Pavel and the Plasma Flintlock

Pavel Andreyovitch Alexikov woke up to a knock upon his bedroom door. He bade the knocker to enter and his relatively new servant, Mikhail, came in. Mikhail was an older man, a veteran who left his posting with the Tsarina’s Royal Navy at the behest of Pavel’s father to attend to his son. Pavel’s father, himself a high-ranking admiral who had known Mikhail for some time, told Mikhail that his son would need a competent ‘advisor’, though at this stage that merely meant waking the young man and keeping him abreast of his day’s outlook. It was less of an advisory position and more of a secretarial one. 

Still, Mikhail bore no ill-will towards Pavel. Though his small commision was paid for by the admiral’s prestige, Pavel was a promising young officer who graduated with excellent marks from St. Petya’s Naval Academy. Pavel himself was currently in limbo before being assigned his first posting—most likely to a sloop, but possibly to a brigantine—and whiled away his time at the various officer’s clubs in Borisinya, a large and predominantly military town on the planet of New St. Petersburg. Mikhail took the liberty of speaking first: “Good morning, sir, I trust you slept well?”

“Yes indeed, Mikhail, the tea you prepared helped tremendously,” Pavel said.

“Are you sure it wasn’t the pints of vodka you consumed at the officer’s club a few hours before we returned home, sir?”

“Ha! Perhaps it was,” Mikhail brought him his undershirt and Pavel raised his arms above his head. He slipped the shirt on over him and Pavel looked at Mikhail’s bionic arm. He hadn’t felt the confidence to ask him about it yet, but at this point he felt comfortable enough to do so, “Mikhail, if I may ask, what happened to your arm?”

“I lost it in a fleet action some while ago. We were on escort duty for a group of cargo vessels when a rather large force of pirates jumped in and ambushed us. I was on my way to the bridge to aid your father when a mass driver slug tore through the hull around 15 meters behind me. We momentarily depressurized and I held onto the railing with everything in my soul, praying to the saints to protect me, when a section of the railing I was holding with my left hand snapped off and took my entire arm with it. To this day, I don’t know why it snapped where it did, or how I managed to keep myself inside the ship with only one arm, but quickly afterwards, the secondary bulkhead managed to seal the breach. The sad thing is, we were able to drive off the pirates rather quickly after their initial attack—I wouldn’t be surprised if your father’s...shall we say: ‘innovative’ take on the pincer attack becomes required reading at the academies someday,” Mikhail gazed at his new arm throughout the telling of his story.

“These damnable pirates have been growing bolder ever since that trouble with the Bourbon Kingdom started,”

“I believe it’s the Bourbon Republic now, sir.”

“You should know my father raised me never to kowtow to Republican sentiment,” Pavel said with a tone of irritation. He continued dressing.

“Of course, sir.”

“In fact, I’d say we’ll be at war with that gang of thugs soon enough. They should know their place in this galaxy. Peasants have no right to rule and need be reminded as such.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pavel paused, “Mikhail, I meant no offence to you, of course. You should know that I count you as a friend.”

“Very glad to hear that, sir.”

“Well now, what’s on the docket for today?”

“You’ve been invited to lunch with Princess Sonya again today. I believe, given the frequency of your visits, her father is expecting a proposal at some point.”

“A proposal? I’m a little too young for that, I think.”

“Indeed, sir, but you know how these old hats can be. Shall I tell them you won’t be coming to lunch, then?”

“No, Mikhail, just because I don’t wish to be married doesn’t mean I’d pass up an opportunity to see the good princess. She’s a minx, you know.”

“I can imagine, sir. That’s the most pressing matter, but I assume you’ll be visiting the officer’s club again tonight?”

“Indeed I will. One of these nights I’m sure to run into someone who will be able to give me an inkling of where my posting will be. I’m sure you can’t wait to be back aboard a starship, Mikhail, and I neither can I. Those training cruises at the academy will be nothing compared to the adventures we’ll get into, eh, friend?”

