The End Is Now

Screaming, the horse tries to rear back as a hot flood of intestines gush out of the slash in its belly. A cloud of mist billows from the cascade of bright red viscera. The rider rolls backward off his falling mount. The horse’s legs buckle and it collapses screaming into its own offal.

The lightly armored horseman is already gaining his feet when I bring the hilt of my short blade down on the crown of his head. His fur-lined helmet shatters the bridge of his nose, and he bites off the tip of his tongue. I am already sliding my dagger over his throat and adding his blood to that of his steed, gauging the distance to the pounding hooves I hear approaching.

I dive over the top of both corpses as a hail of hooves spear into the mud around me. Another horse passes by and I hear the shouting of angry men now. Standing a little way off, Elena is shouting as well. Her high-pitched voice repeats the same word—almost a melody.

Poshchady! Poshchady!

Mercy, she is screaming.

MOSCOW, 1707

“They say you are my son,” says Peter, taking a bite from an apple. He chews it loudly, watching me with large, intelligent eyes. I notice that his lip is disfigured, pulled to the side . . . the same as mine.

“Yes,” I say, crouching, my head bowed.

“Tell me, son,” he says, humor in his voice. “What is pravda?”

“Truth and honor.”

“Do you swear fealty to me?”

“I do,” I respond.

“Rise and draw your sword,” says the Tsar, walking closer to me.

Peter does not wear gaudy robes or shining armor. Instead, he has on the simple breeches of an engineer, his boots clicking on the marble floor of the study. He saunters around to my face and watches me with the appraising eye of a mechanician, takes another bite from his apple.

I am standing, eye-to-eye, with the Tsar of Russia. We are exactly the same height. I ease my blade from its wooden scabbard. I hold it by my side, the tip pointed at the ground, my hand wrapped around the hilt, arm as steady as if it were carved out of stone.

“He moves like a man,” says Peter, smiling.

The Tsar leans in and snatches the hood off my head. The rawhide that covers the surface of my skull is stretched tight over cogs and gears. Brass buttons shine across the nape of my neck where the covering is fastened.

“Doesn’t look much like one, though,” he says.

“It follows the truth,” says Favo. “As you instructed. The relic provides power and sense, but it was invoked with your exact specifications.”

“Your name, avtomat?” asks the Tsar.

Nothing comes to mind.

“As you will call me,” I respond.

“Strange to stand next to someone who is as tall as I am,” he muses, chewing thoughtfully. “I’ve never done it before.”

The Tsar runs a finger over my forehead.

“He is very ugly,” he says.

“A result of my limited abilities, Emperor,” says Favo. “Please forgive me. Over time, its appearance can be improved. Any disfigurement is the fault of my own aged hands and not the avtomat itself.”

“It? You call it an it?”

“To call it otherwise would insult our Lord Christ. It is not a living thing I have made, but a bauble. Petty in comparison to God’s works.”

Peter laughs, a short bark that echoes.

“You fear Catherine, old man, even in private discussion. Probably smart. She does not trust in this project. Catherine feels that what has been lost to time should stay lost. She would have those artifacts of yours destroyed.”

Fiovani lowers his head. “Oh no, my Tsar. I do not question the Empress, of course . . . would never . . . but the relics are precious. I have already found another vessel for our remaining relic. And we cannot forget . . . our enemies have their own artifacts. Other avtomat could be plotting against us even now—”

“Enough, Fiovani,” says Peter. “Your studies are safe.”

The Tsar turns and shoves me with both of his large hands. Sensing a test, I choose not to move. My feet are planted, hand clasped around my saber, and although the Tsar is large and he hits me hard, the force is insufficient.

“He is stronger than me,” says the Tsar, face dark with exertion and a hint of anger. “Let’s see how smart he is.”

Peter steps a few feet away and clasps his hands behind his back.

“Avtomat,” he asks. “A boyar noble demands fifty men of the Preobrazhensky regiment to protect his border. Do I accept his request?”

“No, Emperor.”

“Why not?”

“Members of the Emperor’s own regiment are sworn to protect their father. To send them into battle for anyone of lower rank is a dishonor.”

“He is smart, too.”

The Tsar takes a last bite of the apple and tosses the core across the room.

“Strike me,” he says.

I do not respond.

“I am your Tsar, avtomat,” he says. “I am giving you a command that you are honor bound to follow. Swing your saber and strike me.”

“My Emperor,” stutters Fiovani. “He is very strong. Please do not underestimate the avtomat—”

“Now,” says Peter.

The impulse to obey pulls at my joints like gravity. Drawing my arm back, I let the sword tip rise. But . . . to injure the Tsar would bring dishonor. The Word blazes in my mind: Pravda.