The two Drones marched away from the compound. Their journey would last at least fifteen miles before reaching the Relgar-Pit border. As they trekked towards the barren outskirts of Soutfel, Vidder regularly cleared his throat loudly, occasionally spitting blood and mucus on the dirt. In the distance, Niklas could see the first of the hills that stood between them and Pit Forest.

Despite his churning gut, he felt relieved that this was over. He would become a Drone again. He would finally have answers to some of his questions. Why was he being given a second chance? Why was the Arbiter interested in him, a random half-caste Drone? He would be with Edgar again. With these answers, new opportunities would come. Maybe he could join the Raiders. Maybe, as a Raider, he would be sent as reconnaissance back into Relgar. Perhaps he could visit the compound?

No. Niklas shook his head. That line of thinking was dangerous. He could never return to Soutfel.

“The door behind you isn’t closed yet. But do you really want to forfeit the door ahead?”

Why did that man’s words haunt him?

Niklas trudged along, ignoring the words of the pagan seer until he almost ran right into an actual door. He yelped in surprise as he jumped away. A door with no walls stood before him. Standing alone in the field, it barred his way. With large oak posts bordering the thick wood door, it stood open.

“What is it?” Vidder asked.

“Do you see it?”

“See what?”

“The door!”

Vidder looked at Niklas for a moment before realization seemed to dawn on him. “Niklas, we have been gone for too long. You haven’t stabilized on med in over a month.”

“So? I’ve been feeling better lately.”

“If a Drone goes without med, he becomes weak again. If we don’t take it, we get sick, and our bodies start to shut down.”

“Is that what’s been happening to me?”

He nodded. “I took my last dose last week, and I feel my insides ripping themselves apart. I’m amazed you can even stand going empty for almost a month.”

The post of the door in front of Niklas began glowing yellow with unknown runes.

“What about the door?”

“Hallucinations are a side effect of running on empty,” Vidder explained. “There is no door.”

Niklas nodded and stepped forward.

A gentle and intelligent gust of wind hit him in the face, catching him off guard, and he stepped back. He looked behind and back at Soutfel and saw another door behind him at the edge of the field. That one was much smaller with a black polished wooden frame.

“The door behind you isn’t closed yet. But do you really want to forfeit the door ahead?”

Why would Niklas be having med withdrawals, which made him see precisely what a Kel seer prophet said? Maybe his mind was putting things together from memory?

The same runes that glowed on Pit Forest's doorway burned on the door back to Soutfel, but they shined with a gentle green-white hue.

Should he put any merit in a seer of Kel? Would he confuse the scientific effects of chemicals with omens of faith?

What was he thinking? He had already made his choice.

“But do you really want to forfeit the door ahead?”

“No,” Niklas said.

“What?” Vidder asked.

“I said no,” Niklas repeated.

“Make sense, soldier.”

“What am I doing? There is nothing for me in Pit. I had something new here, something good, and I’m not willing to put it behind me just because I can go back.”

“Niklas,” Vidder growled as he rubbed his chest again. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Exactly!” Niklas cried. “I am done being stupid. I have a family here. I won't leave that behind for anything.”

“Niklas!” Vidder barked, but he was interrupted by a fit of coughing. He doubled over, wheezing and hacking.

“Are you okay?” Niklas asked, recalling the same thing happening to him several times.

Vidder spat out a mouthful of blood. “Frag no. Niklas, we need to go. We need to get back. I’m dying here. We need med.”

“I feel all right,” Niklas said, “It’s worse at times, but I’m okay now.”

“But I need to go now.”

“Then go!” Niklas said, growing more confident. I’ve made my choice. I’m staying. I’m taking the door ahead.”

“Niklas,” Vidder snarled, “I thought you said you were condemned to hang. You can't live here. You’re a criminal!”

“Maybe here!” Niklas said. “Soutfel is a tiny town on the edge of Relgar! I have plenty of opportunities, and I can visit my people if I'm careful!

“I don’t suppose I’m strong enough to take you by force,” Vidder muttered, but Niklas was half sure he was talking to himself.

Niklas turned around. That was right. Niklas was staying. There was no reason for him to go back.

Edgar.

Niklas paused. There was Edgar. Edgar was probably looking for Niklas right now. But if Niklas established himself, he could find a way to bring Edgar to Relgar. Yes, he could do that!

“Let’s go,” Vidder tried again.

“No,” Niklas said. “I’m staying.”

“Don’t defect!”

