Year 3218, Moscow, Earth
The Kremlin Palace
Like much of the Kremlin, the Kremlin Palace had been transported with loving care to the height of the great swell that Moscow had become over the ages. As layer on layer had been added to the city and the lower reaches were swallowed. This had also resulted in the palace becoming quite a tall structure, extending down the thousand or so feet to the bottom layer of the city, where a mess of tunnels, lift tubes, pneumatic pipes and assorted passages connected to basements full of the long forgotten detritus of the capital's government. There were no sub-human monsters, however, as, in an unusual display of practicality, the Moscow governor's office had paid several exterminator companies to keep the area free of anything that might evolve into something unpleasant.
It was around noon when the announcement came to the room of a six year old boy, currently engaged in a lesson on calligraphy, which he was failing spectacularly. He was quite tall for his age, and, to judge by the bad fit of his clothes, well on his way to growing taller. His tutor was, by contrast, rather short and distinctly round, and in possession of a quite lengthy beard, which trailed over his stomach and behind him as he paced, walking about the room with the air of a man who knows quite well that his charge is going to fail at this particular task and rather wishes to get it over with. Into this scene of tranquil academia, the messenger burst as politely as one can.
"Excuse me, your majesty, Dr. Menesius...I...That is...The tsar...His majesty is dead."
Both of the other occupants of the room stared, expressionless at the man. Eventually, Peter spoke up.
"...Does that mean I don't have to finish my lessons?"
---
It was not that Peter was a particularly cruel and uncaring six year old. It was simply that he had hardly ever met his father, the man had remained a distant figure, sometimes seated on a throne, sometimes at the church altar, now and then standing next to him in some ceremony or other. He had always seemed vaguely worried, and had tended to treat Peter with a sort of polite indifference. Of course, he was a hundred and twenty years old, having been elevated to the throne through some accident of heredity and the previous ruler's unexpectedly short reign (although Russian palace politics being what they were, some had probably expected it.) Many were simply thankful that he had managed to father a child at all. The subsequent death of his wife and his remarriage had produce an unexpected second heir, in the form of Peter. His older brother, Nicholas, had grown up rather sickly, and had proven to be rather weak minded as well.
So it was that, standing next to his brother in their official mourning garb, Peter and Nicholas observed the funeral of a man who was the father of his nation, so busy in that role that he had never had much time for his biological children. Even at six, Peter was able to spot the looks that people were giving him and his brother now. His mother kept a tight grip on his shoulder, while Nicholas' aunt, matriarch of another branch of the Romanov family, maintained her own grip on his shoulder. Occasionally, the two would cast venomous glances at each other over the heads of the heirs. The half-brothers, unaware of the politics, held hands themselves, aware only of the tense atmosphere.
"Petya," Nicholas leaned over, "what's going on? They said father died."
"He did, he just went past." Peter watched the black state carriage, a number of Streltsy clad in their official burial garb ceremoniously unloading the coffin, "He's in that box."
"Ah..." The older boy, although it was hard to tell between them, Peter was almost as tall, looked at the ongoing ceremony with little interest, "So...What does that mean?"
"You're probably the tsar now, Nicky." Peter tried to smile, but somehow he knew that things wouldn't be that simple, "Sorry."
"Oh. So I'll get the big hat?"
"Yup. Hopefully it isn't too heavy."
"It doesn't look that heavy. It's mostly fur and stuff."
"Mother says it weighs more than it looks, 'cause it carries the weight of the whole country. Or something."
"That's a lot...How come father didn't get squished, then?"
"Dunno...I don't think any tsar ever got squished. It's probably against the law."
Eventually the idle banter was shushed, and the funeral broke up with much wailing, pulling of beards and a suitable amount of tears (many had brought false ones and applied them under the guise of wailing.) The new royals were transported back to the palace in their carriages and palanquins, all draped in black for the occasion. Once there, Peter was distantly aware of a great deal of noise from the apartments of his brother and the other members of the faction his mother insisted were his rivals. Servants came and went, carrying trays and bottles, and many, many, messages. Peter thought it was a bit distasteful, but didn't worry about it. People having a party was not, as far as a six year old intellect could discern, a bad thing. He didn't notice the guards outside his room that night.
---
So it was that he was quite surprised the next morning when his mother burst into his room, accompanied by a couple of servants and began tearing open drawers, hurling clothes at him.
"Petya, dress quickly, please! It's very important, alright? Dress quickly. Now." The stress in her voice was clear, and the servants were nervous. Their hands, Peter noticed, shook visibly as they helped him into suitable princely attire, while his mother paced and fretted.
