A shadow fell across him, blocking his light. “They say we’ll be pulling out soon, returning to the country,” said a voice, unfortunately familiar, unpleasantly brusque.

Lying back on his bunk, Kassian turned the page without looking up. “Do they?”

“Don’t you care, comrade? This isn’t right. These people just want to live their own way of life.”

It was starting to sound close to seditious talk about their own government, Kassian thought, and made an indifferent noise in the back of his throat. “No, I don’t care.”

And in truth, he didn’t. They had been sent to put down a revolution. That was their job. For Kassian, it began and ended exactly there. Never mind that the people they were sent to kill were not soldiers, but no more than angry civilians. And never mind that a sniper, let alone two, was probably completely unnecessary for the situation.

Fortunately, neither of them had fired a shot.

A boot dug into his thigh. Kassian looked up.

The other sniper was no taller than he but stood like the statue of Stalin that once towered in the Budapest square, chin tilted high to look down upon the masses, hard-sculpted features stern, carved from granite. He was young, perhaps ten years his junior, but his uniform was impeccable, and his hair shorn tight.

“You don’t like me, do you, Irinarhov?” the sniper, Junior Lieutenant Viktor Nikolayevich Sidorov, asked. “In fact, I think you hate me. You’re jealous, aren’t you, that I’m better than you.”

Kassian turned back to his book. “I don’t hate you, actually. I just don’t care.”

Sidorov was silent.

“And you’re not better than me.”

The other sniper laughed, then, a single bark. “I don’t understand you, Kassian Dmitrievich.” He rested his hands on the bunk above, and leaned down, tilting his head. “What are you reading?”

“Antigone,” Kassian said. He knew Sidorov would not know it.

“What’s that?”

“Classic Greek literature. It’s about…the nature of justice,” he finished, frowning. He recalled their exchange, and thought about balancing what was right, the law of the land, or a higher law, true justice.

Kassian had been the arbiter of true justice before, judging it on his own, executing it with a bullet.

Who was to say that the Hungarians were wrong, that they deserved no less than to decide for themselves? That social unrest could only be cured by soldiers and tanks?

Sidorov was shaking his head. “Why do you waste your time with the past? Aren’t you interested in what’s going on around you in the here and now? You can’t change the past, comrade.”

“No,” Kassian said, “but you can learn from it.”

Silence fell for long moments, but Kassian kept his eyes on the page, resisting the urge to slant his gaze upward, to mark Sidorov’s face.

“All right,” Sidorov finally said, slowly. “We’ll prove it.”

“Prove what?” With a sigh, Kassian set down his book.

The granite frown had cracked. Sidorov’s smile stole sideways, fox-like. “Prove who’s better. The training range at midnight, just you and me.”

Kassian’s brows drew sharply together. “There’s no way we could get away with that. It would be obvious.”

“Don’t worry. I know a few people. I’ll get it cleared.”

“I don’t have anything to prove.”

“Aren’t you curious?” Sidorov leaned closer, smirking.

He smelled familiar, scents Kassian knew, gun oil and cordite, as well as leather, soap, and warm sweat.

It was not displeasing, though he had never noticed before.

“Maybe I am,” Kassian said.

“I’ll see you there.”

Sidorov winked, and pushed away from the bunk.

***

Kassian waited near the range at midnight, but stayed hidden. He was beginning to wonder if this whole thing wasn’t some elaborate ruse to get him in trouble, and to maneuver Sidorov into the lead sniper spot by default. By his watch, it was past midnight, and Sidorov should have already showed.

Just when he was about to give up, Kassian saw movement and faded back, drawing his Mosin-Nagant rifle protectively to his side.

But it was only Sidorov, he saw after a moment, carrying his rifle and a bottle of slivovic.

Kassian stepped from the shadows. “What’s that for?”

If Sidorov had marked him earlier, he gave no sign, though he also did not look surprised. “It’s the true challenge of our skill, comrade. The unpredictable factor.”

“I’m not shooting drunk, Sidorov,” Kassian said.

“Call me Vitya, and stop being a girl. You’re not going to accidentally shoot yourself in the cock while drunk, you know. The barrel’s too long, and your cock’s not long enough.” Sidorov snorted, and uncapped the bottle.

“Did you make sure we’re cleared to be here at this hour?”

“Stop worrying, bratan. It’s all taken care of. Here. Drink up.” Sidorov waved the bottle in front of him.

Kassian shook his head slowly. “What will that prove? It has nothing to do with skill, just who can hold his liquor better.”

