Eighteen years later.

Acting calmly under immense pressure was an under-credited art. The discipline of slowing an anxious heartbeat was a skill that came from instruction and practice, not one’s nature. Niklas sucked in a deep breath of air slowly. He didn’t have much time, but he couldn’t afford to listen to his instincts, which cried at him to act quickly.

The tip of his nose was numb and runny, and his hands were still unsteady. That wouldn’t do. Niklas exhaled long and deep, and the vaporous plume of his breath bellowed through the filter in his mask, cutting through the frigid air.

Lungs emptied as the last whiff of air escaped. Niklas held his breath for four full seconds. That was the secret. Somehow, holding his breath for a moment between breaths did more to slow his heart than the intake of oxygen itself. Niklas sucked in another slow deep breath. Unable to wait any longer, he let out his last breath. As he emptied his lungs, his hands steadied, and he aligned his rifle’s iron sights.

[ Image: Ch 1 Brothers.png ]

Niklas slowly squeezed the trigger, and his rifle bucked into his shoulder with a bright yellow flash. Gunshots weren’t jarring or surprising anymore. He could hardly remember when they were. A master artisan couldn’t afford to be startled by the tools of his trade.

The metal target in the distance let out a sharp ping as it swung back and crashed down onto the bar.

Quickly, he sought another target. There were still plenty left for him. He fired from a kneeling supported position, bracing himself against a brick barrier. Ping. Ping. Ping. The range sang with gunshots and chiming targets as he shot the next three rounds. He had only one bullet left.

A drone hit the ground next to Niklas and began to assemble their weapon frantically. Niklas didn’t check to see who it was. His score was at risk, and every second counted. He found his final target and gently tugged the trigger.

Ping!

“Loga, clear!” the drill chief barked.

At his consent, Niklas quickly locked the slide back and disassembled his weapon. His hands moved on their own. He had done it countless times since he was a child. Niklas left the rifle in pieces, snatched up his pack, and threw it on his shoulders. The familiar weight was cold as it pressed the sweat-soaked armor into his back. The time for calm precision was gone. It was time for speed.

Niklas shot off after the others, the cleats in his boots cutting into the ice below. He counted eight drones ahead of him. They had been faster with the range portion of the exam. No doubt, some of them paid for it with reduced accuracy. The final part of the exercise was a sprint, and he intended to finish first. He charged behind the line of shooters, pumping his legs and leaning forward.

Only a few obstacles remained, the foremost among them being a wooden wall that stood nine feet tall. One by one, the drones ahead of him vaulted it, or at the very least, caught the edge and then hauled themselves over.

Niklas didn’t slow as the wall sped toward him. Borrowing the momentum from his run, he lunged at the barrier. Its wood face was scarred from the boots of the thousands of drones who had already attempted the course. Niklas kicked straight into the obstacle as hard as he could. The abrupt counterforce redirected his momentum from going forward to going up.

He caught the lip of the wall and managed to pull himself over in one movement, giving him the momentum required to pass a drone who was unable to execute the maneuver as seamlessly.

Niklas bolted again. His bones, muscles, and joints ached. The past four hours of constant challenges of athleticism and control had worn him down.

Keep going! Niklas thought. The panic that he might burn out so close to the end chipped at his determination. The burden of Niklas’ armor and full pack dragged him back like an anchor, and he saw his ideal score fading. No! Niklas forced himself on. Burning out was a risk he would have to take. What did it matter if he threw up or went into shock after he finished? If he could persist just a little longer, he would finish first.

Niklas passed another drone who was starting to stagger and fall behind. The final obstacle was another wall, twenty feet high, with a two-and-a-half-foot opening at the bottom. The drones ahead of him stripped off their backpacks, tossed them underhand as they arrived, and then quickly rolled under to recover their gear. It was the smoothest way to get under, provided you timed it right, but Niklas felt his focus fading under his ragged breaths.

