Niklas pulled himself out of bed early. Looking around Edgar's apartment, he took a moment to remember why he wasn’t still at the training pit. The rest of his detachment wouldn’t return from the training pit for two days. He had two full free days on his hands, thanks to Edgar. What to do? Such idle time was a rare luxury.

Edgar was already awake and dressed. He sat at the table on which was a neat stack of books, mostly war manuals but also, unsurprisingly, poetry. Sharderin poetry was virtually the only part of their old culture that survived the exodus. Every Sharderin was well-versed in the poetry which had survived the old days.

Something jingled, and Niklas realized Edgar was counting a box bag of small, metallic tokens of various shapes.

“What’s that?” Niklas yawned.

“Gold,” he said.

“Gold!” Niklas sputtered. “Edgar! That’s illegal!” Niklas connected the dots. “That’s the gold the Colgans paid that officer for our tech!”

Edgar smiled, slid several tokens back into a purse, and cinched it tight.

“What do you need that for?” Niklas demanded. “We don’t need money. The clan gives us everything we need.”

“Maybe you. My needs aren’t so singular.”

Niklas looked around, fearful of any eyes that might be prying. It was foolish. There was nothing but walls to the tiny house.

“I have a gift for you,” Edgar said.

Niklas started in surprise. “What is it?”

Edgar tucked the purse away and reached into his pack. He produced a metal trinket, unlike anything Niklas had ever seen. Palm-sized and heavy. The only thing that Niklas recognized about it was the dull slate gray hue of the reaper’s steel, a secret metal exclusive to Edgar's order.

“Edgar…” Niklas gasped breathlessly, “Gold is one thing, but I know for sure you shouldn't give...whatever this is...to someone who isn’t a reaper.”

Edgar shrugged. “Don’t get caught with it, and we won’t have a problem.”

Niklas had to laugh at Edgar’s typical disregard for authority. Niklas knew that the priests had disciplined Edgar for disobedience in the past, yet somehow, the reaper proved invaluable to his cathedral. Niklas suspected the reapers leaned on operatives like Edgar to resolve problems that needed to turn a blind eye to regulation. Niklas, by contrast, would feel guilty just knowing he had it. He hated secrets and breaking the rules.

“Flick the switch, but hold it well. It might jump,” Edgar said.

Niklas noticed the switch in the center and gave it a nudge. The trinket jerked as a five-inch blade, with an accompanying crossguard, snapped into existence.

He threw the blade to the table and cried in surprise, “Deck! What the pit was that?”

Edgar laughed heartily, “No magic, just mechanical secrets of the architects. This model was actually developed by the Siegers and adapted by the reapers.”

“Edgar, I can’t keep this.” Niklas squirmed a little.

Picking up the blade, Edgar let out a sigh. “Of course you can,” he said as he pulled the switch down.

This time Niklas’ eyes followed as the blade sucked back into the handle.

“You worry too much,” Edgar said as he returned the knife.

Niklas shied away. “The barracks get inspected regularly. Reaper tech is beyond contraband.”

“Don’t be coy, brother...Take it. Where is your sense of valor?”

“Valor includes obedience.”

“And bravery,” Edgar said, pushing it into his hand.

Niklas gave in and accepted the gift. Why did he let Edgar pressure him so? It seemed almost everything that had ever gotten him in trouble started by Edgar’s persuasive pressure.

Niklas rubbed his temple to relieve a dull ache, and Edgar caught the motion.

“When did you last take Med?” Edgar asked.

Finally, Niklas thought, something obedient.

“I don’t know, a couple of days? Before our final exercise.”

“There’s some in the cooler,” Edgar prompted.

Niklas nodded and changed into the now wrinkled uniform he had been wearing the day before. He crossed to the cooler and pulled it open. It hissed as yellow vapors drifted out onto the ground. Inside, several glass cylinders held the med. He selected one, unscrewed the lid, and downed the contents. He felt the effects almost immediately.

Niklas’ anxieties seemed to calm slightly as a wave of heat washed over him. A fire roared in his ears and blood until it stabilized warmly within. Oh, how he loved med dosing. It seemed like he forgot how much he loved it until he took it.

