Josh Roseman - The Clockwork Russian and Other Stories

The airship hit a bump of turbulence; Katya whimpered. I kept my feet, but Petrovich dropped to one knee. I advanced, but he turned the knife as if to throw it. I had no doubt he could kill me that way. I wished I could carry a pistol, but guns were prohibited — one careless bullet could puncture the giant aluminum-encased balloon hanging above our heads.

Petrovich stood again, smiling. “You have a simple choice, Constable McDonald: say nothing, go along with the tramp’s confession, and, when we get to Boston, make your report to the Company. You’ll never see nor hear from me again.” He brandished the wrench. “Or there could be a fight, and you both could die.”

Except for the little matter of Katya going to prison for a crime she hadn’t committed, Petrovich’s plan sounded pretty good, given what the captain had in store for me. Especially since I still had the money.

The money.

“What about the money?”

His eyes narrowed. “What money?”

He didn’t know. The Tsar’s government must have withheld that detail — or perhaps the money was intended to help Robins disappear until the Russians forgot what he’d done. Not that that would help; the Tsar was known for his long memory. “I found money along with the documents.” A plan formed in my mind. “Thousands of dollars. You can have it if you let us live.”

Petrovich clicked his tongue. “Come now, Constable. Why shouldn’t I just kill you and take the money anyway?”

“I suppose you have a point.” I tucked the baton under my arm, but didn’t put it away. “Go on, then. Kill me. You’ll never find it.”

Petrovich’s smile returned, toothy and unpleasant. He waved the knife at Katya. “Run, little tramp. Hide. Don’t let me see you again.”

Katya looked at me; I nodded, and she ran for it. Even if she was caught by the captain again, it was better than being at Petrovich’s mercy.

Once the dancer was gone, Petrovich gestured toward the door with the wrench. “Lead on, Constable.”

I shook my head. “You really believed I wouldn’t keep the money on me?” I took the envelope out of my jacket and held it up. The wind tried to tug it out of my fingers. “$6,500, Petrovich. A lot of money.”

He closed the knife and jammed it into his pocket, then reached out. “Give it to me. Now!”

“No.” I took a $100 bill from the envelope and let it go; the wind carried it to the back wall of the foredeck. “I think not.” Then I dropped the envelope.

“You bitch!” He dove for the money as bills scattered everywhere. His hand closed on the envelope, still half-full of cash; when he looked back, he wore a triumphant expression.

It lasted all of half a second before I smashed the baton across the bridge of his nose. Blood spurted as he brought the wrench up in a clumsy arc; I cracked the baton on his hand and, as the wrench clanged to the deck, I dropped to one knee and punched the metal rod into his chest, all my weight and strength behind the blow.

Bone cracked. Petrovich’s eyes went wide. He opened his mouth to scream, but all that came out was a spray of blood.

I don’t know how long it took him to die, but in the end, it didn’t really matter.

U.S. Marshals met me at the port and escorted me to their Boston office, where I was debriefed. I told the truth, except for one small detail, and the Marshals didn’t seem inclined to press the issue. They also took the captain into custody — they hadn’t looked kindly upon his mistreatment of Katya, and, trying to save face, the Company let them keep him.

I was in the care of the Marshals for four days; the Ozymandias left without me after two for her return trip to San Francisco. Not that it mattered; the Marshals were so grateful that I’d recovered the intelligence and eliminated an agent of the Tsar that they booked me a luxury cabin on the California Limited III.

I boarded the train the next morning at eight and, half an hour later, went to the dining car for a late breakfast. I was just spreading jam onto my toast when I heard a voice I couldn’t fail to recognize.

“Hello, Rebecca.”

I smiled at Marianne as she slid into the seat across from me and reached out to take my hands in hers. “Surprised?”

“Very. The Ozymandias left days ago, apparently without her engineer’s mate. Do you still have a job?”

She grinned. “I told you Frederickson was eating out of my hand. He convinced Commander Markel. I’m not getting paid, but it’s worth it.” Her palms were warm, fingers rough in places with calluses from years of working in engine compartments. “Even though you were a little sharp with me.”

My eyes prickled with tears. “I’m sorry, Marianne.”

“It’s all right,” she said. There were too many people in the dining car for her to kiss my fingers, but I know she wanted to. “I forgive you.”

The waiter came to take Marianne’s order, and once he was gone I asked her if she got the note I’d sent; sequestered by the Marshals, it was the only way I could get a message out. “I did,” she said. “I tried to write back, but they said you couldn’t receive any communications from outside.”

I made a face, which made Marianne chuckle. “At least you’re here now. At least you found my train.” Her lips tightened at that and I stroked her wrist. “What is it?”

“Not that I regret being here, but the ticket was…” She blushed. “I’m sorry, Rebecca, but this is expensive, and you know how much the Company pays women. Even high-ranking women like us.”

“Don’t worry about it.” I reached into my jacket and showed Marianne the edge of the envelope. I saw her stunned expression and felt myself smile. “They asked. I lied. They didn’t push it.” I tucked it back into my inside pocket. “We have nothing to worry about. Not this trip. Maybe not ever.”

“Rebecca…”

“Shush now,” I said in my best mock-authoritative tone. “We’ve got a week to talk about money.” I stroked her fingers; her cheeks flushed pink. “Among other things.”

“Amid the Steep Sky’s Commotion” was originally written for a Crossed Genres magazine prompt, but ultimately they decided not to publish it. It ended up at Khimairal Ink , a magazine featuring female-focused literature. I originally had planned to write this story as a sequel to The Clockwork Russian , but while crafting the plot I realized it was too crowded and ended up bidding adieu to John Bach in favor of focusing on Rebecca McDonald.

When editor Marshal Latham reprinted the story, he went back and compared it to a post on the Escape Artists forumsthat I made about a steampunk story that had aired on Escape Pod a few years prior. I was complaining how the author of that story seemed to have a “steampunk checklist” and was making sure he ticked all the boxes, not realizing that I’d done almost the exact same thing with this story. The boxes I ticked were: unconventional (relatively) sexual preference by a female character, Russians, trains, airships, at least one person dead on the floor (having been killed before the story began), the good guy winning, and the bad guy surviving so there could be a sequel. Unticked were: corsets, swords, and cool guns. Admittedly, the main bad guy didn’t survive, but Commander Markel and Captain Saint-Pierre lived to menace women another day. I guess I’m sometimes a hypocrite when it comes to my writing.