When Niklas woke up, his pulsing headache had escalated. His room spun as he sat up. He grunted when the room finally stopped spinning. He combatted his vertigo by clutching the side of his cot. Aside from the smarting dizziness, something was missing. He didn’t feel like himself at all. He had no drive, no fire, no valor.

Niklas groaned, slipped off his cot, weaving his way past the sleeping boys, and made his way to a wooden basin and cracked mirror. He poured some water into the tub and plunged his head into the water, hoping to drive the pulse away. His head ached horribly just behind the eyes.

Pulling himself out, he studied the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot, and his brand was a garish mash of white and red. He looked as exhausted as he felt. Something was wrong. He needed something.

Two days in Pit Forest, three asleep, and five days with the Sommerfeldts, it had been almost two weeks since he had Med!

Niklas cried out as he realized that the last of his Med must have been entirely out of his system. He bit his fist and gagged. Phantasmal panic tickled his mind. He had an unscratchable itch in his head, lingering and teasing him. The med’s familiar warmth didn’t burn within. He was partial and incomplete.

A disturbed muttering drew his attention from the ache and helped him push it back just a bit. Outside, herdsmen discussed something urgently. Niklas cradled his head for a moment before pulling on a stiff shirt.

The drone pushed his way out into the common area in the compound. Ivar and Frode stood in the still dark morning with a dozen other herdsmen and Relrin mothers. Careful not to look directly at any of the mothers, Niklas approached Ivar and Tord. They were arguing, but Niklas didn’t hear what it was about. He stood by Ivar and listened.

“How did it get past the gate?” the head herdsman demanded.

“I don’t know!”

Another anxiously said, “There are no signs of digging or damage to the fence.”

“Could it have jumped?”

“It’s possible, but highly unlikely.”

“What happened?” Niklas muttered at Ivar, not wanting to butt into their conversation.

“Wolf,” he answered. “Got in and killed a cow last night.”

Tord, generally quiet, looked sick to his stomach.

“Hmm,” Niklas grunted. Usually, news of such things would have fed his valor and urged him to action. A hunt for the beast at the very least, but without the familiar warmth, he felt genuinely disinterested.

A few of the men shook their heads at the news and started to head for the gate.

“Are they going to investigate?” Niklas asked.

“Who, them?” Ivar asked, “No, they’re workmen headed for the mills.”

“Workmen? They’re going to earn cesh?” Niklas asked, suddenly interested.

“Yeah,” Ivar chuckled. “Lill told me you ‘had’ to get 2000 cesh in two weeks.” He smiled as though that were the most amusing thing he had heard in his entire life.

“Yeah!” Niklas said eagerly. “Should I go with them?”

Ivar laughed out loud this time, “You might miss your goal by three years, but the sawmill is the quickest way to earn some quick cesh. It’s not fun work. I hear there's a lot of turnaround, but only so many spots are available.”

“Where do I go?” Niklas asked frantically.

“Follow Robin,” Ivar instructed, “He’s the guy in the brown shirt with the lighter hair.”

Bidding Ivar thanks, Niklas jogged after the man as instructed. To his relief, the jarring in his leg was gone. Perhaps the last of his med burned away fixing it. His back and head still ached.

“Robin?” Niklas asked.

The Relrin man turned as Niklas called his name. He had an athletic build, impure Relrin hair, and blue eyes. Perhaps he was part Leoshawn or Freven.

“Robin?”

“That’s right,” he spoke with a faint accent.

“I’m looking for work,” Niklas explained. “Ivar was telling me that you worked at some mill?”

Robin looked Niklas up and down. “I don’t want to get your hopes up. Employment is competitive. Yesterday, close to twenty men were waiting in line for someone to quit so they could take his place.”

“Do you think there will be a spot for me?”

Robin frowned slightly. “It’s possible but unlikely. They would only consider hiring a gray skin if they were desperate for hands, and you were the last option.” He spoke of Niklas’ race with less spite than the Teaman had before and more as a point of fact, probably because of his potential foreign background. The deep-rooted animosity between Sharderins and Relrins didn’t necessarily extend to Colgans or Leoshawns.

