn’t even know what she was supposed to be obsessing about. She needed to know that to start. What were the questions. She had no preparation. No storyboards, no script, no notes. She had no idea about anything at all and didn’t deserve to be here.
“The sex,” the technician answered. “Boy or girl.”
“I… a…” Sylvia loved and hated surprises. She liked to have everything in her life working with precision, on schedule, but it was nice to have a little excitement? How boring it would be to expect every turn.
“You can tell?” Sylvia asked. “For certain?”
“I’ve never been wrong.” The tech smiled.
“Thanks, Janice.” Doctor Caldwell entered the room. The technician turned. Sylvia saw ‘Janice Vogel’ on her nametag. “I need a moment with Ms. Cho.”
Surprise. Sylvia could see it on the young woman’s face. Not on the doctor’s. She had beautiful skin, all creased and furrowed, like a bag of coffee beans. It seemed like such a shame. Janice left. The Doctor glanced at a computer monitor Sylvia couldn’t see.
“Ms. Cho—”
“Please. I’m half-naked. Call me Sylvia.”
“Sylvia, it says here that Human Assets has scheduled you for a procedure.”
“Yes.”
“Are you ready? Do you have any questions?”
“Ha. That again. I’ve got more questions than you can handle.”
“Try me.”
Sylvia sat up. She looked at the doctor more carefully. Thin, strong, just enough make-up to be pretty without over-powering. Oh she hated women who looked like they were going to an awards dinner everyday. Becoming a doctor took dedication from early on. Companies didn’t invest that much time and money into people who weren’t rocks. And people didn’t put up with the constant grinding and polishing of a med school who didn’t want it. Really want it. For whatever reason. Prestige, money, or — and this one Sylvia always wondered about — or to help others. This Doctor Caldwell, Sylvia had no facts on her. Just what she could take in, right now, with her eyes and ears. What did this character give off? Compassion? Not exactly. Authority? A little bit. Professionalism? Was that a thing? A thing that mattered right now?
Screw it, Sylvia said to herself. She looks like me.
“This procedure,” Sylvia started. “Do they ever not take?”
Surprise. This time she saw it. She smiled, seeing the doctor’s face flatten and smooth, her eyebrows stretching the stern wrinkles flat.
“What do you mean?”
“The abortion. Does it ever go wrong?”
“No.” The doctor shook her head. “This is pretty cut and dry.”
“What if there were twins? And you didn’t notice the second one?”
“I’ve never heard of that happening.”
“Maybe this could be the first time? No one could blame you for just a one-in-a-million mistake?”
Doctor Caldwell’s expression changed again. The outside corners of her eyes tipped down. Her mouth drooped to match. Sylvia’s eyes filled. Another surprise. Her body knew before the rest of her. The moment slid towards finality. That little creature in its little capsule destined for nothing.
“I ca
n’t,” Sylvia croaked.
“It’s your job. It’s both our jobs. I’m so sorry.”
“What if—”
“There will be other chances.”
“What if they never know?”
“You can’t keep this kind of thing a secret.”
Two little falls of water streamed down the center of each of Sylvia’s cheeks. She could no longer see the doctor; she couldn’t read her face. All she could do was point her eyes at the woman.
“I can. I work magic everyday. Making dreams into reality. Making the outlandish plausible. Misdirection and special effects.”
Doctor Caldwell shook her head. “This is no movie.”
“No,” Sylvia said. “But it works the same way. Misdirection and special effects. This is a little more important than a movie, don’t you think?”
* * *
McCallum said, “Who doesn’t answer a call from the ops?” to no one in particular.
“I don’t. It just means more work.” Wayne Clement entered the squad room, a field of 12 flat, featureless workstations, with McCallum the only operative currently in residence.
McCallum laughed. He didn’t know the economist had a sense of humor. He didn’t know the man well at all. Tall, trim, red turtleneck and khaki pants, McCallum put Clement in his mid-fifties, at 190 pounds. Wedding ring. Tightly trimmed black hair. He had the look of a grade 8 or lower, but McCallum knew he was a 10 and would be for life. Which meant he either truly screwed up at some point in his past or he liked police work. McCallum sympathized with both situations.
“Counselor,” McCallum said.
“Detective,” Clement replied. He sat down in the nearest chair and locked his hands behind his head.
“You stretching your legs or am I a destination?”
“Little bit of both. I like to get out of my cubby hole, otherwise I can go a whole day without seeing another soul provided I time my trips to the restroom right.”
“Sounds nice.”
The Milkman: A Freeworld Novel Page 3