“Sic semper tyrannis, punc!” said Booth, and pulled the trigger. His Magma-Gauss gun hissed and Lincoln crumpled, a thin wisp of smoke rising from his head.

Rasputin’s dark, mad eyes stabbed into the piggy little LEDs of Mecha-Hitler. “If you hadn’t killed him, I would have, eventually.”

The fragment of Mecha-Hitler replied, “Your turn.”

A corpse wearing an ornate dress uniform stepped out of the shadows. Prince Yusupov raised his arms, which had been replaced by darkly bristling pneumatic knives and guns. “Rasputin,” he moaned.

Before Yusupov could attack, the room was filled with light. Lincoln’s goggles unfolded into a delicate machine, which flew up on trembling gossamer wings. It bent time so that Lincoln’s body rose from the floor. The bullet flew back through the President’s head with such force that it struck John Wilkes Booth in the forehead instead.

Yusupov shambled toward Rasputin. “I don’t know who you are,” said Lincoln as he shattered the creature, “but I need Rasputin alive.”