Niklas clenched his jaw at the news, nonetheless. So his skin would condemn him at the mill as well?

“I’m happy to take you,” Robin said. “Just don’t get your hopes up.”

Niklas nodded in agreement. His headache grew fierce and would only continue if he didn’t find something to do.

They hiked about two miles to a gated cement facility beside the river. Niklas followed Robin past the wall and into an open workyard surrounded by roof-covered machines. Straight saws groaned as they cycled up and down, turned by large wheels in the water. Other machinery rattled and grunted. Niklas smelled freshly cut wood and sweat, making a distinct impression of a workstation back home.

“Wait here,” Robin instructed. “I’ll ask around, but my shift is starting soon. I’ll get back to you at lunch.”

He trotted off, leaving Niklas in the center of the yard. People were busily about, and Niklas sat against an empty wooden stall.

Niklas was unimpressed with the production facility. Relrins still relied on hydropower. Sharderin mills yielded much more efficient results with the help of prylux generators.

As Niklas waited, his mind grew idle, allowing room for his headache to reign.

Time ticked on, and he grew restless; watching the laborers work at an agonizing pace made his Drone instincts twitch. As a Drone, manual labor was his life outside of training and sleeping, and it had been almost two weeks since he had done any real work.

Two men walked past him, looking disappointed. “It doesn’t matter that workers quit every day. There’s always more looking than quitting. It’ll be at least two weeks before we find a spot… ” Niklas overheard one of them say.

“Let’s try the fields,” the other suggested as they left the yard.

Two weeks? Niklas thought despairingly.

That wouldn’t do at all. Niklas only had two weeks to raise 2000 cesh and didn’t intend to spend two weeks sitting in a line.

Niklas got off the stall and turned to search for different work. He could try the fields like the other two men.

It was a shame. The Relrins in the yard worked painstakingly slowly. Too bad fifty other lazy men would get the chance at employment before a Sharderin Drone.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Niklas stopped as an idea dawned on him. He knew he was easily worth three of these Relrin Workers. He had been watching them for a while now. Why shouldn’t they know that? Besides, he would go mad if he didn’t do something to take his mind off the blasted headache.

Niklas trotted into the eastern yard, where bored-looking men were stacking planks. One was trying to pull out a piece of timber that was too long and awkward for him to grab himself. Niklas slid over and caught the end. With two sets of hands, it was much easier to balance.

The man glanced at Niklas in surprise. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Niklas couldn’t blame him. He had never seen Niklas before. But then he shrugged; help was help. It was time to show them what it meant to be a Drone.

Niklas leaned against a stack of freshly sawed timbers with his arms folded across his chest and a content smile on his face. Finally, he had a chance to be in his element and work.

The scabs on his back oozed with puss. They had gotten infected. He doubted it would soak through the thick, sweat-drenched shirt so others could see it.

The other men were caught up in lazy banter, and Niklas smiled. His coworkers lounged around the lumber yard while they told rude jokes and funny stories. The Relrin men lacked discipline; that much was clear. That didn’t help their blatant hatred for work.

“What’s going on here?” a foreman barked at the lumber team as he stormed into their section. He was a weaselly man with a large vein bulging on his forehead.

Like roaches in the light, the workmen scattered, trying to look busy and useful. There wasn’t any more work to do, so they fumbled awkwardly. One of them tripped over his own feet.

“Would anybody care to tell me what is happening here? Taking an extra lunch, are we?” the Foreman demanded.

“Well, er,” the crew leader stammered.

“What time is it?” the Foreman demanded as he jabbed a long, crooked finger at the clock hanging above the yard.

“Eh, two-fifteen, sir.”

“Then why?” The foreman shrieked, shaking his finger at the crew leader's face. “Do I come here at two-fifteen and find your whole crew sitting on their arses?”

“We uh...filled the quota, sir,” the petrified crew leader stammered.

The foreman suddenly became aware of the neat stacks of wood that filled the yard. His face twisted with a confused look, and then he let out a bark of laughter. “Of all the lumber crews, I never would have thought that you lot would finish a daily quota, not to mention this early.”

