Dying as a 58-year-old oligarch in your own time is annoying. Waking up at 20 as a White Guard officer in a frozen railcar bound for Harbin—unexpected.
There’s not a kopeck to my name, my body can barely move after typhus, and outside the door of the cattle car there are Chinese patrols, marauders, and a ruthless 1920.
My main asset is a loyal Cossack scout with a “Mauser”—a kid, the heir of a wealthy family, and a hundred hungry emigrants. My strategy is audacity and the experience from the past.
I’m not going to save a collapsed Empire. I’ll build my own.