Hazel looks at me.
“Someone tried to assassinate my father,” I say.
I can barely believe it, but as soon as the words are out of my mouth, anger flares inside me. Suddenly, I’m seeing red.
How dare they? How fucking dare they, after everything my father’s done for Sveloria?
No, he’s not always the gentlest leader. He has some policies that I think are stupid, that I wish he’d do away with, but twenty-five years ago Sveloria was a war-torn wasteland that had been utterly wrecked by the Soviet Union, and now it’s a peaceful country with a thriving economy.
I jump up and start pacing back and forth in front of the ugly, boxy steel desk.
Now someone wants to murder him?
“Is he okay?” Hazel asks.
“The bullet grazed him,” I say. “He’s fine.”
“Is everyone else okay?” she asks.
I turn and pace the other direction, and as I do, I realize she still looks worried. It stops me in my tracks.
You didn’t even ask about her parents, I think.
“He said everyone in the palace was fine,” I say. “I’m sorry, I didn’t ask about your parents.”
Hazel half-smiles, and shakes her head, looking at the floor.
“I’m sure you’d have heard if they weren’t,” she says, but there’s still a flicker of worry in her eyes.
“I told Arkady you were here,” I say. “At least they won’t worry.”
“Thanks,” she says.
There’s a long pause as Hazel looks at the floor and I pace back and forth, trying to collect my angry, scattered thoughts.
“Did they catch the guy?” she asks.
“Yes, but they don’t know if he’s working with others,” I say.
Pace, turn. Pace, turn.
“It’s the USF,” I say. “I fucking know it is.”
“I thought they were defunct,” Hazel says.
I stop pacing for a moment.
I shouldn’t tell her that the United Svelorian Front is active again, that they’ve been wreaking havoc and my father has throttled the media. She’s an American, and she’s not even in Sveloria on official business. She’s on vacation.
But she’s also here, with me, in a goddamn bunker, and I think she deserves to know why.
“They’re not exactly defunct,” I say, slowly.
I tell her about the raids, about the burned farms, about the anti-government attacks.
I tell her about how my father is handling the situation, how I think it should be handled, how the USF isn’t actually united at all, that some of its constituent groups are peaceful protestors who want reform and some are violent militias who just want to watch the world burn. That we think they might have Russian backing, but that we don’t really know.
I sit next to her on the bench and tell her about the rumors, about the jet planes and hackers and submarines. Hazel just listens, nodding until I finish.
There’s silence. She looks at her hands.
“I guess that’s why my mom is here,” she says. “I thought it was weird that she got sent somewhere without too many problems.”
The phone on the desk rings. I touch her knee lightly, then stand and answer.
“Kostya.”
“Where are you on the video call?” my father growls into the phone.
I glance at the state-of-the-art monitor on the desk. I haven’t even turned it on.
“I’m glad to hear you’re well,” I say, my own voice sounding hollow. “I’ve had some technical difficulties. I’ll be on in a few minutes.”
“Hurry up,” he says, and hangs up the phone. I bend down and boot up the computer, and it whirs to life. The technology down here gets updated at least every year, which is more than I can say for the canned food in the kitchen.
Hazel stands.
“Prince stuff?” she asks.
I nod.
“Hours of it, I’m afraid,” I say. “In Russian.”
She half-smiles.
“Don’t worry, I’ll find a way to entertain myself,” she says, and walks out of the office.
It’s incredible how quickly a situation can go from heart-stopping to tedious. Within thirty minutes of listening to my father and his military advisors argue, bicker, shout, and point fingers at everyone from the Russians to Turkey to “the young people,” I’ve had enough of them.
We still don’t know what’s going on. Most of the rumored threats don’t seem credible, but we’re still untangling everything. I’m barely participating, and in another window on the computer, I’ve got Twitter open.
If there’s a silver lining to the assassination attempt, it’s that it’s been too big to ignore. My father can muzzle the TV stations and newspapers, but he can’t muzzle thousands of people with phones. Now, at least, the people know what’s happening like they deserve to.
After two hours, I sneak out to use the bathroom. Unlike the rest of the bunker, this room is all stainless steel, with a toilet, sink, and shower big enough for exactly one person.
Hazel’s sitting at a table in the main room, an ugly gray blanket wrapped around her, and she looks up when I come out.
“How’s it going?” she asks.
I just shrug.
“No one knows anything, so this is useless, but they’ll never admit it,” I say, walking toward her.
The table is covered with a half-finished puzzle of an elaborate castle, the box off to one side.
“There are books, but everything is in Russian,” she says. “I’m not a puzzle person, but it’s this or stare at a wall.”
“Interesting choice,” I say.
“Because I’m in a castle, putting together a puzzle of a castle?” she asks, turning a piece around in her fingers. “The only other one is a basket of puppies, and I wasn’t in the mood.”
In the office, I can hear the shouting escalate, and I close my eyes briefly.
“Go,” she says. “I’m fine out here.”
I nod. I’d much rather be here, even helping Hazel put together this stupid puzzle, than arguing with men over video chat. I can still smell her faintly on my fingers, and even though it ought to be the last thing on my mind right now, I can’t help but be distracted.
Stop it, I think. There’s a time for ruling and there’s a time for fucking around.
I walk back into the office, where men are still shouting in Russian.
Another four hours later, we finally wrap things up. There’s no reason that we didn’t wrap it up already, because we haven’t gotten more information in ages. Air traffic is still looking for those jets, and the military police are still trying to uncover a larger conspiracy behind the assassination attempt. That means we’re all still in Soviet bunkers and there’s nothing we can do besides sit on our hands and wait.
My father dismisses his advisors, then looks straight into the camera.
“Kostya, stay on the line,” he growls, and then gets up from his chair. I’m left staring at the concrete wall of a different bunker.
I sigh and lean back in the chair. It’s steel and leather, but it’s old and the leather is dried and cracking, showering bits onto the concrete floor.