Josh Roseman - The Clockwork Russian and Other Stories

“How was the party?”

“Awesome, Dad! I got a hole-in-one at mini-golf and—”

“The windmill exploded into shrapnel?”

“No, Dad. I won a free game coupon.”

“Oh. What else?”

“I tried roller-skating—”

“And you clotheslined the other children, laughing at their pain?”

“No, Dad.”

He sighed. “Was the cake poisoned, at least?”

I looked at his hopeful face, mostly covered by a silver mask, one eye brown but the other cloudy white.

“Yes, Dad. I made sure.”

“Excellent!”

Dad started up the spiderbot, which rose on piston-powered legs, clomping toward the street, crushing three cars on the way.

Every week, The Drabblecast features a 100-word story, and if you count, you’ll find that “The Birthday Party” is exactly that long. At some point I’d like to go back and write a longer version, exploring how the child of a supervillain might feel among normal children, but so far I’m only about 500 words into that piece. I’m sure I’ll finish it eventually.

I’m pretty sure the spiderbot is what sold this storyto editor Norm Sherman.

When I got assigned to this ship, I also got assigned a roommate. That didn’t surprise me. But what did surprise me is that he’s a Kanidun. The quartermaster has to know that Kanidun pheromones irritate Earther breathing passages.

Personally, I think he put us in the same cabin because he doesn’t like Earthers.

To be honest, Mrf is okay. He’s polite, and respectful, and we get along fine. Other than the pheromones, and the fact that I now have to wear a breathing mask when I sleep so that I can actually get some sleep, there’s only one thing that drives me crazy about Mrf.

When I get back to the cabin after an exercise session, Mrf is in front of the wallscreen, taking notes on his tablet. “Have I shown you this one yet?” he asks in Common, the sounds mushy in his mouth, like he can’t get them out around his heavy tongue. I’ve been trying to learn his language, but it hurts my throat; he, on the other hand, has no reason to learn mine. No one speaks Earthish.

On the screen, Earthers in black pants and bright shirts are walking around a control room of some sort. A man wearing yellow says something to a man in blue, the only one wearing that color. I notice that his ears are pointed. “I don’t think so,” I say. I flop onto my bunk, propping my head up on the pillow. “Why?”

Mrf glances at me. “That tall one — Sh’pach, yes?”

“That’s what you call him.”

“Sh’pach. He never makes the upturned mouth, not like you do.”

It takes a second for me to realize what Mrf means. Common doesn’t have a word for ‘smile’. “I suppose not.”

“I wonder why.”

I honestly don’t care, but I’m not going to cool Mrf’s thrusters by saying so. I’m in a good mood, for once — Chiselle from computer operations was in the gym today, and I’ve been trying to initiate mating with her for several weeks. She finally returned my interest — I think — and we have an appointment for dinner in two rotations’ time.

“It still bothers me that you don’t speak their language,” Mrf says after a fraction. I’ve tuned out the show — Mrf says it’s called Star Trek , and I have to take his word for it. I can’t read any Earth languages. “How is that possible?”

“How old did your father say the recordings were?”

“At least 800 rotations. In Earther years, about 1,000.”

“And you expect the language to stay exactly the same?”

He mulls that over. “I suppose you have a point.”

“And, remember, when your ancestor found Earth, they had dozens of languages. Who knows which one this is?”

That earns me the affirmative gesture. Mrf’s father got the recordings from his father, and his father’s-father’s-father-several-times-removed got them from Earth itself about 200 revolutions ago, during a League survey mission. “It doesn’t interest you at all, then?”

I turn to look at Mrf. His large, dark eyes are serious and a little wet. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I can’t get into anything where I can’t understand the language.”

“That’s why I’m watching it!” Mrf says, and it’s almost a bark, almost his native tongue. “I want to learn about your ancestors, and this is the only way I can.”

“But why?” I sigh. “The rich ones left the planet with all their money, left the rest of the world wallowing for almost six Earth centuries. If the League hadn’t found the planet, we’d have all died out, and then what would you be watching?”

“But—”

“Just stop, Mrf. Please?” I turn away from him and take my tablet off the bedside shelf. It turns on and brings up my personal queue.

“I’m sorry,” Mrf says, and he sounds like he means it.

He doesn’t turn the screen off, though. He continues watching, the recorded sound of the Earthers a constant babble in the background. I hear his stylus tapping on his tablet, making notes.

This will continue for another tenth, I’m guessing, before Mrf actually goes to sleep. Kanidun don’t need as much of it as Earthers.

But I’ll endure, because Mrf is polite, and respectful, and except for this obsession with ancient Earth, the closest thing I have to a friend on this ship. For an Earther like me, it’s more than I could’ve hoped for in a roommate.

I originally wrote this story for an Escape Pod flash fiction contest, but it wasn’t voted a winner. Tina Connolly, however, bought it for Toasted Cake . It has a companion piece about the same unnamed main character, but even I recognize that the other one isn’t as interesting.

It’s not easy to distill an entire universe down into 750 words — especially when I have more than 40,000 words already written in the same universe. There will eventually be a book of stories following trader captain Kage Gray (who first appears in “Return to Waypoint 5”, published originally as the cover story of Black Denim Lit issue 8), once I get around to finishing it. (Are you sensing a theme here?)

Come on.

I said come on. Move your ass.

Good. That’s better. Down the hall. Go on, I’m right behind you.

You need to pee? Here, use this bathroom. Don’t close the door.

Fuck, no, I don’t want to watch. I just don’t want you drowning yourself in the toilet. I didn’t bring you out here to die.

You’ll see.

Here. Sit. Yes, on the couch.

We’re going to play a game. Here, this one’s yours.

Yes, Madden . I told you I brought you here to play video games with me, didn’t I?

Oh, for crying out… just pick up the damn controller! You can be anyone except Miami.

I don’t care who you pick! Pick the Colts, the Patriots, the Saints, whoever — just pick a team, damn it!

Good. Good. Now, do you want to set your audibles? Mine are already loaded.

Okay. Here we go.

That was too easy.

Yes, I know I’m good at it. But you weren’t even trying.

YOU WEREN’T EVEN TRYING!

Quit crying. Get up. It’s time to play.

No fucking around this time. Play to win, or I’ll kill you. Simple as that.

Really? You really think that? Look, all I want is someone to play Madden with me. That’s why you’re here. If you win, fine. If you lose, but tried to win, fine. Just don’t give up, or I promise you I’ll shoot you.