Kaprov sighed, his face lit by the fires of his dying city.

“So this is the paradise they promised me,” he said. “Freedom from poverty, freedom from death. The Bolsheviks said that if we could shake off the shackles of class, we’d be able to…trancend all this.”

“In a way, you have,” Semyonik murmured. His head was in his hands. “We have seen the end of our city. We have seen the beginning of something completely different. We have transcended something all right, but we’re still dying a minute at a time.”