“I can only hope so, sir. I’ll allow you to finish getting ready and prepare the car.”

“Good man. And Mikhail, you’re no peasant.”

Mikhail simply nodded his head at his young master and went downstairs to bring the car around. Truth be told, he was unsure as to how well he would acclimate to being an aide-de-camp on a starship once again, considering the unfortunate incident with his arm. He entered the carriage house that was just to the side of the main building and entered the small hovercar. It was a coupe, which the young master had requested as he still wished to drive himself on occasion. These occasions almost always involved women. He pressed a small button mounted to the dashboard and the garage shuddered open. Mikhail pulled the hovercar around to the front of the house, and a few minutes later, Pavel came out of the door in his naval uniform: A dark green jacket with gold embroidery, and grey pants with red piping along the sides accentuated by a single-corded red sash that acted as a belt. Pavel entered the passenger side door, and the two spoke on the state of galactic politics as they ascended on a course to the princess’s family home—a large mansion on the outskirts of Borisinya. Upon their arrival, Pavel exited the hovercar and was greeted by servants, and Mikhail parked at their much larger and more ornate carriage house. 

It was around 11:45 in the morning when Pavel arrived, and the servants showed him to a much smaller dining room than would be in the main hall, with a small table and two seats with an intimate place setting. He was told the princess was still dressing and would come down shortly. Pavel took his seat and waited for a few moments when another servant opened the door and announced the entrance of Princess Sonya Konstantina Burkova. She was in a yellow dress which complemented her blonde hair—arranged into tight curls—quite well. Pavel immediately stood from his chair and bowed slightly to her. She responded in kind with a curtsy and the servant closed the door behind her.

Now alone, she rushed over to Pavel and lept into his arms, after which he spun her around and kissed her. 

She pulled back, “I missed you, darling,” she said. 

“Well it’s only been a week, I-” she kissed him again before he could finish.

“A week too long,” she said as he released her.

“So, my dear, what are we eating?”

“Pheasant imported from the Terran Reich with a bottle of fine Olympian wine, and Kansei mochi for dessert.”

“That sounds exquisite,” Pavel said as he took his seat. They began to eat and made eyes at each other, as well as copious amounts of smalltalk: It would soon be the Tsarina’s birthday...more and more Bolsheviks have been sent to the prison station in the Siberian Nebula...the Grand Admiral of the Tsardom has been in another scandal, etc. Soon enough, their conversation drifted to a more serious topic.

“You know, my father’s been putting it into my head that you mean to propose to me soon.”

“Has he now? Well, the thought has crossed my mind as of late. But being that I’m to receive a posting soon, I wouldn’t want to marry you and be gone for who knows how long.”

“Please, Pavel, I’m old enough to know there are two kinds of military men: those who marry before they ship off, and those who don’t. It’s quite alright for now, so long as you only have eyes for me.”

“Darling, my eyes were made for you. In a year or two, when I’m made a commodore, I’ll return to you and we shall have the most extravagant wedding Borisinya has ever seen.”

“How will it be?”

“We’ll have a massive cake for a start. My general staff will be in their full dress uniforms. I’m sure I can pull a few strings and have the cannons at the academy fired off when I ‘may kiss the bride’. It’ll be a grand spectacle that will be talked about for ages.”

“That certainly does sound like a spectacle. Don’t keep me waiting too long, though. My father has the bad habit of looking for any bachelor he can send my way.”

“But he prefers me, does he not?”

“I’m not entirely sure he doesn’t prefer your father and all his connections. But I prefer you.”

“That’s music to my ears, my sweet.” 

Pavel and Sonya had finished eating by this point, and upon checking the time, Pavel told her he had a prior engagement that he had to attend to. She walked him to the foyer of the house and kissed his cheek before a servant let him out. Pavel had Mikhail bring the hovercar around and he waved goodbye to the princess before the hovercar took off and sped towards the city proper.

“Was the lunch to your liking, sir?”

“It was indeed, dear friend. Say, if I let you out at the shopping district for a few hours, do you think you could amuse yourself? I have some private business I need to attend to.”