“Don’t look at us,” one man stammered. “It was the new guy.” He earned a bunch of scowls from his comrades.

“New guy?” the foreman asked. “What new guy? Your crew doesn’t have any–” He stopped short when he saw Niklas vigilantly watching the exchange.

Niklas stood out with his long, matted hair pulled back in his Drones ponytail and comparatively gray skin.

“You,” he said. “Who are you?”

“Drone Niklas Loga.” Niklas silently cursed himself. He said Drone out of habit, but it wasn’t a rank they would recognize here. The Foreman either didn’t notice or care.

“I don’t care who you are. What are you doing here?”

“Working,” Niklas said dumbly. What kind of question was that?

“I can see that,” he snapped. “Who sent you? I wasn’t told we would have a transfer.”

“I came by myself,” Niklas shot back. “I just need something to do.”

“You mean you don’t even work here?” the foreman shrieked, his forehead vein pulsing dangerously.

Niklas frowned. He could see it now. The foreman was the kind of man who never found fault with himself. He could find anything wrong at any given time and found his purpose in life by inflating it. Unfortunately, Niklas knew such people from before. He had worked with several Drones like that back home. Needless to say, they weren’t well-liked by their comrades.

“Yes, that is what I mean!” Niklas snapped, growing impatient. He expected the familiar flicker of valor to come, but it didn’t.

“Well, I hope you’re not expecting to be paid.”

“I haven't asked you for a single cesh, have I?”

“We don’t have any openings,” the foreman said. “Apply like normal, and don’t try to skip the line, corpse.”

Niklas felt his flesh run hot. He had heard the name before. As kids, Edgar explained it to him. Corpse was a crude name Relrins gave Sharderins because of their gray skin, white hair, and dark eyes. Sharderins looked ghostly, or even dead, to Relrins.

Niklas spat at the foreman's boots, spun on his heel, and marched out. He cursed the foreman in Sharderic.

These Relrins were no different from Sharderins. Being born as a half-caste had doomed Niklas in both worlds. If the foreman couldn’t see the value Niklas added to his team, he didn’t deserve him.

Niklas got to the yard's edge when he heard someone calling after him. A man ran close behind.

“Corpse!” the man called.

His tone didn’t suggest spite, but the word was rude, so Niklas ignored him.

“Hey, corpse!” the man panted as he caught up to Niklas.

Niklas spun abruptly to face him. Yesterday, with the lingering warmth and valor, Niklas very well could have seized him and shaken him like a madman, but today he didn't have that fire. He felt only cold, and the man saw it in his eyes. Not the savage heat of a Sharderin warrior but the cold, piercing eyes of someone who could almost spit icy venom into his face with just a glance.

The man hesitated.

“Call me corpse one more time,” Niklas hissed. “And I will run you through the saw.”

By his face, Niklas could tell that the man was trying to decide how serious Niklas was being. Niklas towered over him. With Niklas’ barreled chest and broad shoulders, the man chose not to find out.

“Sorry,” the man said, raising his palms in a gesture of peace.

“What do you want?” Niklas asked, still agitated by the foreman’s squealing.

“I have a job for you,” he said.

“The positions are full,” Niklas said, somewhat depressed. “ Your boss made that clear.”

“Sigegar? He’s not my boss. He is a fool. And my competition.”

Competition? Niklas paused. It was a word he understood, one he lived and breathed his entire life.

“I am a foreman for the western yard,” he explained cautiously, probably still considering the statement about the saw. “The name is Osred.” He offered his hand.

Niklas recognized the offered hand and thought back to Wilbur Teaman, offering the same gesture. Maybe Niklas could look past Osred, calling him a corpse. Perhaps he didn’t mean it.

“Niklas,” Niklas said, surprised to find himself accepting his hand. This was a Relrin, Niklas hated Relrin’s...right?

“Niklas, I was watching you work,” Osred said. “I need you on my crew.”

“That rat said you couldn’t afford more hands,” Niklas said ruefully. Still, he felt a glimmer of hope.

“Couldn’t afford hands?” Osred asked, baffled. “I couldn’t afford not to have your hands. You were working like an ox. Come join my crew. Sigegar is a fool and too stupid to see an opportunity.”

