by Storey, Rob
ZOTIKAS
EPISODE 1: CLASH OF HEIRS
BY
TOM BRUNO
&
ROB STOREY
Table of Contents:
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Authors’ Notes
Chapter One
Bags’ broad hand hovered above the throttle of the mag-lev raider. Kieler watched him, both of them tense and ready. Years of waiting would come to an end in minutes, perhaps seconds. Bags never shifted his eyes from the narrow, rain-streaked windscreen. He searched the darkness for the signal.
In the cockpit of the unpainted metal sled, sweat and rain had scented the air with the metallic tang of rust. A lull in the downpour created an unnerving quiet as their low-slung craft hovered silently in the very bottom of the V-shaped track. The iron and magal track was built for much larger vehicles—not that the raider was tiny. It could, when the now-empty cargo bay was loaded, hold enough food pirated from a freighter to feed a borough for a week.
Lightning flashed, illuminating the face of Kieler’s companion. Bags, his dark blue eyes unblinking in his blocky face, didn’t look anything like a rebel. He looked like a family man; a determined family man intent on fixing a chair or some other mundane task.
But Bags wasn’t just waiting for a signal; he was waiting for justice. When he spoke, his voice was low and cool despite the heat and tension. “Storms came late this year.”
Kieler grunted. For weeks they had waited restlessly for the winter storms to roll in from the northeast sea and the mountainous continent of Ardan beyond. Had the storms not come today, the last possible day, Kieler’s chances of succeeding tomorrow night were slight.
Following his friend’s gaze out the windscreen, Kieler stared into the darkness, peering through his own dim reflection. His dark brown hair and brown eyes vanished in the dim light, but he could see his face. There was nothing remarkable about it, allowing him to go unnoticed when necessary.
Lightning struck Garrist Ring miles off and far above, momentarily dispelling the ghost of his visage. The upward sloping sides of the huge track to their left and right blocked most of their view, but straight ahead the flash of light silhouetted the dominant tower of Garrist Ring, the spires of the Executive Chair’s palace.
“Don’t act upset.” Bags challenged Kieler’s supposedly sour mood. “You’re excited to be doing something, same as me.” His big face was pale in the dim light. A clenched jaw muscle twitched. “Tomorrow you’ll be in the EC’s palace, way better than hiding in that hole we call home.”
His accomplice was right. Despite the twist in his stomach, Kieler felt like a coiled spring, and he liked it. “The nethercity has been my ‘home’ since I was eight. You’re a newbie.”
Now Bags grunted and leaned forward, as if he could see more than darkness and raindrops. He didn’t take his hand away from the throttle. He replied slowly, “Doesn’t seem much use in bragging about how long you’ve lived in our starless hell under the Plate.”
“I’m not bragging. I’m just saying we’ve waited a long time for the chance to strike back at these highborns. Stealing the sigil tonight starts the machinery of revolution Movus has been putting together for years. It’s the first step toward you and I living in the light of Rei again.” After a pause Kieler added in a mutter, “And the first step in getting your wife back from that prog Telander.”
Bags made no audible reply, but Kieler could feel the heat rise from his friend.
A long, silent time passed. Other than the distant lights of Garrist Ring, which they glimpsed when the clouds scudded out from in front of the high-rise district, their view was illuminated only by the occasional lightning as it flashed closer. It didn’t matter. Any view of their actual target was blocked by the high sides and curve of the track. The storm swirled in and the metallic tinging on the top of the sled resumed.
Their target was the Cortatti compound, and Kieler knew from studying the extensive maps provided by his mentor Movus, it was both a fortress and an oasis in the industrial northeast section of the Isle of Threes. Unlike many Houses of the Omeron, which possessed rich villas on the continents, or penthouses in downtown Avertori far from their economic centers, the Cortattis lived where they worked. Surrounded by their weapons factories, foundries and the rail yards which supported their industry, their residence and administrative headquarters rose monolithic from the rough neighborhood.
Kieler had seen the colossal six-sided structure from the promenade on Garrist Ring. If he compartmentalized his thoughts, Kieler could almost admire the efficiency of House Cortatti—as much as any feeling human could admire a family who had killed every person in House Ortessi just to elevate themselves.
But the Cortattis worked. Other houses, like Telander, which continued to drain profits from their vehicle manufacturing monopoly, now spent their days in idle pleasures—or perversions. Kieler had nudged Bags’ anger by bringing up that House Primes were often untouchable by the cumbersome legal system in Avertori. While to most people Borgus Telander’s penchant for women-not-his-wife was just a rumor; Bags could confirm it first hand. That Bags was still alive was testimony to his simple wisdom over his passion for revenge. Borgus Telander would casually eliminate problems like Bags should they threaten his perverse fetish.
Despite the long silence, when Bags spoke Kieler realized he had been dwelling on his last comment. “Will she want me back when we do bring Telander down?” Bags didn’t look away from the windscreen, but Kieler felt the intensity radiating from his friend. It was a perceptive thought: that things happen emotionally to violated women. And just as profound was Bags’ simple certainty that they would succeed.