“Certainly, sir. Perhaps I shall see a matinee.”

“You like those foreign films, don’t you?”

“It’s my opinion, sir, that every man should have an appreciation for the Kansei samurai films. They give an excellent portrayal of honor and duty.”

“Hm. To each his own, I like to say.”

They soon arrived at Borisinya’s shopping district and Mikhail landed the hovercar by a sidewalk. He opened the door and Pavel came over to sit himself in the driver’s seat. He rolled down the window and told Mikhail that he would be back here at around 4 in the afternoon. Pavel then began ascending and started towards General Bolisov’s home. General Bolisov was one of Pavel’s instructors at St. Petya’s, and given that it was around 2 o’clock, Pavel knew that he wouldn’t be home. Lady Mira, however, would be.

Pavel met Lady Mira at the annual Cadet’s Ball roughly a year ago. She introduced herself as the fine general’s wife and extended her hand, on which Pavel planted a lingering kiss. She was young for such an accomplished general’s wife, about 30. They were immediately taken with one another and began a short correspondence that soon blossomed into something more. Hers was a marriage of convenience, not of love, and Pavel took full advantage of this. When one of her letters detailed when the general would be out of the house, Pavel knew what her insinuation was. If Princess Sonya was a minx, Lady Mira was a fox. They had been meeting like this for some months now, and Pavel was going to use every opportunity to see her before he finally received his posting. 

He parked the hovercar about a block away from the general’s home and got out. One perk of being in his naval uniform was that he could claim he was trying to visit the general on business if anyone asked him about why he was there. He soon made it to the front door and knocked three times, which was the agreed upon signal that it was Pavel. The door opened shortly afterwards and Lady Mira smiled at him. He entered and she closed the door behind him. Without saying a word, she took him by the hand and led him to the bedroom. He didn’t understand why. By this point, he knew the way.

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After a tryst—well, closer to several trysts—Lady Mira rolled over to look at the clock by her bed. It was 3:30. The general would be returning soon.

“Pavel, it’s that time again,” she said.

“Oh, let the old man come and find us like this. I’ll gladly fight him for you,” Pavel replied lackadaisically. 

“But that would get blood on the sheets, and you know how much I detest the sight of blood.”

“Yes, I quite remember that one time-”

“Shhh! I told you never to bring that up!”

“Very well, Lady Mira,” he rolled out of the bed, “I shall take my leave of you,” he then gave her an overdramatic bow.

“You know, there’s something very funny about a naked man bowing.”

They both laughed and Pavel dressed himself quickly. He left the general’s home without realizing that his scarlet belt had been left halfway kicked under the general’s bed, in a position easy enough to be seen if someone were looking. He returned to the hovercar and piloted his way back to the shopping district. He waited for around ten minutes before seeing Mikhail walking towards the parked hovercar. He got out and went back to the passenger side as Mikhail got back in the driver’s seat.

“Enjoy the movie, Mikhail?”

“Yes. It was an ancient film, about seven samurai who had to defend-”

“Mikhail, please, if there’s anything I dislike more than foreign films, it’s ancient ones. How anyone can sit through a film without any holographic aspects is beyond me.”

“Indeed, sir, it does require a certain degree of patience.”

“Do you think I lack patience?”

“I believe patience to be a virtue taught primarily by age, sir. I only developed a taste for the ancient style of films after my thirties.”

“Well I’m a while away from that then, thank God.”

“Quite.”

“I’ve been thinking: Perhaps I should go to the high-ranking officer’s club this evening? I might be able to get an idea of my posting if the right people are around.”

“Due respect, sir, but you are only a captain. You might be turned away.”

“Ah, but I’m Captain Alexikov. I’m sure my father’s name will carry enough weight to grant me entrance.”

“I can only hope, sir.”