“I was banished!” Niklas snapped back. “And a good thing, too. Without it, I wouldn’t have found any of the good things in life.”

“Where is your valor?” Vidder snarled.

“I’m faceless! I have none!”

In the distance, like an echo in a dream, Niklas heard Esther’s voice screaming his name. He spun, looking back. She was in trouble.

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

“Hey, focus, Niklas!”

“Esther’s in trouble.”

“What? How do you know?”

“I heard her.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. They’re over a mile away.”

“I have to go,” Niklas insisted.

“Stop it!”

Niklas heard gunshots in the distance. From the direction of the compound. What was happening? Was it Wilbur? Taking advantage of the Rowan’s riot? “They are in trouble!” Niklas cried.

“Help me, Vidder, we need to go help them!”

“I can't fight like this,” he snapped. “And neither can you.”

“I have to.”

“We need med.” Vidder hunched over with his hands on his knees. He took several deep breaths, trying to stay on his feet.

“Then go home and get some,” Niklas suggested. “And bring some back for me.”

Vidder glared at him. “Leave them.”

“No.”

He growled but was interrupted by another mouthful of blood, which he had to spit out.

He watched Niklas for a moment before letting out a sigh of surrender. “Don’t die,” he muttered, dropping his pack and unbuckling his weapon belt. There was a holstered prylux pistol and several power packs that glowed a gentle yellow.

Niklas felt his heart leap as Vidder handed it over to him- the tools of his trade. The craft of his hands united at last.

Vidder pulled off the Drone blades he had harnessed to his back and handed them over. Then he unfastened the clasp points on his armor and pulled it over his shoulders.

The interlocking synthetic plates slid off smoothly as they articulated around his body.

“This is my size, not yours,” he said. “It won’t be comfortable, but it should do the trick.”

Niklas accepted Vidder’s body armor with gratitude. He had to shed his stiff Relrin shirt, but a few moments later, he was in full body armor and armed with light Sharderin weaponry. He bundled and fastened his Drone jacket to his belt next to the two drone blades that Vidder had worn on a harness. Niklas wore full drone gear except for the face.

The armor was tight; Vidder was shorter than him. Niklas wore it directly on his skin without an insulating layer, but Niklas gladly sacrificed comfort for the protection it offered. It was light and secure. It was a shell, and it held him snugly.

Vidder shouldered his back and glared at Niklas. He now wore only a thin, loose Sharderin shirt and knee-length breeches.

“Thank you,” Niklas said.

“Don’t die,” he growled again. “Father will be angry with me if you did.”

Niklas nodded.

Vidder gasped in pain and clutched his chest. “Keep the Drone mask.” He handed it over, but Niklas shook his head. “I’m not a drone anymore.”

Vidder growled, not happy with how things turned out. You will come with me when I get back.”

“Go Vidder,” Niklas responded.

Vidder turned and ran into the oaken door, passing through it as if it weren’t there. Maybe he was right. It didn’t seem to be there.

Niklas turned and charged to the dark door on the other side of the field.

His body tensed in protest. His wounds ached, but he charged the black door, its runes glowing a gentle green, growing brighter the closer he got. He ducked his head and braced for contact. He didn’t feel anything as he passed, but the illusory door shattered into pieces behind him, the shards chiming like broken glass.

It was a mile to the compound, and Niklas ran as fast as he could. His people were in trouble. He heard the crack of gunfire, and he pushed on. In the distance, he could see occasional muzzle flashes crack through the night.

“No!” Niklas grunted as he imagined who was firing and who was being shot and ran without reserve. The Sommerfeldts and Esther needed his help, and he was equipped to provide it.

Four hundred meters. As Niklas lunged each step, he felt his feet pound the hard ground under them.

Three hundred meters. Niklas saw ten or so dark figures at the gate, illuminated by flickering firelight, struggling to take hold of the compound. The large unoiled gate that had become his familiar front door was gone as if blasted from its hinges by heavy artillery fire. Each figure was holding a long-barreled Relrin rifle. Niklas didn’t know who they were, but it didn’t matter. They were between him and his home. The gunfire died down.

“NO!”

Two hundred meters. Niklas charged. The men in the front saw him, and a few leveled their rifles.

“There’s only one,” one called.

“Stop!” another commanded.

One hundred meters.

War.