He got to the wall and dove under, keeping his backpack on. His bag snagged, but he forced himself through with a snarl of determination. Niklas thought a quick prayer of gratitude that his pack didn’t rip as he scrambled back to his feet. Then he saw it. The end of this seemingly eternal final test. The finish line.

Niklas ran like he had hounds on his tail. He sprinted as if charging Relrin lines. He quickly passed the drone immediately ahead of him and automatically estimated the remaining distance. Five-hundred meters. Niklas felt his energy drain, his hope for first place slipping away. Niklas recognized the next drone immediately ahead of him by the painted rune on the side of his mask. It was Skelv, a drone who had transferred with Niklas from his last unit, the War Bugs. Niklas smirked. He wouldn’t finish first, but there was no way in Pit he would finish behind Skelv.

He threw himself into the run, pushing his pace. Three hundred meters.

“Watch your step!” Niklas cried as he inched past Skelv.

“Deck you, Pink!” Skelv barked back as he tried to match Niklas’ pace.

Niklas felt his face heat up. He thought they were past that. Skelv knew he hated being called pink and was intentionally trying to provoke him. Niklas stole further ahead with a renewed determination.

“Gah!” Skelv cried as his resolve gave out, and he fell several paces behind. Niklas laughed at Skelv’s expense, bounding past the finish line just ahead of him.

As soon as Niklas came to a stop, he disengaged his mask. The helmet hummed as it split into several sections like an egg cracking along the seams, allowing him to pull it off and set it down. Everything seemed to tilt and sway, so he doubled over with his palms planted on his knees. He sucked in sweet unfiltered air in huge gulps. The cold air was refreshing to his overheated body. Yet, he still had to shut his eyes tight enough to make the back of his skull throb to avoid heaving the contents of his stomach onto the frozen ground. The price of effort in training was seldom pleasant until after recovery. He clamped his lips together. They felt clammy as they only could after he pushed himself harder than his body thought it should go. He huffed until the ground steadied under his feet.

Skelv staggered over to Niklas, panting like a dog, and gave him a light jab to the shoulder. “Deck… you!” he gasped between breaths.

“What? Don’t like losing to a pink?” Niklas wheezed back.

Skelv barked with laughter, sending out a jet of vapor into the cold. Niklas could practically see Skelv’s smile from behind his mask. The gold bars on the side of his mask marked him as a second-mark drone.

“You’re not so bad for a pink,” Skelv said, offering Niklas a canteen. Niklas took it and drank deep. They were a competitive people, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t be friends- usually.

“That- was the worst,” Skelv coughed. “How do you think you did?”

Niklas shrugged. “I don’t know, but we finished fifth and sixth. We devoured this course!”

“Yeah, we did,” Skelv agreed. “Four hours of this pit, and now I’m so glad we’re done.” With a lumaulic hum, he disengaged and pulled off his own mask.

Skelv, like all Sharderins, was gray-skinned and had a nearly three-foot drone’s braid of matted, white hair pulled back and secured by a flat metal ring. It was a drone’s standard hairstyle. The ring plugged into a socket hole with the helmet on, allowing the ponytail to stick out of the back like a plume.

In contrast, Niklas was only half Sharderin. His hair was a salt and pepper mix of the Sharderin white and the Relrin black. It, too, was pulled back and secured by a ring in Sharderin Drone fashion. Most outsiders claimed Sharderins were a haunting race to behold, almost ghostly, with their white hair contrasting their near-black eyes.

They sat and cooled off while the others finished. Despite his armor being designed to maintain heat in the winter, Niklas’ sweaty body grew chill in the frosty air.

He glanced frequently at the lacquered wood score wall as if the drill cadre had somehow already calculated the results. He was sure he did well enough, but lingering doubt kept him from getting too comfortable.

As they waited, Skelv jogged off, leaving Niklas alone. Probably to boast to some of his closer detachment mates that he had done better than they. Niklas didn’t mind. He was used to it; after all, he was the only half-blood drone in the Sky Shred detachment. The fact that he was a fourth-mark drone didn’t seem to carry him socially.