Mikhail knew that if there’s one thing that career military men hated more than insubordination, it was those that would use family connections to advance their careers. Pavel’s pedigree would likely mean nothing to them, but it would probably mean enough to the staff at the door that he would in fact gain entrance. The boy was about to make a fool of himself, but perhaps it was best that he learn that lesson earlier rather than later. They made their way to Kutuzov’s Rest, which was where only the upper echelons of the military were allowed to drink and dine. Parking the hovercar, the two exited and walked to the door before being stopped by the greeter. He asked them for their names.

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“I am Captain Pavel Andreyovitch Alexikov, and this is my assistant Lieutenant Mikhail Voskoviya. I am the son of Fleet Admiral Petrovic Alexikov.”

“You’re the son of Fleet Admiral Alexikov? I’m sure I can make an exception to let you in, but please remember to treat our other distinguished guests with deference and respect.”

“Of course,” Pavel said. As the greeter turned to open the door for them, Pavel looked over at Mikhail and gave him a thumbs-up and a wink. Mikhail remained rather stone faced. 

Kutuzov’s Rest was ornately decorated in the Neo-Baroque style. The moulding featured a design patterned after a grapevine, and the neon-gold chandelier illuminated the pastel patterned wallpaper in an inviting manner. The bar itself was made of something resembling dark walnut and stocked with fine wines, spirits, and liqueurs from around the galaxy. In the corner, there was a small quartet playing a sonata from a recently famous composer that accentuated the mood. Pavel and Mikhail walked in side-by-side and surveyed the room. They looked at each other and said nothing as Pavel took point and walked over to a table with two open chairs where several older men were sitting. As they approached the chairs and the table turned their collective gazes to them, Pavel spoke confidently: “Gentlemen, is this seat taken?” After eyeing him over for a moment, one old man replied: “No, son. I suppose you may sit if you wish.” Pavel pulled out a chair for Mikhail as a courtesy and sat himself down afterwards. 

“Your Excellencies, my name is Captain Pavel Andreyovitch Alexikov, and this is Lieutenant Mikhail Voskoviya. I am the son of Fleet Admiral Alexikov, and Mikhail here was his trusted aide for many years. A short time ago I was granted the rank of captain and have come here this evening to inquire as to where my posting will be. If any of you can help inform me, I would be most grateful.”

None of the men at the table spoke up, but in a short time one of them began laughing to which the rest of the table followed. Mikhail had a slight smile as well and closed his eyes. Pavel maintained his composure despite feeling indignation at their laughter. One of the old men removed his hat and regained his composure before speaking: “Ah, boy, we needed that. You’re quite funny, you know that? Still, Fleet Admiral Alexikov saved my life once, and I’d wager most of this table could say the same. Very well, I’ll make a call,” he pulled out a thin, transparent glass phone and made a series of inputs before holding it to his ear, “Hello? Anya? Child, could you look into something for me? Use my clearance to search the naval database to look into the prospective posting for a ‘Captain Pavel Andreyovitch Alexikov’...yes...right...very good then. Thank you, Anya,” he placed the phone back into his pocket, “Boy, you’re to be posted to the TRS Lomovka, she’s a sloop with a crew of fifty that’s attached to the 53rd Fleet.”

“Ah, you’ll be in my care, then,” another man spoke up, “I’m Admiral Voronstov. Hope you like killing pirate dogs, that’s most of what we’re relegated to these days.”

“It’s a pleasure, Your Excellency,” Pavel extended his hand to the general, “I have no quarrels with fighting pirates, but you’ll permit me to ask: What are your thoughts on the current Bourbon ‘Republic’? Do you think we’ll find ourselves at war with them soon?”

“An intriguing proposition to be sure. Our young tsarina would rather keep the peace than fight a war. But when one sees this upstart commoner declare himself an emperor and kill off the nobles, it’s hard to imagine that he won’t seek to spread those ideas around the galaxy. I’d imagine a conflict with Robespierre is inevitable. It’s merely a matter of when—not if.”

“I heard Tsarina Ekaterina has started a correspondence with Robespierre,” another man said, “Perhaps he seeks to ingratiate himself with us in order to prevent a war.”