“No, no, no. You misunderstand. You know very well there are people who shoot dead center on the range, but when they’re in the field, they just can’t make the shot. Unpredictability is their downfall. They can’t adjust. Without perfect conditions, they’re lost.”

Sidorov raised the bottle. “Shooting impaired is the only way to know. Otherwise, we’ll need to take a magnifying glass to the target to tell who is better. I know you’re at least that good.”

Kassian eyed the slivovic in Sidorov’s hand, knowing it was a bad idea. He should just walk away. But then Sidorov smirked at him. “Don’t be a slaboyob, comrade, come on. We’ll take five drinks each, and then shoot the first round.” He leaned in close, so Kassian caught his scent, still warm.

“All right.” Kassian took the bottle and took a swallow, then passed it back to Sidorov, who did the same. The liquor burned when it went down and made his face feel hot, but he continued to exchange the bottle and take a drink at each pass.

Sidorov stepped up to the first target and began to zero his rifle. “So besides classic Greek literature, what else do you like?”

“Nothing,” Kassian said bluntly, but it only made Sidorov laugh.

“Funny. I like that. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you had a good sense of humor. But you need to stop taking everything so seriously all the time. It’s not life and death, Kasya. It’s just life.”

Kassian frowned.

With that, Sidorov raised his rifle and took five shots in rapid succession. He called the target forward and then replaced it with a new one. “Go ahead. We’ll compare them later. Right now, just shoot. I want your best effort.”

Sighing, Kassian stepped forward. He took five shots, drank with Sidorov, then shot five more. It occurred to him to think about how much trouble they’d be in if for some reason the wrong person took notice of muffled shots in the night. Whoever the people were that Sidorov knew, they would probably not be able to help in the face of wrath in the form of senior officers.

But no one came, and they continued shoot, uninterrupted.

Kassian tried to study each target as it came forward, noting his groupings and judging his hand. But Sidorov snatched the targets away. “Stop that. I told you we’d compare later.”

Kassian sighed, but dutifully continued to shoot. Some, he knew missed the center without having to look.

“Tell me why you don’t care about what’s going on in the world,” Sidorov asked after a while. “You fought in the war, didn’t you? Defended the motherland?”

“Yes,” Kassian said.

“And?”

Shrugging, Kassian lined up his next shot. “There’s nothing to say. I was there. I fought. Eventually the war ended.”

“Fucking tight-lipped bastard,” Sidorov said, shaking his head. “All right, all right then. I’ll stop bothering you about it for now. So how’s this going to work? What are we going to bet?”

“Bet?” Kassian lowered his Mosin-Nagant. “You didn’t say anything about betting.”

Sidorov smiled his fox’s smile once more. “Having something at stake makes it more interesting, don’t you think?”

“No.”

“Tvoyu Mat’. All right, I’ll make it easy on you then. A week’s worth of ration coupons to the person who wins.”

The argument would not be won, Kassian thought. He looked narrowly at Sidorov. What did the man want? Only to prove he was the better shooter? It seemed to have gone beyond mere competition, friendly or otherwise. Was he hoping to discover something else instead, through this challenge?

And perhaps more importantly, what was at stake?

“Fine,” Kassian finally said.

They continued to shoot, round after round, until Kassian had trouble focusing and keeping his gun straight. His shooting was only growing poorer, though as he looked over at Sidorov, he saw the man was faring no better, even staggering once when he leaned too far forward.

“That’s enough,” Kassian said after the last set. Sidorov looked bleary-eyed, and stumbled against him. He smelled like alcohol and sweat more than anything now, but his weight felt solid against Kassian’s chest.

“All right,” Sidorov said, but remained leaning against him as they looked over the targets. The groupings were similar, though Kassian could tell which was his: the misses tended to bunch toward the right because of his tendency to overcompensate for his rifle’s drift point. Sidorov’s misses were lower on the target, minute misjudgments of gravity, perhaps.

“Bah! I can’t tell which one of us is better.” Sidorov’s breath was hot against Kassian’s neck.

“Call it even, then. I don’t care.”

Kassian shifted, and tried to get Sidorov to move.

“No! Absolutely not! What kind of a Russian are you, comrade? You can’t give up. You have to keep struggling."

Kassian tried to take the gun from Sidorov’s hands, but the other sniper eluded him, and clutched his rifle tight.

“We can continue this later,” Kassian said. “Come on, let’s go back to the barracks, comrade.” He pulled Sidorov forward.

Sidorov pulled back. “No. One more test. Then we’ll know.”

He pushed away from Kassian and dug in his pocket, producing a shiny bit of metal. A ruble, Kassian saw.