Almost twenty minutes had dragged by when the last drone finally came bounding over the line. It was Kristoffer, a massive drone with a thick build and struggling physical conditioning.

The drill chiefs called for them to form up in front of the scoreboard while they calculated the scores. Niklas silently prayed to Gyva that he made it into the top five.

He had finished fifth, but an array of factors could drag his score down. His shooting, moving, sparing, and land navigation were all considered in his grade. Being in a detachment of twenty, Niklas had to make it into the top ten percent of the battalion even to be considered for acceptance in a cathedral. Niklas had ambitions to join the Raider’s cathedral. He had consistently been making the top twenty-fifth percent for a month now.

After what felt far too long by Niklas’ reckoning, the drill chiefs tapped the scored wall with a short baton to reveal the postings.

A trough, filled with metallic powder at the bottom of the board, let out a sharp whine as the filings magnetized. The black and grey powder snaked and writhed up the lacquered wood. The steel dust quivered and shifted between crystalline shapes until it settled into columns and rows of writing, forming hundreds of names and numbers. They showed a battalion score as well as a detachment score. Niklas scanned the area of probability, but his heart fell as he didn’t see his name. Skelv had come in fifth in the detachment. “Skelv!” Niklas said, catching the other drones’ attention. “Not bad at all!” he praised.

“Says the guy who took first,” Skelv snorted.

What? Niklas looked at the top of the board in surprise; sure enough, his name was at the top. First from the Sky Shreds and seventh in the battalion. Niklas let out a victory cry and punched Skelv on the shoulder. “You see that?” Niklas cried. “I fragging did it!”

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His rank was better than he had hoped! He had never scored first before. He didn’t intend to stop there now that he had done it. After succeeding once, it no longer seemed like an unattainable goal. If he kept this up, he would probably get promoted to the fifth mark and then to drill chief. That was if he didn’t get drafted into the Raiders first.

“All right, Sky Shreds. You’re dismissed for chow. Drop your equipment off at the armory. Fall out.”

Niklas gathered his bag and mask and joined his detachment as they filed away from the drill chiefs. Many drones groaned and stretched sore muscles from their day of rigorous testing. Those who scored well laughed with friends. Those who didn’t do well skulked and muttered under their breath.

Niklas didn’t exactly have any friends to banter with, having only just transferred into the Sky Shred detachment. He was too caught up in his success to care. His test rank was unbelievable! The Raiders had to accept him if he maintained his scores. Edgar would be so proud. Both Loga brothers would be architects.

The Sky Shreds jogged to the side of the roadway to avoid a large training transport, which moaned as it hovered by. The vehicle held two detachments of drones harnessed to the outside. The drones’ helmeted heads swayed as they looked around in anticipation as they had yet to begin their testing. Niklas did not envy them.

In contrast, the Sky Shreds slumped along, deadbeat, exhausted, and finished for the day. They passed several other units in various stages of their own testing. Gunshots rang, drill chiefs barked instructions, and formations called cadences as they jogged by. The entire Training Pit buzzed with motion as thousands of drones like Niklas did their quarterly testing and ranking. Only the best was expected from them; after all, they were Sharderins.

Niklas still couldn’t shake the swell of pride he carried. What would Edgar say when he heard that he had taken first? Niklas’ older brother was an architect himself. Surely, Edgar could put in a good word for him; that was if Edgar ever came back. Edgar seemed to have been gone for ages this time.

Niklas smiled in spite of himself. Edgar would respect Niklas even more. Finally, they might be equals.

The Sky Shreds stepped onto a dark armory depot. Niklas drew his pistol and approached the rack in the wall. The rack housed a line of sockets mounted to a track. Niklas stuck the weapon into the socket barrel first. The pistol jumped into place as the magnetic seal locked the firearm into place. Part of Niklas wished he could keep the same weapon, but drones didn’t own property. Other drones filled the pistol rack, and the whole line of sidearms slid along a track down the wall and into the back of the armory depot, allowing a new empty one to roll into its place.