Niklas snorted in agreement.

“Where policy says that you will start at the regular wage, I’m afraid I will have to start you at half wage, as we are already overstaffed.”

“No,” Niklas said in despair. He still had no clue how large the task of accumulating 2000 cesh would be, but Dr. Geoffrey had scoffed at him and his people and didn’t believe it was possible. Niklas was going to show him. If not for himself for the valor of the Sharderin race. Niklas would prove him wrong, but half wages wouldn’t work. It wasn’t even a way to start. “I can’t do that.” Niklas shook his head sadly and turned to leave.

“But there is room for promotion!” Osred cried after him.

“Dismiss one of your other workers from duty. Make way for a full wage,” Niklas said hopefully. “You need efficiency. I’ll bring it.”

“You won’t find this kind of work anywhere else. I am being quite generous, bending the rules for you!” Osred said desperately, not thrilled by Niklas’ idea to lay someone off.

“Is Sharderin labor worth less to you?” Niklas asked, trying to figure out why Osred was so reluctant.

“That has nothing to do with it!” He sounded offended. “I can’t just fire people. They have families.”

Niklas looked at Osred, trying to gauge him. Osred was probably a man who hated conflict. As crucial as his duty in the yard was, he also likely felt responsible for his workers.

Niklas found that strange: Drone workers worked hard or were disciplined. Project progression was all that mattered back in Pit Forest.

“Keep up the hard work, and I will see what I can do to get you a full wage,” Osred tried.

Niklas tensed, his jaw frustrated. He had his own goals, and that was all that mattered to him. Yet again, Niklas realized that this place wouldn’t be easy, that there was a whole new world that he didn't understand. He knew he was worth more than half a wage but couldn’t help but believe the Foreman. Perhaps this was his best option. Maybe he should continue his work hunt...But what if Osred was right? What if this was his best option? Then would he waste precious time finding new work?

Niklas bit his tongue. “Very well,” he accepted, still dejected by his partial offer.

“Great, you start tomorrow.” Osred sounded relieved

“No,” Niklas countered, “the day after.” He could feel his body’s fatigue and his blasted headache. He had pushed himself as a demonstration. He was also still injured and wanted a chance to rest. He intended to perform as expected. Plus, it would give him some time to look around and see if there were any better options.

Osred raised an eyebrow. “Very well. Be in the western yard when the caravan arrives.”

“How much is a half wage?”

“Full wage is fourteen cesh and four raskers a week.”

Niklas did some quick math in his head, and his heart fell. The others were right. He would be working until he was an old man. That set his mind running. He had to make this work.

Niklas nodded and thanked Osred, who jogged back to his yard while Niklas waited for Robin.

Niklas dozed for a while on an empty wood stall to drown his headache when Robin woke him up grinning.

“Foreman Osred told me that he offered you a job!” He sounded ecstatic.

“He has me on half-wage,” Niklas muttered.

Robin shrugged. “There were at least eighteen people on the waiting list. You skipped them all. That isn’t so bad. Who knew working for nothing could get you places.”

“Hey, Robin.”

“Hmm?”

“Are you a debtbond?” Niklas understood the dynamic of debt and debtor much better after he had Ivar explain again in detail how debt and money worked in Relgar.

His face fell, and he nodded.

“How much?”

“Eight hundred cesh, a few more years between my brother, sister, and I, and we’ll be free.”

“How would you like to be free in a few weeks?”

“It’s not possible.” He said cautiously.

“It won’t be easy,” Niklas warned.

He laughed. “I’ve worked my whole life to be rid of the debt my parents accumulated. It has never been easy.”

“All right,” Niklas said. “You and I will outwork the rest of the yard, then we threaten to leave and make them buy us back.”

He let out a bark of laughter. “You think that will work?”

“It will be hard,” Niklas cautioned. “You have to work harder than you have your whole life.”

“I’ll bite,” he agreed. “Half the time, the other guys just sit around anyways.”

Niklas smiled, a cheap imitation of Edgar’s wolfish grin. “Let’s show them what real men can do.”