“Andrei,” Voronstov said, “correspondence means nothing when a nation’s pride is at stake. The Tsardom of Romanov has weathered greater storms than an imposter emperor with a peasant admiralty. Come what may, we’ll be fine.”

“At any rate, gentlemen,” Pavel said, “allow me to buy you all a round of drinks as a celebration!”

“Now there’s a good lad!” Voronstov said. Pavel motioned for a server to come to the table and he ordered three bottles of top shelf Olympian wine for the table. The server returned, and the group made conversation on various topics. Pavel was mildly successful at ingratiating himself to the brass, much to Mikhail’s surprise. Soon however, their conversation was interrupted. 

General Bolisov silently entered Kutuzov’s Rest and scanned the place for Pavel. An imposing man at 6’5”, his grey chin curtain beard made the red glow of his cybernetic left eye stand out even more. Upon identifying Pavel with his replacement eye, he began walking over to the table he occupied, scarlet belt in hand. Pavel noticed him too late, and he looked up at the hulk of a man a foot away, staring directly at him.

“Alexikov, military regulation states that a full uniform for a naval officer must include the customary corded belt around the waist. Where is yours?” Bolisov said.

Pavel, who hadn’t noticed he wasn’t wearing it, instinctively looked down and felt for it. It wasn’t there.

“General Bolisov! It’s been awhile since graduation! I apologize, I must have left it at home,” Pavel said.

“Home. Yes, you certainly left it at home. My home!” Bolisov threw the belt on the table, causing a few glasses of wine to be knocked over, “To think I would be cuckolded by a child I taught! You think you can bed my whore of a wife without my finding out? Well you aren’t so lucky,” Bolisov grabbed Pavel by the collar.

“General Bolisov, I assure you I don’t know what you’re talking abou-” before Pavel could finish, Bolisov backhanded him, sending him to the floor.

“Mira told me everything you impudent whelp! I demand satisfaction! You’ll be at the dueling grounds outside the academy tomorrow at dawn. Bring a plasma flintlock and pray to the saints that they forgive you before I end your worthless life!”

Bolisov glared at Mikhail and turned to leave. He walked out without saying anything else. Pavel wiped his hand across his mouth where he was hit and saw blood. He stood up and collected himself to the best of his ability before turning to Mikhail and then turned to the admirals at the table. None of them said anything as he grabbed his scarlet sash and began to leave. Mikhail stood up, bowed to the admirals, and followed.

The flight home was quiet. Neither of the men said anything to each other until they had nearly arrived.

  “Sir, I take it what General Bolisov said is true?”

“Yes, Mikhail. I’ve seen Lady Mira several times over the last few months.”

“That doesn’t exactly bode well for you, sir.”

“Well of course not...Can you elaborate?”

“General Bolisov has dueled 22 men in this fashion.”

“And how many has he killed?”

“22 men, sir.”

Pavel took a long beat before speaking, “You should know Mikhail, I’ve never fired a plasma flintlock before. I’ve never killed anyone before, either. I avoided every marksmanship class I could at the academy—I never thought I’d need it.” 

“Well a plasma flintlock is similar to a conventional gun or laser rifle, sir, though not as accurate. Extremely deadly when it hits a man, though.”

“W-what does it do, Mikhail?”

“The superheated plasma expands upon impact and is strong enough to melt through PLATE armor. You can imagine what it does to an unshielded body. It’s not pretty, sir.”

Pavel began to breathe faster and more shallow than he had been before, growing more stressed by the moment “W-where am I supposed to get one of these w-weapons?”

“I have one stored in a lockbox at home. It’s an older model, but it should work just fine.”

“Can I use it to practice?”

“Sir, don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t believe practice will do you any good. It will happen so quickly, whatever that may be, that taking Bolisov’s advice to pray might be your best option.”

“I was...never much for prayer, or the saints...I’m to die tomorrow, aren’t I Mikhail?”