Niklas then undid the latches on his armor. The form-fitted plates hung loosely once undone, and he folded forward, allowing the heavy shirt to slide off his shoulders onto the floor. His leg platings came off next, and Niklas dropped them down a shoot where they would be sanitized and reused for another drone his size. Finally, he stripped off his underclothing and sent them down another shoot. Around him, the rest of the Skyshreds did the same, disposing of everything except their masks. Niklas clutched the helmet tightly. The only possession he had that he didn’t share was the mask, which was his face as far as the clan was concerned. Four gold bars on the left cheek indicated his rank, and his rune, Loga, was printed on the right cheek.

A door at the back of the depot opened, and steam bellowed out into the front room.

“Sky Shreds, You’re up for disinfection.” A buzzing voice announced from a small steel plate that vibrated on the wall.

The Sky Shreds, naked and shameless, stepped into the room.

Niklas winced as scalding water sprayed down from the ceiling. They walked down the long corridor that poured like a steaming rainstorm. Niklas smelled the chemicals mixed in the water that killed any bacteria down the first half of the hall. At the halfway point, it became plain water to rinse the disinfectants away. By the time Niklas got to the other side, he finally adjusted to the harsh temperature, just to step through a few feet of chilled rinse water.

They never stopped to lather or scrub, taking a steady pace; they entered filthy and sweaty and exited cleansed.

On the other side, they toweled off and selected uniforms that fit from a line of racks.

Clean and changed, they finally stumbled into the crowded chow hall. Drones filled the benches, talking and laughing riotously. Niklas took a relieved breath. He could breathe freely again! The pre-testing anxiety had kept him tossing fitfully in his bunk all week.

A staff chief with a non-commissioned officer mask marked with two gold vertical bars on the left cheek stopped them. He marked the detachment on a ledger as they entered.

Creed?” he said simply.

“I am a drone,” the detachment roared in unison without a second thought. The words had been programmed into their minds for the past ten years. “My mind and body belong to the clan; my sweat, blood, and dreams are only for the clan. I work, fight, and die for the clan. I think not for myself but to execute the directives given to me by the clan. I long for death in Stigki’s name so Valor can be on the clan and me.”

The staff chief nodded once and dismissed them to chow.

They waited in line and collected trays full of ram-fiend meat, bread, and mashed cas. Several of the drones in Niklas’ detachment broke off to sit with friends elsewhere, casting wary eyes at the bored-looking low-mark drill chiefs who observed the rumble.

Niklas followed the rest of them when he heard someone call his name. He looked to find Elof beckoning him to the table with two other guys. Elof was a half-blood like Niklas. So were the other two, but they were technically supposed to stay with their units. Even if their detachments didn’t want the half-bloods around.

Niklas shook his head apologetically and continued with the Sky Shreds. Having just transferred in, what would be the point of alienating himself before he had even had a chance to settle in? He slumped onto the bench, and instantly, the two next to him shied away ever so slightly. No doubt, they didn’t even realize they did it. It was irritating, but it wasn’t exactly a new problem.

“Gyva’s gift,” he muttered the two-word prayer before attacking his meal. He paused when he found the detachment leader looking at him from across the table with a smug face. What was his name? Alf? His mask rested before him on the table and bore five drone marks, one mark Niklas’ superior.

“First place, Loga?” his detachment leader said dryly. “That’s pretty high speed, isn’t it? Why do you care so much about your score?”

Niklas was taken aback for a moment. People seldom spoke with him unless they had to. So, what did the detachment leader want?

“I’m going to join the architects,” Niklas answered over the noise of the chow hall. “The Raiders.”

That pulled several of the others at the table from their conversations. They turned to look at Niklas in surprise.

