Josh Roseman - The Clockwork Russian and Other Stories

The story came to me almost as a whole entity after I saw a random image online (which I’ve tried for years to find, without success) of a cruise ship navigating a narrow, winding river that cut through grasslands. Obviously I changed a few things, but the Jairasu and the car battle remained through all drafts. The Commodore’s ship, the Royal Admiral , is named for my late grandfather’s boat, and in my mind, looks just like it.

Oh, and after I wrote the story, I spent almost a week trying to figure out a good title, eventually resorting to a google search for “songs about rain”. Jo Dee Messina’s “ Bring on the Rain” showed up; I read the lyricsand decided it would be a good choice, but I’ve never actually listened to the song.

The apartment is silent. Naomi and the kids are gone. Eight years — two contract renewals — and we decided to end things. Or, more accurately, I decided it was time to let the contract lapse.

I really thought Naomi would take it better, but I was wrong. I thought she would be able to overcome her old-fashioned upbringing, her parents with their lifetime contracts and their “for-better-or-for-worse” mentality, but when I told her I wouldn’t be renewing for another four years, she hit me. She actually punched me, so hard that I stumbled, falling onto the floor and cracking my head against the refrigerator.

I don’t think much was said after that. I slept on the sofa, and when I got to work the next day, my message telltale was blinking. I found a simple, terse note from her on my screen: “I’m bringing the kids to my parents. I’ll get my stuff out next week. My attorney will contact you about custody arrangements.”

A few lines below that: “You prick.”

That had been three weeks ago.

Sari steps in behind me and the door slides shut behind us. Her hands go to my shoulders, then slide down my arms. I turn to her, see her dark face half-lit by the city lights coming through the open window. Her eyes are wide. She’s smiling. I lean in to kiss her, but she stops me, puts one finger on my chest. “No, Scott,” she says in her lilting accent. “You must test first.”

I roll my eyes — I don’t think she can see it, not with the light behind me — and step into the kitchen. The junk drawer — Naomi called it that — is mostly tidy now, just a couple of data drives and the small white box. I set it on the counter and open the top; blue lights flicker as it cycles up, and an oval area glows yellow. “I’ll go first,” I say, pressing my index finger to the yellow light. There’s a tiny pinch and a beep; the machine has a drop of my blood. While the small square readout shows a pattern of pretty lights, I take out an alcohol swab and run it over the testing pad. I’m sure I’m clean, and I’m just as sure that Sari’s not going to want to test if I haven’t cleaned up after myself.

Another beep. We both look down at the readout, Sari close enough that I can smell the delicate citrus scent of her perfume, feel her bare arm brush the sleeve of my shirt. In small capital letters, it says, “NO KNOWN SOCIALLY-TRANSMITTED DISEASES. NO KNOWN CONTAGIOUS PATHOGENS. BIOCONTROL IMPLANT ACTIVE THROUGH 121778. THANK YOU FOR USING PFIZER.” Despite knowing I’m clear, I still let out a soft breath. I must have touched at least twenty people in passing between leaving the bar and getting to the apartment; who knows what I could have picked up?

“Very good,” Sari says. She reaches past me and presses her index finger to the yellow oval. Her hand brushes mine as she does, and I’m sure it’s intentional. The machine thinks, taking longer than it did with me, and the readout is a little more ambiguous. “NO KNOWN SOCIALLY-TRANSMITTED DISEASES. NO KNOWN CONTAGIOUS PATHOGENS. ANTIGENS PRESENT FOR INFLUENZA STRAIN 602-A. NO DANGER OF INFECTION. BIOCONTROL IMPLANT ACTIVE THROUGH 030579. THANK YOU FOR USING PFIZER.”

“602-A?” I ask. “What does that mean?”

I see Sari’s shrug; my eyes have adjusted to the lack of light. “I was ill a month ago,” she tells me. “I received medication, and did not miss any time at work. I was told 602-A causes at best a tendency to sneeze when it reacts with vaccinations.” She smiles and touches my arm, fingers gentle through my shirt. “My test is clear. Your test is clear.”

Her message is clear. I put my arms around her, hands on her lower back, above her hips, and this time I do kiss her.

Even though we’re both clean, Sari insists that I fabricate a physical barrier. It’s been ten years since I’ve been with anyone except Naomi, and I’ve almost forgotten how to put it on. Sari waits patiently, slim and dark, a smooth statue reclining in our bed — my bed now; Naomi didn’t take it, or any of our furniture, with her — and smiling. I finally get it in place and kneel between her legs, then lean forward, but again that finger on my chest. “What is it?” I ask, impatient.

“You must obtain my consent.” She says it with a smile, and I’m sure she won’t say no, but she’s right. She has to explicitly voice her consent or this could be considered forced. “And I must obtain yours.”

I try to laugh, but it comes out tight and uncomfortable. “I consent to sexual relations with you, Sari Kadam.”

Her hands come up to my face, cool on my cheeks. Her thumbs stroke my cheekbones. “I consent to sexual relations with you, Scott Everett.”

Sex with Sari, though, is a disaster. It’s been so long since I’ve been physical with anyone except Naomi that I can’t satisfy Sari. Not even a little. When it’s over, she gathers her clothes and walks out of the apartment.

Naomi would never walk out after sex, no matter how bad it was.

But maybe it was just Sari. At least, that’s what I hope. So I try again. Neither Ann nor Kelly asks me to wear a barrier, though both want me to test—and both are clean. It doesn’t work out with either of them, though—Ann turns out to be a mistake, desperate and clinging, and Kelly makes it clear she just wants me for the night. After that, I’m jaded to the whole thing, though I go out with Bryan and Daniel after work on Friday anyway. We get a few drinks before Bryan suggests a negotiable-entertainment venue. I don’t really want to go in, definitely don’t want to pay fifty dollars just to walk through the door, but he promises there’s someone here I’ll want to meet.

Her name is Tina. She’s very nice — she ought to be, since I have to pay her just to sit and talk with me. She’s wearing too much perfume. And, like every other employee, male or female, that’s all she’s wearing; places like this, the management wants it clear to everyone what they’re negotiating on. When I was younger, I might have been distracted, but Naomi preferred nudity when it was just the two of us and, after getting the requisite look, I find it easier to ignore the fact that Tina is naked.

“If you’re so unhappy about being here,” Tina says in a flat, broad Midwestern drawl, “why’d you come?”

I shrug. “Bryan said I’d like you.”

Tina grins. “Bryan’s a pervert. Pay me enough and I’ll tell you just what it is he likes about me.”

“I’m fine, thanks,” I say, making a face. She laughs — it’s a prettier sound than her voice — and scoots closer to me. Her hand falls to my right thigh, as if by accident. “So, how did you—” I pause. My comm is vibrating in my pocket; I take it out, and Naomi’s picture is on the screen. I’d caught her mid-laugh, carefree, beautiful. “Sorry, Tina. I have to take this.”

She nods and as I get up it’s as if she shuts down, going from affable, available girl to some sort of switched-off machinery. I touch the connect key and hold the comm to my ear. “Hi, Naomi,” I say.