“I don’t know sir. I won’t sugarcoat it for you, just as I’d never sugarcoat it for your father: You may be damned if you do, and damned if you don’t. What I mean to say is: If you do manage to kill Bolisov, there are those in the military hierarchy that would seek retribution against you. He’s an accomplished and respected general and has educated a great deal of military men in his time.”

“How am I to sleep tonight?”

“You likely won’t, sir.”   

“I’m sorry, Mikhail, I had no intention of involving you in this.”

“That’s what I’m here for, sir. I’ll be with you until the end, whether that’s tomorrow, or a long time from now.”

“Thank you.”

By this point, Mikhail had pulled up to the front of their home. He didn’t bother to park the hovercar in the carriage house, and the two of them entered the building. Mikhail told Pavel to wait downstairs while he fetched the plasma flintlock from his room. In a few minutes, he returned downstairs holding a box with a small lock on the front. He retrieved a key from his pocket and unlocked it, revealing a large-bore pistol with a platinum barrel and hickory stock. He handed it to Pavel and retrieved a large round from the box. 

He held it in his hand as he explained the finer details to the boy, “As you can see, sir, the round has a soft aluminium exterior designed to shatter on impact. You can see through the glass inserts the green plasma floating within. When the round shatters and the plasma reacts with the air, it begins to expand and grow immeasurably hot. It simultaneously burns through and eats through whatever it comes in contact with. I’ve seen unarmored men’s chests completely exposed from a single round during boarding actions in my time. It’s not a pretty sight,” he handed the round to Pavel.

“How do I load it?”

“There’s a specially made ramrod stored underneath the barrel. You’ll slide the ball down the barrel, take out the ramrod and softly push against the round until you hear a click. That means the shot is loaded. Then you’ll pull back manually on the hammer located above the trigger housing until you hear another click. At that point, whenever you pull the trigger, the shot will fire.”

“I see. Thank you, Mikhail.”

“Anything else I can do for you, sir?”

“No. You should go ahead and retire for the evening. Tomorrow will be a long day for you, no matter what happens.”

“Very well, sir.”

“And Mikhail, do pray for me. Perhaps the saints will be more inclined to listen to you than to me.”

“Of course, sir.”

Mikhail returned upstairs and said a silent prayer for the boy. He wasn’t much for the saints either, but Pavel needed all the intercession he could get. Pavel remained downstairs and held the weapon for a very long time, trying to learn as much about it as he could. He wondered how intense the kick would be. There was no gunpowder exploding, so he wagered it wouldn’t be that bad. He looked down the barrel and saw a coil running along it. Assuming these to be electromagnets, he figured that it functioned like a small mass driver. The hammer must have operated by sending a charge along them. There would be no kick. At this point he had no idea if he’d even have a chance to fire off the weapon before Bolisov ended him. 

He placed the plasma flintlock on a table and fished the belt out of his pocket. It was only a single cord, and a thin one at that. He hadn’t had the chance to earn more, to advance in rank, to make his father proud. He began running his fingers along it and humming the national anthem to himself. Wrapping it back around his waist, he sat down in an armchair and beckoned the home’s computer to ignite the fireplace in the room. It sprang to life and he basked in its warmth as he thought about how Sonya would react to the news. Whatever happened to him, she would certainly hear about it, and she wouldn’t be happy. His father, too. He would end up as a disappointment to all who knew him simply because of a rash decision he made with his lower half.

For a moment, Pavel looked over at his front door. He stood up and began walking towards it. He stopped a few steps from it and turned around. The one thing he would never permit himself to be was a coward. Instead he turned around and walked into his kitchen, eyeing his liquor cabinet. Opening it, he went straight for the brandy imported from the now-defunct Bourbon Kingdom. It was the most expensive alcohol he owned, and he had never even tried it. If he was to die, he at least wanted to have this experience under his belt. He grabbed a glass and poured out a double’s worth. He returned to his chair and took a sip. Delicious, he thought to himself. He then commanded the house’s computer to play a Mahler symphony quietly in the living room. The more of the brandy he drank, and the longer the symphony dragged on, the sleepier he became. In one of the rare times in his adult life, he thanked the saints for allowing him the gift of rest. He was softly muttering the prayer to himself as he drifted off.