He let out a long, satisfied sigh. He would be good for the next day or so.

“Hey, can you take my books back to the library?” Edgar asked. “I’m meeting up with some other guys and don’t have time to do it myself. I’ll introduce you to them when you get back. I was hoping you could help us run a job.”

So Edgar hadn’t just gotten Niklas to spend some time together. “Sure,” Niklas grunted and gathered Edgar’s stack of books. “Edgar, is this a private job? Do you think this is a good idea?”

“Don’t worry. It’s low risk. I’ll have food ready when you get back.”

Niklas stopped himself from protesting. Despite his fierce conviction to obedience, Niklas wanted to be more like Edgar, and a low-risk private job would be a perfect stepping stone.

Niklas pulled his mask on, sealed it, and ducked out. He stepped into the cold, late winter air. His boots clanked against the wood of the platform that made the streets of the third tier of Pit Two.

The morning was still dark. The two levels above them shaded the street, covering them from previous snowfall. Lights still glowed from the nightlights above, and light from the sunrise started to peak down from massive open-air channels that went through all five levels. He could see the top of the trees sticking through the shaft up here on the third level, and several catwalk bridges ran across them.

Walking near the rail that separated him from a deep drop onto the forest floor, Niklas could look up and see the bottom of the two levels above or down onto the drones in the two levels below.

Down at the forest floor under Pit Two, Niklas imagined the ant-sized Figures of the faceless darting around, but it was too dark to see.

On the third level, Niklas didn’t run into anyone he knew. His few friends were drones who lived on the first two levels. While he was out of place, some administrative or labor drones periodically served the elders on the third level, so he didn’t draw any strange looks.

He had never made it past the third level. The fourth was only for the highest-ranking masters, and the top was the sanctuary of the Holy Ones.

He spotted a trio of raiders sitting at an outdoor cafe table, laughing over morning drinks. They wore flight goggles on their foreheads and carefree, confident smirks on their faces.

Niklas felt his resolve tighten. One day, he would be one of them. No stupid zealot law was going to stop him.

The third-level library was about half a mile away if he remembered correctly. Sadly, they didn’t have a large variety of books to choose from; most of the books on the shelves were duplicates, the two most common types being war manuals or poetry from the old times.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

The law dictated that Sharderins couldn’t own books, but anyone who didn’t abuse this right could check out one book at a time.

Niklas looked down in discomfort as he realized he had not one but five books underarm. No doubt Edgar had special privileges; Surely any observer would assume a drone possessing so many books acted on behalf of someone with higher authority.

As he neared the library, the third level had grown much more populated. Most people wore the black masks of officers or one of the various architects; even a few zealots in their high-collared robes moved about with stiff necks. Niklas couldn’t help but feel a stab of spite for them.

A low horn sounded, pulling Niklas from his moment of scorn. He could have recognized the sound anywhere, constantly coming up from the fourth level. A matriarch horn was rare for the third level, but everyone knew what it meant.

Quickly, everyone cleared off of the platform street, making way. Those who weren’t wearing their masks quickly pulled them on. Up here the masks varied greater than the barracks below. A group of officers and even a pair of priests were out, mingling with senior chiefs. Those who had forgotten their masks for one reason or another fled the streets, ran into offices and supply depots, and quickly drew the window shades.

Not being in the mood to take cover, Niklas touched his mask, ensuring it was there. He felt slightly out of place, being the only drone in the assembly. Everyone filed to the side of the road closest to the buildings, allowing plenty of space for the oncoming procession. A holy one was coming. Procedure excused no rank.

The horn sounded again, this time much closer. Everyone quickly fell on their faces in the most humble of bows. Niklas followed suit, dropping to his knees and pressing his forehead into the ground. His mask pressed into his forehead, and he felt his heart race. He had never been present when a holy one passed, but the priests had trained the drones during religious training on how to pay proper respect.

Niklas stared down through a gap between thick planks, not daring to move. He could see drones move on the lower level directly below.

Being graced by the presence of a holy one was a sacred opportunity, a true honor indeed. Niklas recited the rules inwardly, which the priests had branded in his mind by years of instruction and warning.

