August 28, 1911.
Ballroom of the Alexandrovsky Palace, Tsarskoye Selo.
Most European princesses of 1911 spent their afternoons practicing curtsying, French embroidery as well as their language, or Rachmaninoff's piano scales. The daughters of Tsar Nicholas II also did those things, but only when the doors were open.
When the doors closed and the Special Section guard took positions in the hallway, the Ballroom transformed into something very different.
"Again," Alexei ordered. "And this time, with more intention, you can do this."
The Tsarevich sat on top of the grand piano, legs crossed, acting as conductor of a macabre dance, too macabre...
In the center of the polished parquet floor, Tatiana Nikolaevna, the fourteen-year-old Grand Duchess, adjusted her lace gloves. Before her was Captain Vassilyev, a hand-to-hand combat instructor from the Special Section, playing the role of the target.
"The scenario is the Opera vestibule," Alexei narrated, consulting his pocket watch. "There are three hundred people. There's the presence of noise and too much heat from the crowd. The target moves toward the VIP area. You have three seconds to intercept without anyone noticing an aggression has occurred. If someone screams, it means the mission has..." he raised both hands and gave a clap "...failed."
Vassilyev advanced.
Anastasia, the smallest and most agile, was the first to move.
"Oh, my fan!" she exclaimed with a theatrically high voice, throwing herself 'accidentally' at the captain's feet.
Vassilyev stumbled slightly, forced to look down to avoid stepping on the Emperor's daughter. It was a fraction of a second of distraction.
Enough for everything that was coming.
Olga, who was 'conversing' nearby, spun on her heels. With a slight movement making her 'bump' against Vassilyev's right shoulder, the side where he supposedly carried the homicidal weapon. It wasn't a push as such; it was a hip strike to unbalance the man's center of gravity.
"Excuse me, sir!" Olga said, grabbing his arm to 'help him,' but actually pinching the ulnar nerve that would have made him drop any object.
Vassilyev grunted in pain, but tried to continue with the Tsarevich's macabre performance.
Then came Tatiana.
The 'General' didn't use her sisters' cheap tricks, she... taking advantage of the imbalance created by her sisters, slid through the man's blind side. She carried a closed solid ivory fan. With her usual capability, she struck the base of the captain's floating ribs, right where the diaphragm joins the muscle.
Air left Vassilyev's lungs in a breath.
He doubled over.
Before he could fall to the floor, Maria, the physically strongest of the four, held him by the shoulders, smiling radiantly as if greeting a drunk old friend.
"It seems the gentleman has become dizzy from the heat," Maria announced with a clear, calm voice to the empty room. "We're going to take him outside."
Between Tatiana and Maria, they dragged the instructor, who gasped for air, toward a side chair.
"Time," Alexei marked. "Four and a half seconds."
Vassilyev recovered, rubbing his ribs.
"Your Highnesses..." the captain gasped, grimacing. "Grand Duchess Tatiana strikes like an Odessa stevedore. I think she's cracked something."
"I'm sorry, Captain," Tatiana said, returning to her perfect lady posture, though her eyes shone with adrenaline. "But if you were that person, you would have fired at second three."
"It was better," Alexei evaluated, getting down from the piano. "But the transition was rough... sister... Anastasia, your fall was too theatrical. It looked like an amateur production from Saint Petersburg University; you have to be clumsy, not dramatic."
"It's hard to fall gracefully, Alyosha," Anastasia protested, dusting off her dress.
The child walked toward the center of the floor. Two weeks remained until the trip to Kiev. Stolypin had agreed to wear the vest, but the vest was the last line of defense. The first line was them, though it was really so they'd be careful with anarchists in the future.
Alexei looked at his sisters. History normally remembered them as victims dressed in white, waiting for death in a basement. He had turned them into weapons. Was he robbing them of their innocence? Yes. But in exchange, he was giving them a chance to survive the twentieth century, and... if they had lots of luck perhaps reach the twenty-first century.
"In Kiev there won't be a second chance," Alexei reminded them, his voice lacking fraternal warmth. "The music will be loud. There will be thousands of expectant eyes in the theater. And Bogrov won't hesitate. He believes he's a martyr, but you, sisters, have to be ghosts. You touch him, break him, and take him out. Nobody should see the weapon because that would generate chaos in the hall."
"And if he shoots first?" Olga asked, her voice trembling slightly. She was the intellectual, the one who best understood the political consequences of what could happen. "What if we fail?"
Alexei pulled something from his pocket. It was a small glass syringe with a transparent solution.
"If he shoots... then the protocol has to change," Alexei said. "Maria holds him. And you, Olga, stick this in his neck. It's a concentrated dose of chloral hydrate; this will make him fall asleep in ten seconds."
Olga looked at the needle. Then she looked at her little brother.
"God forgive us," she murmured.
"God is busy blessing others, Olga," Alexei responded, putting away the syringe. "We have to take care of ourselves."
He turned toward Captain Vassilyev, who had already stood up.
"Again," the Tsarevich ordered. "And this time, Captain, try to kill them for real. If they're slow, hit them. They need to learn to bleed before arriving at the Opera."
The imaginary waltz music began again. The princesses adjusted their dresses, hiding tense muscles under silk and lace, preparing to dance with death hundreds of times until it was perfect.
A/N: If you've enjoyed this story and want to read ahead, I have more chapters available on my Patreon at patreon.com/Nemryz. Your support helps me continue writing and translating this alternate history epic. Thank you for reading!