The Milkman: A Freeworld Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

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. His 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