Chelyabinsk approached on their right, church spires and tile under a lapis lazuli sky, bright blue with streaks of brilliant gray. A factory puffed out of three smokestacks, like a brown-faced man chewing a trio of oversized cigars.
Alexei looked pale. The violent recoil of the Canton Repeater had jarred his precious scab loose, yet he insisted on keeping his fresh bleeding a secret; when Ben asked why, he had simply pointed at Tatiana fussing over Olga behind their seat, and Botkin and the Empress gathered around the rosy-cheeked daughter. Nevertheless, he was conscious, eyeing the skyline with what appeared to be a casual interest--that is, until Ben saw the the rifle cradled under a bloody cloak, its muzzle following the Tsarevich's line of sight. The buildings grew larger; their scars became obvious. Alexei traced the muzzle from one broken window to the next, until the convoy met a voice.
"Halt! Identify yourselves!" An accent, heavy.
Alexei coughed, then muttered a single word-- "Czechs."
Ben breathed a sigh of the relief; he noted cries of joy from the girls and the Empress and satisfied looks from the Tsar and Botkin. The soldiers emerged from the shadows of buildings, most with looks of confusion. The Czech captain wore a look of stunned disbelief. Karchenko leaned forward and shook the captain's hand as if he had just defeated the Kaiser. Alexei turned towards Ben, grinned weakly, and slumped onto the dashboard.
Ben felt as useless as tits on a bull. He sat on a bench against the outer canvas wall of the impromptu field hospital, watching white-smocked nurses and Botkin rush to and fro. From within, there Ben heard a steady drone of sobbing. Across from the tent, Karchenko stood, pacing about with all the nervousness of a gambler at a horse race. Then the tent flap lifted, revealing an ashen-faced Tsar. Nicholas sat beside Ben, offered a cigar. Ben shook his head. "I'm sorry, Your Imperial Majesty, I don't smoke."
The Tsar shrugged, put them back into a buttoned pocket. "Please, just call me Nicholas."
Ben shrugged back. "Nicholas it is."
The two said nothing for a while. Twice, the Tsar attempted to say something, then caught himself and turned away. Finally, he broke the silence. "I heard from Tanya that you and your friend were after the jewels."
Ben nodded.
"You may take a few. We only hid them because we needed money to book safe passage out of the country. We will not need all of them." He took a breath, continued, "Though it breaks my heart to say it, I fear Russia is no longer welcoming of her former Imperial Family."
"I--I, well, thank you, sir--I mean, Nicholas. Is there anything I can do for--"
The Tsar silenced Ben with a wave of his hand. "I'm afraid not, Veny. The doctors said the boy has lost a lot of blood, and he's still bleeding. One of the surgeons--an Englishman from the Western Front--suggested that we do what he called a 'blood transfusion'--although he is not sure of its success." He turned back towards Karchenko, who was still pacing about in the middle distance. "What a plan God has demanded that I fulfill. He gave me a palace--and turned it into a prison. He gave me two cousins who became Emperors--and set us at war with each other. He gave me Russia, and then made the Rodina want to murder me. He gave me a son, and wants him to rejoin his heavenly kingdom before I myself am to see Him. What a plan. What a plan."
The Tsar's eyes welled up. Ben turned away--along with several of the Russian soldiers as well. The Tsar--crying? Something horrible must be happening, they all realized. Only Karchenko remained oblivious.
After ten long seconds, the tent flap opened again. It was Botkin. He called for the Tsar. Ben followed.
The tent flap swung inward and Botkin led them into the smell of antiseptic. They stood in a clearing, dense tangles of doctors, nurses, and medical equipment rising on either side to walls lined with figures wrapped in so much gauze they resembled Egyption mummies. The equipment looked alive; menacing; a tangled grove of rust, wood, and guts. Ben could pick out individual objects, but then they seemed to blur back into the mass: crutches, the handles worn smooth by countless crippled men, a crumpled pile of filthy bandages, a half-rusted set of surgical knives floating in a strong-smelling mixture of blood and alcohol. Separate from the men, along one of the cleaner edges: Olga, Maria, and Anastasia. In the middle, under a single electric bulb: the Tsarevich, framed by the rest of his family.
Ben felt the flap close behind him. He didn't look back.
"Time," Botkin said, straightening up, "is our enemy. Every minute this boy functions without the proper amount of blood is another minute he risks going into a sleep from which he cannot awake. Tsar Nicholas, you have the best chance of giving this boy the blood that will match his type."
"His type? What do you mean?"
"It's complex to explain--I do not fully understand it. But Doctor Marbury studied with Landsteiner in Austria, and Doctor Laszlo here studied blood types with Jansky, and--"
"Enough of that. If it works, I'll do it." The Tsar rolled up his sleeve. "How much does the boy need?"
"More than you can give alone."
"And what about the other children?"
Botkin bit his lip. "I had hoped not to involve them in this."
The Tsar shook his head. "They can handle it just as well. They are Romanovs, after all." Then he turned to Tatiana, who nodded and rolled up her sleeve as well, without saying a word. Anastasia looked down for a moment, nudged her sisters. All three locked eyes with their father and offered their arms.
Ben turned, left the tent. It was his turn to well up.
