Zotikas: Episode 1: Clash of Heirs by Rob Storey, Tom Bruno Page A

occluded by the
myriad skyways and elevated plazas that formed the canopy of the city. A few
determined shafts of sunlight slanted across the gloom, illuminating the
ubiquitous dust of Avertori’s lowest level.
    Like layers of moss and mold at the bases of trees,
dreary shops and tenement houses huddled around the bases of the high rises.
These scabby structures were filled with millions of residents preparing for
the New Year’s celebration and a night of revelry. For those who lived this
low, the celebration meant nothing more than drinking into oblivion and
whatever other debauchery they could indulge in.
    As Kieler progressed higher, there would be many other
varieties of entertainment, both finer and coarser.
    He moved to one side of the plaza and his eyes were
drawn to a tower shooting up some distance away. This tower, its three-spired
top blocked from view by a tangle of skyways and suspended terraces, supported
the palace of the Executive Chair. Tonight, every family with power would be
celebrating the New Year in that palace by special invitation.
    Kieler had written his own invitation.
    From the darkened alcoves of the surrounding
buildings, shadows stirred to life, roused by the opening of the Dragon’s Gate.
Kieler’s identity as Geren was probably known to these watchers, and his
disguise should abate their desire to kill him. After quick consideration, he
decided he could use their pursuit to wrap up a few loose ends. As he headed
purposefully for a narrow alley, three of the shadows resolved into the forms
of seedy men.
    To them, Geren was a black market business lackey,
supposedly a lowly magal worker by day, but well connected. And that was
Kieler’s cover, a man who chummed the water so that bigger fish could make
deals and move contraband outside the official channels of Avertori’s
controlled economy. He was small fry, tolerated, but always tailed because of
the people he connected. There was no way of knowing whether they would follow
him because he was Geren, or because they somehow suspected his real identity.
    The constricting space of the alley allowed him to
exactly mark the three men following him. Two were short and the third was of
medium height and far less nervous.
    Kieler cursed. Bottom feeders. He expected company but
losing three tails might be a problem.
    The curving alley led to the crusty base of the
nearest tower. Once an elaborately decorated entryway to a posh hotel, the
heavy door was now coated with grime. Inside the formerly grand lobby were many
establishments considered disreputable, even in this part of The Glums. As
Kieler walked across the age-worn black and white tile floor, he glanced up
into the hollow center of the tower. Stretching up into the darkness was a
shaft ringed by six broken-down elevators. It was like looking up the barrel of
a maggun.
    After striding directly through the center of the bank
of elevators, Kieler walked boldly into The Bottom of the Barrel ,
a pub with a high opinion of its lowly status. He had to walk around the
smashed shell of a fallen elevator car, showcased as the centerpiece of the
pub’s twisted décor. He moved directly to Ogard, the bar-keep and a regular
informant for all sides of the black-market trade.
    “G’day, O’!” Kieler greeted Ogard. Being loyal to
everybody (and therefore no one), Ogard was neither friend nor enemy. Both knew
their roles and played them well. Ogard poured a drink, and Kieler threw him a
coin.
    “G’day, Geren,” Ogard returned. “You look as though
you’re about a weighty errand on this day of light-hearted drunkenness.”
    “Perceptive as always, Ogard. I’m headin ’
out. I gotta take a trip to Govian to see about
getting a supply chain set up. We found a group of farmers willing to trade off
the grid.” It was a total lie, but Kieler just wanted everyone to know he was
going to be gone for a while.
    Ogard nodded, making his mental notes so he could pass
it on.
    “Anyway, the goons are