“See this guy, Alf!” Skelv laughed. “He wants to be an architect.” That caused several others at the table to chuckle, and Niklas felt his face heat up. He knew he worked harder than anyone else in the unit. So why should they treat it as a joke?

“Well, good on ya,” Kristoffer, a larger drone, called through mouthfuls of food. “I’ve been trying to get accepted into the Siegers myself.”

Niklas winced visibly. If he recalled correctly, Kristoffer’s score was horrible. Maybe third to last? He was far from competent enough to make it into the Siegers, but Niklas wouldn’t mention it. Kristoffer was friendly.

“You don’t have a chance, Kristoffer,” detachment leader Alf chided, “unless you can get your scores up.”

Kristoffer’s face fell, and Niklas tensed. “What’s your problem?” He snapped at Alf. What did he care if Alf was the detachment leader? Kristoffer seemed like he might be a potential ally. Gyva knew Niklas had few enough.

“I think Kristoffer has a great chance; plus, the Siegers are more concerned about intellect than physical performance.”

“Then you definitely don’t have a chance, Kristoffer,” Alf laughed. Kristoffer tried to swat at Alf only to get his clean uniform smudged with a bit of mashed cas as the detachment leader ducked away.

“Hey, you’re big. You could try to be a Berserker,” another drone suggested to the disheartened brute. Kristoffer turned pale.

“Now wait,” Niklas objected, “not even I would be crazy enough to join the Berserkers willingly. I’m not even sure that those guys are human.”

“You know I hear that they infuse Berserkers with the blood of beasts, and they give up their humanity for monstrous strength,” another cut in.

“I don’t believe it,” Skelv objected.

“Have you ever seen a Berserker? After their training, I mean?” Alf asked.

“No,” Skelv admitted.

“That’s right. Because the priests keep them locked in chains like mad dogs, that’s what I hear. But let's be honest. Of each of the four architects, the least natural is the Reapers. I hear that the priests sacrifice reapers on altars and animate their corpses with Stigki’s spirits. That’s why they have necrotic abilities.”

Niklas snorted at Alf’s ignorance. “My brother is a Reaper,” he said as he began to mop up his plate with a piece of bread. “He’s no spirit.” All eyes turned on Niklas, eager for more, but Alf narrowed his eyes suspiciously. It was strange being the center of attention. But Niklas reveled in it for the fleeting moment he could have it.

“Have you asked him what happens in the cathedrals?” Skelv asked.

“Of course I have. That’s protected information. He can’t talk about it.”

Skelv nodded, “Typical. I don’t know why the priests are so secretive about their cathedrals?”

“Only Stigki knows,” Niklas agreed.

“I’m calling it,” Alf said. “If your brother was really an architect, you would know something about them.”

Niklas shrugged. “They take their secrets seriously.”

“Liar.”

Niklas looked up at Alf. Alf smiled slyly. He was taunting Niklas, testing him, provoking him on purpose. It was a ritual they all faced every time they transferred units. The detachment leader would probe to see what the new transfer would do under heat. Niklas wasn’t in the mood for these games, so he ignored Alf and focused back on his food.

“Maybe you’re telling the truth, but your brother is lying to you, pretending to be a Reaper, so you will feel better about being a Relrin.”

Niklas slammed his fist into the table, several tin plates rattling in place. He bolted to his feet. “I am not a fragging Relrin!” he snarled.

Alf was on his feet in an instant, glowering back. “Well, you sure look like one, Pink!” Heads turned from all of the surrounding tables.

“Coy!” a drone called out, and the others took the cue. Dozens of drones began to drum the table with their fists and stamp their feet with goading cries and taunts.

Typical! They wanted a fight. The clamor of the surrounding tables drew the attention of a few chiefs, but they didn’t do anything to stop them. History had taught Niklas that the low-mark chiefs would punish unrest, not stop it.

Niklas bit his tongue and glared at Alf, but Alf just smiled back.