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“Sir? Sir!” Mikhail said, “It’s time.”

Pavel started awake with a groan, “Well, let’s not belabor it then,” he said.

He shook his head to try and get more awake, and got out of the chair. His neck was sore, as he slept on it wrong. Looking to the table where he had placed the plasma flintlock, he picked it up and placed it in the box along with the round he would use. He handed the box to Mikhail. “I’ll drive,” he said. They walked the short distance to the hovercar and entered their respective sides. The cool and slightly bluish sun of New Saint Petersburg hadn’t crested the horizon yet, but it likely would by the time they arrived at the dueling grounds.

“How will it work when we get there?” asked Pavel.

“Bolisov will have a second who will load his weapon and assist him in preparation. I’ll be your second. There will be an officiant who will explain the conditions of the duel and count out the paces you’ll walk from each other before telling you to begin. For obvious reasons, a priest will also be present.”

“Seems very dignified given the activity.”

“In a proper society, even death must be dignified, sir.”

“I suppose so.”

They remained silent for the rest of the ride. On their approach to St. Petya’s, Pavel could see that Bolisov had already arrived. There were four people there in total: Bolisov and his second, and two others off to the side. One of them was dressed in a black greatcoat, the other in a priestly habit and kamilavka. Pavel parked the car a small walk away from the group. Both of the men got out and walked over to the officiant. 

“Are you the boy?” he asked Pavel.

“Yes, sir,” Pavel replied.

“And this is your second?” he said, gesturing to Mikhail.

“Yes.” 

“Have you been in a duel before?”

“No.”

“I see. First, I’ll tell you to take your positions—that’s back to back—then I’ll begin a count, during which you’ll start walking. When I get to ten, you stop. I’ll tell you to ready yourselves, then signal you to fire, after which you turn and try to hit your opponent as best you can. Do you have any questions?”

“No, sir,” Pavel said.

“Good,” the officiant turned and called Bolisov over to them. He obliged, and the officiant spoke: “Your Excellency, in the interest of fairness I’d ask that you turn off your cybernetic for the duration of this affair.” 

“Very well. I haven’t needed it for the others, and I certainly won’t need it to deal with this child,” Bolisov said, as he pressed a button to the side of his eye. The red glow dissipated to show a circular black screen.

“In that case, if there are no other questions, we shall begin. Take your positions, gentlemen.”

Mikhail handed Pavel the plasma flintlock, and told him to load it himself for good luck. He placed the ball of plasma into the barrel and took out the ramrod, sticking it down the barrel softly until he heard a small click. He then brought his thumb up to the hammer and pulled back on it, hearing another small click. Mikhail gave him a nod and Pavel turned to see Bolisov in position, facing him. As Pavel walked closer, his heart began to pound as though it would burst out of his chest. His breathing bordered on hyperventilation. Bolisov turned around and Pavel was right on him before he himself turned around and was back-to-back with his enemy.

“Father,” the officiant spoke, “you may begin.”

“Blessed sons of the Tsardom of Romanov, I invoke this prayer to St. Petya, the patron saint of our nation, that this duel would be representative of justice. May the victor be right in the eyes of God, may the victor remember the fallen, and may the victor give thanks for his survival. May the fallen be granted peace in death, may the fallen be forgiven by our Lord, and may the fallen be remembered by those close to him. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, amen,” the priest crossed himself as he finished.

“Gentlemen! I will begin counting now: One!”

Pavel began walking.

“Two!”

He felt a thickness unlike any other in his throat.

“Three!”

He remembered Sonya.

“Four!”

He thought of his father.

“Five!”

He wondered about Mikhail.

“Six!”

He longed to see his ship.

“Seven!”

His eyes began to well up with tears.

“Eight!”

One streamed down his cheek as his mother entered his thoughts.

“Nine!”

His life began to flash before his eyes.

“Ten!”

He stopped walking.

“Ready!”

Silence.

“Fire!”