“Do not look at a holy one, do not let a holy one see your face, do not speak with a holy one, do not touch a holy one, always protect the holy ones…” The priest's voice echoed in his head as it recited the forbidden actions that would offend Gyva, God herself. “But most important of all, always obey the directives given to you by a holy one.”

Hearing the feet of the procession draw near, Niklas shut his eyes tight. It wasn’t necessary as his face was in the ground, just an added precaution. He wasn’t going to risk offending a holy one.

Feet thudded before him as the procession started to pass. It was hard to guess how many people were involved, but it sounded like less than half of a detachment.

Niklas felt humbled. A holy one was passing. It was an honor he would have missed if Edgar hadn’t taken him.

They were passing not more than ten feet away. Though Niklas had never seen one before, nor was he tempted to look, he wondered what a holy one looked like. He heard they could enchant men, though he wasn’t entirely sure what that meant.

“Hey, look!” the shrill voice of a child cried. “That one has dark hair!”

Wait, what?

Niklas’ blood ran cold, and he almost glanced to the side to see if there was another possible candidate on the road. All the other Sharderins around had snow-white hair, but being half Relrin, his head had an equal mix of black and white hair, making it look darker.

“So he does,” a low but gentle voice followed. It was a mesmeric voice, undefinable by Niklas’ sphere of experience. It was the voice of a holy one. A mother.

“You, with the dark hair. Come here,” the voice directed.

Niklas froze, unable to move. Could this be happening? Was she talking to him? Hot sweat seeped from his skin.

What was he to do? He couldn't look at her, but he also couldn’t disobey her. In a moment of panic, he pretended not to hear, hoping they would forget him and be on their way.

“Fetch that drone for us,” the feminine voice commanded.

Thick footsteps broke off from the procession and stopped in front of Niklas. He dared a peek to see zealot boots inches in front of his face.

“You, Drone. The mother is talking to you. On your feet now.”

There was no denying it now. The mother was speaking to Niklas. Scrambling to his feet, he found himself facing a masked zealot.

“It’s okay, don’t be shy,” the mother said.

With Niklas’ eyes glued to the floor, the zealot roughly grabbed him by the arm and towed him over to a litter, hovering several feet above the floor.

“What’s your name, Drone?” the mother asked.

“Niklas Loga,” he muttered, still not daring to look up.

“Look at me, Niklas.”

Niklas felt the zealot’s hand on his arm tighten.

“It is forbidden, Mother,” Niklas protested, his voice a whimper.

“Then I command you, Drone. Look at me.”

Niklas screamed inwardly. Surrounded by at least ten Zealots, he could feel their seething displeasure.

Niklas was impure, and he was breaching religious code just by being in their presence, but it would be a greater sin to disobey a mother, and the mother was telling him to look at her. As far as he knew, no drone had seen a mother in at least ten years.

Niklas looked up and saw them, two of them. One was mature by his guess and was round with child. The other was young, perhaps seven years old. Two mothers. Two holy ones.

The mother regarded him kindly. “I haven't seen a drone up close in a very long time. And one with Relrin blood no less…”

“Forgive me, Mother,” Niklas begged as he tried to step away. “I am impure. I should not be here.”

She laughed to herself. Not a cruel or harsh laugh, but a genuinely jovial laugh. “Join us, my child.” She motioned for him to join her.

Niklas stared at them dumbly.

She shifted over. “There is plenty of room for all of us.”

There was no mistaking her directive. Niklas cautiously scrambled on, and the litter bowed slightly as it adjusted to his weight. He couldn’t bring himself to look either of them in the eye.

“My name is Mother May. This is my daughter, Mother Evy. Evy has never seen dark hair like yours. She would like to take a closer look.”

“The young mother would like to look at my hair?” Niklas reached back to touch his plume, startled.

“Yes,” Evy said, laughing. The young mother eyed him, intrigued. “Why is it so dark?”

“Show us your face, Drone Niklas,” Mother May said.

Niklas saw every zealot in the convoy tense but didn’t do anything to resist. Mothers had all the power. Their discomfort secretly made him happy. But still, his hands shook as he tapped the rune to disengage his mask, and pulled it off. He looked at Mother May sheepishly with his naked eyes.

“Oh, he looks so pink,” Evy laughed.