"What's going on, mother? Is it the coronation already...?" He blinked a few times, trying to clear the sleep from his eyes, "It's too early...Can't I just go back to bed until it starts?"
"It's not the coronation, Petya. Don't worry. We'll be fine." His mother smiled, a brittle affair which was a bit too sharp at the corners. Distantly, Peter could hear the sounds of a crowd. Nobody was shouting, but the noise was there. A sort of susseration, like a strong wind in a field. The servants placed a cap on his head and stood up, nodding to his mother, "Alright, lets go. Take my hand, Petya. We'll get Nicholas as well, alright? We're just going for a little walk to let everybody see that you're doing alright."
Nicholas and his guardians appeared quickly enough, and the two parties, after a moment, of staring, exchanged nods. Nicholas, Peter could see, was practically paralyzed with fear, his jaw muscles rigid, little squeaking noises emerging from his mouth as he ground his teeth. He did that a lot in big ceremonies, and Peter couldn't really blame him. Right now, he was more shocked that his mother and the ones she always referred to as 'those people' seemed to have set aside their rivalry. Clearly something important was going on. But what, exactly?
As they neared the front of the palace, Peter began to hear words in the crowd-noise, a chant building up. At first it was barely audible through the stone walls, but eventually it came clear:
"The princes! The princes! Bring out the princes!"
Clearly they wanted to see him and Nicholas. This must have had something to do with the Tsar dying, Peter guessed. But why would they demand something like this so soon?
Of course, Peter had no way to know of the rumor which had begun to circulate in the night, first stating that Nicholas had been killed by Peter's family, then that Peter had been killed by Nicholas' family. Both rumors had eventually fused and formed a third, that both princes had been killed, spawning an array of rumors about which faction was now claiming power. In the end, the Streltsy, fancying themselves as guardians of the Tsardom, had opened the Kremlin gates to a vast crowd milling outside, and were now intermingled with them and demanding that the princes be brought out for all to see. The crowd of commoners, nobles and everything in between was writhing in the Kremlin courtyard, spilling into gardens and climbing up fountains and statues as people tried to get a good spot to see wherever the royals would emerge.
Peter was shocked when the doors to the outside were opened, permitted the full blast of the sound to wash over him. Even the adults in the party took a step back at the sheer force of it.
"THE PRINCES! THE PRINCES! BRING OUT THE PRINCES!"
A lot of people, Peter decided. A lot of people who sounded very angry.
Half-dragged by his mother, Peter stepped onto the balcony and saw the full scale of the gathering. The square was filled to capacity, thousands looked up at him, and thousands more could be seen outside the gates, trying to cram themselves in. Streltsy ineffectually attempted to bar the way, but sheer crowd pressure broke up their lines and scattered them. Eventually they just gave up and joined in the shouting.
Peter's mother stepped forward to the edge, gently tugging the boy with her. She raised a hand and, after some consideration, the crowd quieted.
"People of Moscow! See now that the rumors of last night were a fabrication, none of the royal heirs has been harmed! Both Peter and Nicholas are well, alive and happy! See, now!"
Lowering her voice and gesturing, she whispered, "Alright, Peter, come on...Just give them a wave, alright?"
Stepping forward, Peter looked over the crowd and raised his hand. After some concentration, he managed a bit of motion. He observed Nicholas off to his side, undergoing much the same trial. The crowd below erupted into cheering, shouting and arguments. Some, it seemed, weren't satisfied. Eventually some Streltsy beat a path through the crowd, retrieving ladders from somewhere. These were employed to climb up and have a look at the boys, which very nearly resulted in Peter embarrassing himself as he was inspected by a huge, bearded man with a very large axe across his back. After a minute of critical inspection, they descended back into the crowd, apparently satisfied.
Peter breathed out. Nicholas collapsed to his knees, his attendants worrying over him as Peter's mother made her withdrawal.
---
Peter hardly slept that night. His room was on the exterior of the palace, and the sounds which carried over the wall were disturbing, to say the least. Shouting, gunfire, screams...Clearly not all believed the rumor that the young princes were safe. Once, Peter was sure, a shot cracked off of the kinetic shield which covered his window, but by the time he worked up the courage to emerge from bed, any of the aftereffects of the shot had vanished. He did see that, somewhere off in the distance, a large fire had begun. Fires weren't such a big deal in modern Moscow, a city of stone and metal, but the fact that such a large one was going unchecked must have meant that the Streltsy on duty as the fire brigade had either been unable to get to it, or that they were letting it burn. Either way, it was disturbing.
Eventually, Peter returned to his bed, where he dreamed about a burning crowd, shouting for something he wasn't able to give them.
He was glad, when dawn came.
)