“We’ll throw it up in the air and take a shot. The person who hits it wins. Through the center, mind you, not just the edge.”

Kassian stared. “You’re insane, Sidorov.”

“Vitya.”

“You’re insane. You can’t hit that, not with a Mosin-Nagant. You can’t throw it high enough to get distance, and you just can’t aim fast enough.”

“Bah. You’re so defeatist, Kasya. The battle’s over before it’s started.” Sidorov staggered back to the range, nearly falling before planting his feet. He dropped the coin once and had to search for it in the snow, then finally straightened and tossed the coin in the sky.

He was still fumbling with his gun as the coin fell back down to earth.

For some reason, it struck Kassian as funny. He started to laugh.

Sidorov turned back to look at him, incredulously. “Did you just laugh at me, comrade?”

But that only made it funnier, and Kassian laughed so hard his stomach hurt.

It felt good, Kassian realized. Unexpected, but good. He hadn’t laughed in a long time. He couldn’t stop himself if he wanted to.

After gaping and frowning for a few moments, Sidorov began to laugh too. He staggered back to Kassian and kissed both sides of his face. “I never thought I’d see the day I got Kassian Dmitrievich to laugh.”

“Watching Viktor Nikolayevich make a fool of himself was apparently enough to do it,” Kassian said.

“Bah!” Sidorov punched him. “You do better! You hit that coin!”

Kassian raised his head and smiled. “I can, actually.” He was in a mood.

“Bah. Impossible.”

“No.”

“You’re as drunk as I am.”

Kassian nodded. “I know.”

“You said it yourself. The conditions aren’t right.”

Kassian shrugged. “I changed my mind. After watching you, I think I can do it.”

Sidorov looked at him, narrow-eyed, suspicious. Kassian smiled back, which he knew was unnerving. He felt light somehow, free from some burden, worry lost like a parcel, say a missive with ill tidings which had fallen, unnoticed, from the mail. Maybe in the long run, he would be worse off without it.

But then again, maybe not.

The other sniper’s gaze held his until finally, he gave a sharp tilt of his head. “Hit it,” Sidorov said slowly, “and I’ll say you’re the best. I’ll even throw in a month’s worth of ration coupons. Not just a week.”

“Fair enough, comrade.” Kassian walked up to the range and found the coin in the snow, hefting the tiny weight in his hand. Maybe three grams, and around twenty millimeters in diameter.

A round from his gun measured seven millimeters across.

Technically, not impossible, but still hard.

Sidorov watched him from the sideline, arms folded.

Kassian spent a few minutes adjusting his gun while Sidorov squirmed and shifted, frowning. “Quit stalling and get on with it!” he called.

Kassian ignored him, and continued to fine-tune.

“Bah! You can’t do it!”

Kassian turned a deaf ear to the calls and taunting, focusing on his task. When he was ready, he raised his rifle, holding it steady before gradually pulling his left hand away from the barrel, balancing the rifle with one arm.

With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the coin straight up. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sidorov lean forward to track it.

Then Kassian stepped out of the way, and let the coin hit the ground where he’d stood.

“Wha – ” Sidorov started, but fell silent as Kassian walked up to the coin.

Cradling the Mosin-Nagant in both hands, he lowered his rifle toward the ground, and then squeezed the trigger.

Metal flashed, and the coin spun in place. Kassian reached down to retrieve it, chuckled, then held it up to his face, squinting at Sidorov through the perfect hole in the center.

Not a bad shot, actually, considering he was drunk.

He smiled crookedly.

“You bastard! That’s cheating! That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

Kassian shrugged. “You didn’t say it had to be shot while in the air.”

Sidorov stalked up to him, and glared at the coin. “Irinarhov – ”

“Call me Kasya,” Kassian said.

He wasn’t sure why, but he felt good. It was somewhat unfamiliar, this sort of feeling. It reminded him of a long time ago, and another sniper. But as he watched Sidorov, he found he didn’t mind.

Sidorov glared. “All right, now you’re doing that on purpose. Stop it. You’re a ruthless bastard when you’re drunk, you know that?”

But there was a small smile tugging at Sidorov’s mouth, and his voice lacked ire, nor were his eyes cold. Sidorov looked at him for long moments, eyes lively, and Kassian though he saw something else there.

Kassian didn’t know what it was, exactly, but found it to his liking. He shrugged elaborately, and tried to hide his own grin.

He reached out for Sidorov’s hand, and pressed the pierced coin inside. “Maybe, comrade. Maybe. But maybe I just don’t care.”