Supertsar

By Scott Mills

Supertsar is a science-fictional retelling of the life of Pyotr the Great.

During his reign as tsar of Russia, Pyotr Alekseyevich Romanov dragged his country- kicking and screaming- into the eighteenth century.

He didn’t do it alone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott Mills
• Release date: Dec 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370411672

Book preview

Supertsar

A novel by Scott Mills

During his reign as tsar of Russia, Pyotr Alekseyevich Romanov dragged his country- kicking and screaming- into the eighteenth century.

He didn’t do it alone.

Contents

Prologue: Night Flight

*

Chapter 1: Sibling Rivalry

Chapter 2: Necessary Evils

Chapter 3: The War in the North

Chapter 4: Window to the West

Chapter 5: Poltava

Chapter 6: The Return of the Sun King

Chapter 7: Death of a Traitor

*

Epilogue: New Dawn Fades

Пора, мой друг, пора!

It’s time, my friend, it’s time!

Pushkin

Prologue: Night Flight

August, 1689.

Pyotr Alexeyevich Mikhailov arrived at Troitsky Monastery early. The ride from Preobrazhenskoe was uneventful, but not without its own internal drama: his dreams, spattered as they were with violence and finality, lingered. He woke to strong hands lifting him from the saddle. They had to be strong. At seventeen years of age, Pyotr was nearly seven feet tall. Tall for a Russian. Tall for anyone.

My own sister wants me dead. Pyotr righted himself, dismissed his valets with a bark, violently brushed a smudge of dirt from his shoulder as if it were a venomous spider about to strike, and made his way to the chapel annex. The doorway loomed before him. Food and conflict beckoned from within.

Why were men always fighting? More than any one thing, Pyotr desired peace. Peace in the realm, that men might put their energies to more productive use; peace of mind, that he might better enjoy his scientific pursuits; peace in his family, for this feuding with his sister confounded and exhausted him. But chaos seemed to follow Pyotr, ever threatening to consume him. People fought over anything and everything. Money, love, religion… The Schismatics were the worst. Grown men bickering over the endless minutiae of archaic rites. What omnipotent god could possibly care how many fingers with which men crossed themselves? Two or three? What flummery!

And then there was the madness of the night before…

*

The construction was a slow endeavor, but Pyotr relished the process. As he sanded the hunk of wood before him, artisans and assistants chattered amongst themselves, their questions and songs and profanities blurring, mingling with the sounds of hands-on industry. Pyotr engaged them superficially, meeting their more important questions with a terse acknowledgement here, a gruff denial there. Nearby, a moment after the sound of a hammer blow, a young man howled in pain. Another casualty, another smashed finger, Pyotr thought. He smiled, not with cruelty. Not with schadenfreude, as his friends in the German Quarter might say.

He handed the smooth plank to a nearby attendant, issued a few brusque instructions in rapid sequence, and allowed his mind to indulge in its favorite pursuit: imagination. All around him time sped up, and the makeshift shipyard quickly transformed itself into a thriving international port. Lake Pleschev’s muddy shores became crowded boardwalks. Trees uprooted themselves from the black soil, sectioning their own fat trunks into lumber. Huts became wealthy estates. Rickety docks’ most rotted supports gave way to sturdy new beams. Within seconds an empire grew around him, pushing its societal tendrils out in every direction, soaking up people and resources and knowledge, spitting out industrial waste and willful ignorance.

His right eye twitched. A warning of a fit to come? "Kvas," he mumbled under his breath. Within seconds an attendant handed him an overflowing mug. One of the many advantages of power: instant gratification. Everyone ever trying to please him. He gulped the bread beer down as if it were his last drink, tossed the empty container over his shoulder, and wiped his thin moustache with the back of his hand.

Another tic was followed by a more violent twitch in his neck that jerked his head upward. The