“Be nice, Evy,” May scolded.

Niklas shifted in discomfort, and Mother May noticed. Her eyes grew soft and concerned. The look caused something alien to stir within him. Despite his soldier stature, he was a child.

“Are you afraid, Niklas?”

“Drones don’t fear,” he lied.

“The bird knows her eggs,” she mused. “Do you know what that means?”

“I don’t, Mother.”

“It means mothers have the special ability to know how their children are really feeling, and you are just as much my son as any of them,” she said, waving her hand.

“Yes, Mother,” Niklas agreed hurriedly, his lips pressed tight.

Her face fell. “You don’t have to be afraid, Niklas. It makes me sad that you’re afraid. A child should never fear his mother.”

The stirring turned into twistings, and Niklas felt a flush of guilt. He had offended her somehow anyway. Oh Gyva, what had he done?

“How is life down here, Niklas?” Mother May asked. She seemed as though she actually didn’t know, which was fair considering she lived in the sanctuary at the top of the city.

“I have no complaint. We get plenty of rations, and we have good of work to do,” Niklas said, trying desperately not to give the wrong answer.

“Is there a lot of fighting?”

The question threw him off. “Of course,” fighting was a widespread pastime, especially in the lower levels.

She had a pained look in her eye. “Why must my boys play such cruel games?”

Oh no! He gave the wrong answer again. Niklas became distinctly aware of how warm and wet the armpits of his uniform had grown, and he wrung his hands nervously in front of him.

“I really don’t mind,” he desperately tried to recover.

“That makes it even worse,” she lamented. “What is happening to my boys?”

Despite her conflict, her sincerity touched him. Niklas saw that Mother May was different. She cared in a way no chief ever would. He also saw an opportunity in that care. He was speaking to a mother, a holy one. zealots had to obey a mother.

“Mother,” he finally brought himself to address her.

“Yes, my son?”

“There is one thing that troubles me here.”

“What is it?”

“Due to the influence of some...” Niklas suddenly became aware of the zealots’ razor focus zeroing in on him, but in the presence of a mother, they couldn’t touch him, and he had already started. “Despite my qualifications, I have been denied an apprenticeship at any cathedral because of my parentage. Is this right?”

“Oh, Niklas,” Mother May said sympathetically as she reached out and touched his hand.

Niklas recoiled, jerking his hand back with a sharp inhale. He would have shied away slower from a hot iron. It was forbidden to touch a mother. He didn’t know how it worked if a mother touched him. Mother May pulled her hand back, her eyes shimmering in sorrow. Niklas had offended her yet again.

“What is happening to my boys?” she asked herself. “They should never fear a mother's touch. Niklas, I want you to stay far away from those cathedrals; Gyva knows what happens to my poor sons who go there, such horrible things.”

Stay away from the cathedrals? A directive from a mother? Niklas’ aspiration melted away from him, slid off the litter, seeped through the deck planks, and dripped to the forest floor.

Niklas was about to ask why, but he stopped short. He saw a zealot with a hand on the hilt of his blade. It dawned on him that it was only in the presence of the mothers that the zealots wouldn’t touch him, but in their absence, Niklas would be vulnerable. He finally saw the hole he had dug for himself.

“Mother,” the zealot who was leading the escort cut in. “We must leave, we will be late.”

“Can’t you see,” she said, frustrated. “I am speaking to my son.”

“No, he’s right,” Niklas said, shifting. “I am also late. Forgive me, Mother.” His sweat abruptly chilled. He glanced from one zealot to the next and scanned the road for a possible escape route.

“I see,” Mother May said sadly. “Farewell, my son.”

Niklas climbed off the litter and gave another bow. “Farewell, Mother.”

A zealot pushed the litter, and it glided along the road on its own accord.

Niklas sealed his drone mask on his head and looked around for a lift. There weren’t any in sight.

Three zealots stayed behind, glaring at him through the lenses in their masks. They tensed, winding up like massive springs.

Maybe he could outrun them? He was trapped on the third level. He would take far too long to find and use a lift. He was cornered unless… He glanced at a light shaft with a small bridge running across it.

The mother’s posse rounded the corner.

Leaving Edgar’s books, Niklas ran.