Josh Roseman - The Clockwork Russian and Other Stories

“Really!” His forehead was starting to shine with sweat. “I gotta get out of here. Something’s not right.”

“Fine. Go.”

“Come on, Greg, let’s get the hell out of here before it’s too late!”

“You go ahead.” I turned back to the ship. “I’m going to see what happens.”

He muttered something and ran for it.

I don’t know how long I sat there, watching the ship, waiting for something to happen. My phone was vibrating non-stop in my pocket, but I ignored it. There were a few people still in the stands; I ignored them too.

The ship would open. The aliens would come out. They would be benevolent. We would learn so much from them. We would go into space and join a peaceful federation of other starfaring cultures. We would—

“Citizens of Minneapolis, Minnesota.”

It was coming over the speakers in the stadium. It was displayed in all capitals on the jumbotron.

“Please form an orderly queue and make your way to our transport. You will receive further instructions once inside.”

I looked around. No one was closer to the field than I was, not now. I jogged down the stairs and jumped the railing; a door had opened in the side of the ship, and I made for it. I couldn’t see what was inside, but I didn’t care.

I believed.

“Belief” was one of the first science fiction stories that I ever wrote, and it’s one of the few where I managed to keep the ambiguous ending over the objections of first readers and editors. It took more than five years to go from my brain to publication, and I know I completely rewrote it more than once. I originally called it “I For One Welcome Our New Robot Overlords” because the aliens were originally going to be robots — and, truthfully, they might still be. I don’t know what’s in that ship any more than Greg did before he went toward it.

The story was really more about believing in the future, and being constantly disappointed with the fact that science fiction stubbornly refuses to become science fact. In the four years since the story came out, we’ve had tremendous advances, but space travel remains stubbornly out of reach of the average citizen. Sadly, I expect it to remain so.

I used to work at a TV station and that experience informed the scenes at Greg’s workplace — especially the discussions between Ben and Greg, which are based loosely on discussions I had with the IT guy at that job.

I’m just rewinding my electric gun when the bell on my desk rings. I pick up the speaking tube. “Yes?”

“You are…” The voice trails off into a tinny echo of itself. “Man who solve crime, yes?”

“I am.”

“Good.” The man sounds Russian, which isn’t necessarily a surprise. “I wish to come up. Discuss crime with you.”

There’s a pedal on the floor. I step gently on it until I hear a hiss, and I know the front door of the walk-up is opening.

The gun is rewound and in my desk drawer when the door to my office opens. The man — not my customer yet, just someone who wants to talk — shrugs off his heavy gray coat and hangs it on the hook next to mine, then looks down at his boots. “You have no scraper. Apologies, for mud on floors.”

I wave my hand slightly. “It’s fine. Sit.”

He plants himself in the plain wooden chair on the far side of my desk. “I am Pyotr Leonovich Novotny.” Definitely Russian. “For you, I have job. I have money for you to do job. Tell me cost, and I pay.”

“Not just yet,” I say. “What is it you need me to do?”

Pyotr Leonovich folds big, calloused hands on my desk. He’s a large man, though it’s not something easy to tell until he gets up close. His nose, his chin, his thick black beard, all are so large as to almost be comical, but the hardness in his bright blue eyes is not something to laugh at. “Police, they say accident. No investigation. Vasily Leonovich, my brother, in wrong place at wrong time, shot by guards when not listening to sign.” Suddenly he slams both fists on the desk and I just barely manage not to jump. Everything is rattled, and my little heliotype viewer falls onto its side.

But Pyotr Leonovich is immediately contrite, standing up the little piece of clockwork, touching the exposed gears at the side. I can tell he’s used to working with machines — small machines, no less — by the tenderness in his fingertips. He turns the small crank, winding the spring, and when he lets go, the viewer begins to click softly, once every second. After ten ticks, a larger gear catches and the heliotype of my parents is replaced by one from my university days. He looks at me then, satisfied, a little guilty. “Apologies. But Vasily was not ignorant. Police, they anger me.”

I nod. “When did this happen?” I still haven’t decided to take the case, but I pick up my pen and twist it, exposing the nib. “How long ago?”

“Two weeks now,” he says, and I write it down. “Police take one week just to release body for burial, then one day to tell me no case. I try to learn, but face closed door. Not expert.” He has that guilty look again. “Tried to fight guards. Shot me.” He pulls down the neck of his thick, dark-green sweater, and I see a bandage. “Woke up in alley. Came to see you next day.”

“Pyotr Leonovich,” I say, and he blinks, surprised that I know the correct form of address, “what sign did your brother allegedly ignore?”

He sighs, then sits silent a moment. “Trespassers shot on sight.”

I put my pen down. There’s only one place in Seattle where anyone would find that sign. “I’m sorry, Pyotr Leonovich, but I can’t help you.”

His big hands curl into fists, but he controls his anger. “Please,” he says, low and soft. “I must know why!”

“I’m sorry,” I say again.

He says something in Russian that I can’t quite make out, though the word for “shit” figures in it somewhere. I never learned the language, not officially, but living here it’s hard not to pick up at least some useful phrases. Instead of bothering to translate, though, he takes out an envelope and places it on the desk. “Deed to property,” he says, pushing the soft white paper across the blotter. “My brother’s. Yours if you find out why he was killed.”

I wouldn’t be a detective if I wasn’t curious. I take out the deed, unfold it, and scan it. Then I fold it back up and replace it. “This stays here,” I say. “Even if I wasn’t going to take your case, this isn’t something you want in your possession. Not right now.”

“So you will work for me?” He seems to brighten, though with the beard and mustache effectively obscuring the lower half of his face, it’s kind of hard to tell.

“Yes,” I say. “You’ll pay me $150 for the first week’s expenses, non-refundable, then another twenty per day after that.”

He nods and reaches into his pocket, then sets a small stack of bills on the desk. “I am watchmaker,” he says. “Clockmaker also. Money is not problem.” The top bill has Grant on it, and there’s no reason to believe the others are any different. I pocket two of the fifties, then drop the rest into a slot in the desk, the one that leads to my safe.

I push my chair back and stand up. Pyotr Leonovich rises as well. “Thank you,” he says sincerely. “Thank you.” He reaches out as if to shake my hand, but I don’t reach back, and he unsuccessfully turns the gesture into a thick-fingered comb that goes through his black hair. He goes to the door and pulls on his coat. “You find me at shop. Downtown, next to Ishmael’s Restaurant. All hours, come if you know anything.”