“Yes, Bags. Regardless of what Telander does. Everything you told me about her says she is a solid, dedicated woman. She is building up an emotional citadel that only you can enter.”
Bags flicked him a glance, gauging Kieler, a hint of moist eyes and a hard smile. “You don’t know nothin’ about women, Sparks!” Bags snorted, using Kieler’s Coin name. “You never even had a girlfriend.” Bags’ smile faded into a tight line. “But I believe you about my Eznea. She’ll be right. We just gotta get her back.”
Kieler detected the catch in Bags’ voice that gave away how hard he was trying to convince himself.
Two lights blinked on in the middle distance. Before he could point them out, Kieler was slammed back in his seat by the rapid acceleration as Bags slammed forward the throttle.
They had thirty seconds.
When a full-size powercoach accelerated, the motion was barely perceptible. Both heavy freighters and powercoaches rode high in the V-shaped track. But their own raider sat along the bottom; low, sleek, and a mere fraction of the mass. When Bags hit the throttle, they hit the back of their seats.
An empty cargo hold, a high velocity magnetic impeller, and a frictionless suspension—they were built for speed.
Kieler had no doubt this was the fastest conveyance on Zotikas.
Hurtling down the long, gently-curving slot, velocity increasing, all Kieler could do was hope that the two guards at the gate ahead were distracted by his apparently inebriated co-conspirators. Across from the gate they’d be crashing were two pubs frequented by a literal army of guards as they got off duty from the Cortatti complex. Two of Kieler’s squad mates were to stagger over from one of the bars and call th
e men out of the guard shack. His third squad member was to provide the fireworks—a fake lightning flash just as they passed. The guards just needed to have their backs to the tracks.
At just over 400 miles per hour, the low metal ship in which Kieler and Bags sat would sound like thunder or a sudden, violent wind as it passed. In this rain, it would be past the guards and out of sight before they could possibly turn around—as long as they weren’t looking in the first place.
As they approached the massive gates that regulated powercoaches and freighters entering the Cortatti domain, Kieler got to see the barrier for less than a second. Then they shot beneath it. The gates did not extend into the groove of the track. Presumably, an impeller couldn’t be built small enough for a ship their size. Kieler had his late father to thank for that bit of engineering.
A brilliant flash exploded above the rim of the track to his right. It was the magal-luzhril blast to add noise to their sled’s high-speed passing. His men at the gate would swear to the guards that they were almost struck by lightning.
The instant they passed under the gates, Bags threw the throttle from full ahead to full reverse. They were thrown forward into their shoulder restraints, now decelerating at the same breakneck rate at which they had accelerated. They now had thirty more seconds to slow down or smash through a weapons factory dock. Though uncomfortable, Kieler decided that this rate of deceleration was far preferred to that of impact.
Most troubling, Kieler would have to go after the Ortessi Sigil without knowing whether they would have an unwelcoming party at the end of the line. If the guards at the gate hadn’t fallen for their thunder and lightning ploy, they would telegraph the keep and this would be a short mission. The curve of the track took them through a maze of rail yard switches and industrial stockpiles. Kieler looked up at freighters looming a full three stories on parallel tracks as they flew by. He was strangely detached, watching with absolutely no control as they slowed through three-fifty, three twenty-five—
“Bags!” Kieler hissed. “Is that freighter parked on our track?”
Bags pounded the throttle back against the stops. All they had time to do was brace for impact. The metal wall of the looming freighter rushed toward them… and flashed darkly over them. Their raider was designed for that very purpose, to pirate these freighters from below.
With no time for congratulating themselves, a whole train laden with cargo seemed to fly at them. Again they skidded under it, but the weight of the cargo lowered it just enough that as they passed through, there was a crack! and then a fierce short shriek of metal on metal.
Bags glanced over at him; his raised eyebrows making his long face look longer. “I think we lost the hatch handle.”
Relief, and the comic look, made Kieler spit out a laugh. If that was the worst they suffered tonight it would be a good night.
Their speed dropped through 250, then 200, as they whipped between the parked freighters. Eventually they slowed to were their passage was a mere whisper.
But now the end of the line sped toward them.
“Bags! End of the line!”
Bags pressed back on the throttle so hard that Kieler thought it would bend, but it was already full against the stop. Through clenched teeth he growled, “I see it. Not much I can do.”
But even though they looked to be rapidly closing on the dock wall, they were decelerating at the same rate at which they had launched. With one last lurch, they stopped just feet from the metal dock. Next to them loomed the enormous hulk of an ore hopper.
They turned and grinned at each other.
“Beats hiding in that hole!” Kieler quipped. He unstrapped. “I’m outta here. See you in forty-five or I won’t see you at all.”
“I’ll get this sled turned around on a nice quiet siding while you go for your walk. Good stars, Kieler!” Bags called.
Kieler chuckled at the superstitious blessing. He darted out a hatch in the bulkhead behind them and scrambled up a ladder. In moments he was atop the craft. With a running start across the roof of the sled, he jumped and grabbed the top of the V-track. On the next track hovered the huge freighter. As he pulled himself out, he saw that the front of their craft was just feet from a shock absorbing bumper. Perhaps their doom was not as imminent as it had appeared.