Time slowed as Niklas’ hand closed around the familiar handle of the pistol. The motion came as naturally as breathing. Niklas’ other hand whipped out a power pack, and it flowed smoothly into the bottom of the power well. The weapon began to hum, and it grew warm in his hand as it came to life. The rivets in the gun glowed yellow. His weapon was charged, and so was he. He racked the slide and flicked the dial to concussive strike. Designed to impact the soft tissue and liquefy organs, it was a deadly weapon.

“Fire!” one of the men hollered as he recognized Niklas’ intent. He beat them to it.

Striiike!

His pistol dragged back in his hands as a yellow bolt streaked at one of the men whose weapon was at the ready.

It slammed into the man’s shoulder and threw him back, lifting him off his feet and flipping him completely around before he collapsed onto his face without a noise.

Time seemed to pause completely as all eyes turned to their fallen comrade, their faces twisted in horror.

Yes. Fear was the appropriate response. Welcome to pit, little rabbits.

Striiike! Striiike! Striiike! Niklas’ shots threw burnt, screaming, and sizzling men back, and they crashed into crates and slammed into the wall.

The men began to gather themselves as they brought their weapons up to bear. Niklas dove and rolled sideways, an evasive maneuver all Drones learned and mastered when they were young. Their Relrin Gunfire boomed much louder than his Sharderin Pistol and bucked with fire. Patches of dirt leaped around him as he came up to one knee.

Niklas looked to his left. He had three of them lined up. Perfect. He flicked the dial, changing the setting from concussive strike to penetration strike.

Striiike! The light streaked from the Prylux pistol, and the penetrative strike, designed to punch through cover, pierced through all three. They collapsed as if their bodies had simply stopped working.

Niklas snapped the dial back to concussive and turned on the others.

Striiike! Striiike! Bang!

A bullet bit into a crate next to Niklas. He kept firing and throwing men to the right and the left.

His pistol buzzed, warning him of low power.

He ejected the current power pack in one motion and, drawing another, slid it into place. It heated again.

Something slammed into Niklas’ chest. He felt his ribs crack as he was thrown onto his back.

He collapsed onto the ground in a heap and tried to suck in air, but it wouldn’t come.

How many were left? Four? Seven? His armor held. It would have hurt much less if the armor was his size.

“What the frez was that?” one of the men screamed. “An assassin?”

“Is that a Remnant?”

“What’s happening out there?”

“Is he dead?”

Niklas gasped as he found his lungs, and he skipped off his shoulders and onto his feet like a wound spring.

Striiike! Striiike! Striiike! His gunfire continued to throw men in all directions, and they screamed like hens to a fox.

“It won’t die!”

One man frantically pulled out a stick and rammed it down the barrel of his rifle. Was he cleaning his weapon? Now, of all times?

The man screamed and abandoned his task as he grabbed the barrel of his rifle and swung it at Niklas like a club. Quickly, Niklas switched the dial to thermal strike and shot the rifle.

Striiike! The bolt knocked the man’s weapon out of his hands as it exploded in flames according to its setting.

Niklas flicked the dial to concussive strike and shot him down.

Three more men rushed Niklas, brandishing their weapons like clubs. They must have come out from the compound while Niklas was down.

Are they serious? Niklas wondered. Why didn’t they just shoot at me again?

Then it dawned on him. Relrin Rifles could only fire once before needing reloading. Niklas threw back his head and laughed. Suddenly, they seemed much less dangerous.

Niklas quickly shot down the remaining three.

He ejected his exhausted power pack and loaded his final one.

He winced at his aching ribs as he rubbed his chest. He assessed a cracked rib and discovered that the stab wounds he had gotten from Erik earlier that day had opened up again.

Panting, he scanned the battlefield. Sweat rolled down his temple, and his whole body ached. Flaming shattered crates cast light onto the outside wall, and unstirring men left him satisfied that his work here was done.

Niklas looked into the dark courtyard. The fire which had started to take the house had gone out, and the mangled hinges of the gate lay twisted in the posts. Shadow hung between the post like a black veil. Nothing stirred inside; it was too quiet. Niklas stood, imagining what he would find inside. Was his family massacred for the second time? He wiped the sweat from his brow, unsure of whether it was from anxiety or exhaustion. Probably both. He had heard voices from inside. Did a trap awaiting him in the courtyard? He tensed, his whole body going ridged, and his heartbeat picked up.

But then he recalled his training. The familiar instincts programmed into his very mind.

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.

Niklas’ sweat-drenched body ached. His hands were still unsteady. That wouldn’t do.

Niklas’ lungs emptied as the last whiff of air escaped. The drone 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. His hands steadied as he emptied his lungs and strode past the gate posts.