Should he fight? It was the Sharderin way. Fights among drones over petty squabbles, serious offenses, and even just for fun were frequent and even expected.

“Are you just going to stand there,” Alf shouted over the jeers, “or are you going to go find some mothers to kill?”

Niklas recoiled as though he had taken a bullet. He had been challenged in many ways, but this was sacrilege.

“Not here,” Niklas growled through clenched teeth as he glanced at the chiefs who watched them casually. “Outside. Now.”

“No,” Alf rejected. “Here. Now.”

Suddenly, the taunts and pounding of the surrounding tables quieted like a wave rippling across the chow hall, plunging it into silence. Alf’s eyes widened briefly, and he slumped back into his chair, refusing to make eye contact.

Niklas looked up, startled. No one was looking at him. They all looked down at their tables, not even a whisper to be heard. “Uh, yeah. That’s right,” he said defiantly, suddenly feeling very confident. “Sit down if you know what’s good for you, you timid.”

“Well, that went straight to your head,” a familiar voice sounded behind him.

Niklas gasped and spun. “Edgar!” he cried as his brother smiled at him through weary eyes. In stark contrast to the uniforms worn by the drones surrounding them, Edgar wore the light blue robes of a priest but not the flowing robes of a preacher. His robes were cut and molded to his body with an articulating body plate, slate-grey vambraces, and leg guards. It was the uniform of an architect.

“What?...When?...Why are you here?” Niklas stammered despite his surprise.

“One moment, Brother,” Edgar sighed as he pushed Niklas aside and leaned over the table. “Look at me, Drone,” he commanded Alf, who shivered visibly. One traditionally didn’t want to attract the attention of an architect, especially a Reaper. “Do you have a problem with my brother?”

“No, Sir.” Alf shook his head and turned his eyes downcast as though looking Edgar in the eyes might cost him his soul.

“That’s right,” Edgar said, as though Alf had passed a test. “I just saved you, drone. Niklas would have fragged you up.” Edgar reached across and patted Alf on the face like a dog. Alf let out an audible whimper as he shied away from Edgar’s touch.

Edgar snickered at the detachment leader, turned, and threw his arm around Niklas’ shoulders.

“Edgar?” Niklas questioned as his older brother led him out of the chow hall. Edgar didn’t respond. Once outside, the clamor picked up again behind them as though nothing had happened.

Edgar led Niklas behind the armory before turning to look at him.

“Edgar,” Niklas beamed like an idiot, “you’re back!”

“Yes, little Loga,” Edgar smiled through bloodshot eyes, “I’m back for now.” Little Loga was the name Edgar overused for Niklas. He was a little bitter that Niklas, his younger brother, had grown six inches taller than him.

Edgar was technically Niklas’ half-brother and was a full-blooded Sharderin. That didn’t diminish their bond. They shared a mother, which made them full brothers as far as they cared. Of course, that was before...

“Are you here to stay?” Niklas asked.

“For a time,” he replied.

Niklas grinned. Edgar was his best friend. They had grown up together, trusted, and looked out for each other. Edgar did for him anyway; however, despite their reunion, Edgar looked distant.

“Edgar, what’s wrong?” Niklas asked.

“Don’t mind me, I’m just tired after my assignment,” Edgar’s familiar cunning smile donned in place of his exhausted face. “You won't stop growing, will you? Just look at you, little Loga! What are they feeding you,” Edgar asked, grabbing Niklas by the shoulders and looking at his frame; he seemed impressed by the drone’s build. Niklas chuckled, taking pride in his brother’s words. He had grown broader since the last time he saw Edgar. His thick frame was anything but empty or soft, and he worked hard for it.

“I missed you, Niklas,” Edgar said as they grabbed each other in a brotherly embrace. He was back, and no one could stop the Logas when they were together.

“Did you ask about the Raiders?” Niklas asked eagerly. “Could you get me into the architects?”

Edgar's face fell at the question. “Niklas…I’m sorry, but you can’t be an architect.”