Then he saw that just on the other side of the bumper was the wall of a factory.
Kieler jogged down the dock under a loading crane suspended over the freighter in rusty, frozen sleep. The rain slid off the oiled cloak he had pulled up over his head. He also pulled on a dark mask, trademark of the Coin, the underground organization of which both Kieler and Bags were a part. He probably didn’t need the mask; if he was caught, Kieler was dead with or without it. Undoubtedly he’d be sent straight into the Arena without trial.
Nevertheless, his mask, so much a part of his identity, gave him a certain amount of comfort. Despite the dark and the rain, he felt strangely exposed without it.
This entire industrial complex was built directly on the solidity of the city-spanning Plate, the divider between the sunlit city above and the never-lit city below. Kieler sidled along the back of the aged factory to an ugly, open, metal staircase that switched back and forth up several levels until he gained the topmost landing. There he found a door, locked.
He glanced back down to the dock and cluttered railyard as he extracted a pick set from under his cloak. Rain and rust. Darkness and corruption. The complex looked skeletal and lifeless. But through the falling rain, Kieler saw Bags easing the raider slowly backward toward a switch where he could turn around. Stealth, not speed, was his objective now.
The lock offered no challenge and opened within seconds. He shoved a small rock in the door so that it would not re-latch.
Passing through that door was like stepping from hell directly into heaven. He stood in the rain at the edge of the immense garden on the Cortatti estate; everything was perfectly manicured, as if the greenery were built to precise specifications rather than allowed to grow.
Luzhril lanterns in ornate fixtures lined cobbled paths that wound through lush grass, sculpted topiary, and perfectly symmetrical trees of equal height. From his current position all he could see of the main residence was a hazy glow through the drizzly rain. The garden was enormous.
The budget needed to maintain such opulence—the garden alone—would feed many of the hundreds of thousands of outcasts living under the Plate. Kieler admittedly would prefer wealth to poverty, but he knew that the Cortattis had gained and maintained their riches through the blood of others. Much of their income came from the production and sale of weapons, and they promoted those weapons through the Arena, their “entertainment” facility. Bloodsport.
Kieler couldn’t understand how such a thing was tolerated. Human life sacrificed for the sick pleasure of others.
He kept off the path and ran through the trees toward where he knew the Cortatti stronghold would be. After a quarter mile jog the keep seemed to coalesce in the haze, first as a vague shadow, and then—despite his preparation—as a ziggurat that both awed and daunted him in its sheer immensity. The main keep stood thirty stories high and glistened in luzhril-lit splendor; fountains, terraces, and unfortunately, guards. They patrolled the terraces that surrounded the smooth stone edifice. Despite the carefully scripted beauty of the grounds, the monstrous residence had no large windows to view them, as if windows were a weakness to be kept to a minimum.
At the points of the hexagonal keep, six bastions rose to three-quarters of the keep’s height. And atop each bastion, more guards.
The object of his mission lay in the library at the base of one of those towers. Movus had provided the intel on this secret approach. Without it, Kieler believed entrance to the keep would have been impossible. What connections Movus had before he was exiled, and what he had done to necessitate that exile, he had never shared with Kieler.
He spied what he was looking for: a line of shrubbery, again perfectly trimmed, leading from nea
r the treeline to a statue nearer the citadel. He worked his way through the trees to where the shrubs came closest. The rain blurred every image, and despite the bright lights, he felt sure he was not seen as he scuttled out of the trees and dove behind the bushes.
It was then a long, hard low-crawl to stay beneath the short bushes and out of the line of sight of the tower guards. A hundred yards found him at the edge of a paved circle around the statue near the headquarters of Cortatti power.
Indeed, the keep itself was not his immediate destination; it was the statue. From the cover of the bushes, Kieler dodged over to the pedestal. He glanced up at the marble sculpture. Of all the gaudy, vainglorious monuments, this one was of a Cortatti in military uniform with a maggun, the magnetic rifle for which they were famous, held up like an object of worship.
Diminished in comparison to the keep, the statue was still thrice life size. The large pedestal bore a dull metal engraving:
FOR THOSE DEFENDING
LOVED ONES BY THE
USE OF THESE WEAPONS
As Kieler pulled out a simple iron magnet—not its more active form magal—again he wondered, how did Movus learn of this?
He touched the magnet to the inscription in sequence to the only singly occurring letters: W – A – R. And with a soft click, the base unlatched and swung open to reveal a descending ladder.
He climbed down into a passage just under the garden level. The deep darkness forced him to pull out a short rod with a small shard of luzhril fastened to its end, though he was aware of how it highlighted him. He walked toward the citadel through the narrow corridor. Who knows of this passage besides Movus? Feleanna Cortatti? Feleanna was now the very ambitious, defacto leader of House Cortatti, since her father was said to be quite mad.
As he walked the tunnel, Kieler shed his mask and outer garments, uncovering a Cortatti guard uniform. From a distance he wouldn’t be out of place. Up close, he’d have to take his chances.
