The Chronicles of Ki
Book 1: In The Beginning
© Copyright 2024 Frank Walters Clark ~ All Rights Reserved
Shem Seven Algot tries to open a window with his e-rod and discovers it does not respond. He steps over to the clear-shield doors leading out to the patio and finds they too, are e-secured.
His only recourse for stale air is to fire a few sticks of incensory. Then pray that the combined scents of cedars and wickwood will be enough to cover the faint odor of decay, permeating the bedclothes and the furniture and the air.
By royal decree, he and Curator of Ecid, like all philosophers and all citizens visiting the royals, are required to carry an e-rod, a gravtrol and a compad with their personal effects.
By virtue of their sacred vows, philosophers are not allowed to have miniature comset circuits embedded beneath their temples. Therefore, Algot knows, if he is going to communicate with his master, he will need to use the assigned compad.
Having some small acquaintance with the device in his ministrations with his curator, he removes the compad from his satchel and taps the four-finger code that should link him to his master’s unit. What he gets is totally unexpected. A shrill, painfully uninterrupted squeal, piercing his eardrums.
Algot drops the compad like a hot potato, it bounces once on the carpet and then falls on its face, buzzing. Then the device speaks—loudly.
“You are in violation of Royal Z-1 Prime Directives! You will cease and desist immediately, or you will be detained by Royal Hero guards!”
Shem Seven Algot is agog, wondering who would speak this harshly. The peace and quiet of his complex, this is not. But his response should be one of quietude, not belligerence.
“What did I do?”
Wondering if anyone can hear him, then the voice booms again.
“You are making illegal use of a royal Z-1 com channel without prior permission. Cease and desist or suffer the consequences.”
Algot bends down and grabs the compad, then touch-codes it into standby.
Enough of that business, he thinks.
Shoving the compad back in his satchel, he walks to the portalway, and passes a hand over the sensor pad on the wall. Still no response.
The window and both portalways. No question, he is a prisoner, without any obvious means to contact his curator.
* * *
Sitting on a comfortable chair outside the king’s portal, waiting and not wanting to be undone, Curator of Ecid recites verses from the Ancient Sect of Shem Dedication Song. Happy at his age of one thousand sars he can still remember any of them much less all.
“Attend to your king, curator!”
Lord Dalu suddenly appears from a hidden panel opposite the king’s chamber. Just as suddenly, King Dal emerges from his royal offices.
He stands and bows, then air-kisses the outstretched hand of his king. “My lord.”
Curator of Ecid’s fealty is true, but his respect is hard earned. King Dal has caused the deaths of far too many Nibiruans, and for no justifiable cause.
King Dal sweeps an arm directing Curator of Ecid to precede him into the royal offices. He looks out of sorts, and Lord Dalu crowds him.
The king motions at several plain chairs, then flops down in his own high-backed, red velvet cushair. “Please sit, Curator.”
Curator of Ecid remains perched at the edge of the hard seat, discomfited, but with proper etiquette. ” My king, how may I be of service to you?”
King Dal leans forward, then props his elbows on his worktable. “Are you privileged to the royal reports of late?”
“Yes, of course, my king. Concerning what matter?”
Standing behind and to one side of the king, Lord Dalu edges closer, sidling. When he speaks, he is deceptive.
“Has the curator lost contact with world affairs in his mountain-top isolation? Does he not know of the recent attacks on royal forces? Or of our failing atmosphere? Cleave, curator.”
His title alone, if not his standing at the academy, permits Curator of Ecid to speak respectfully to the prince as an equal, and so he does.
“Lord Dalu. Have you not the grace to address your high philosopher by his full title?”
Broadly sweeping a deep bow, Lord Dalu sneers at the curator—and farts.
Embarrassed, King Dal blurts out his impatience. “That is enough! Leave us Dalu. Now!”
In the fashion of a little child, Lord Dalu skips to the portal, turns, and niggles his fingers in a weak wave.
“Ta-ta, Curator of Ecid.”
The portalway vaporshifts open, and Lord Dalu skips out laughing. Sing-songing out into the vestibule and then down the corridor.
“Cur-a-tor, cur-a-tor, cur-a-tor…”
That man is not right in the head, Curator of Ecid thinks.
“Apologies, Curator of Ecid. You may relax, as we have much to discuss.”
“Thank you. If it please my king, I would summon Shem Seven Algot. Perhaps we together can offer sufficient counsel for my king’s needs.”
Motioning his approval with a wave of his hand, King Dal pushes his chair back, reclines, and kicks his boots up on his worktable. “As you will.”
From the shoulder bag on the floor between his sandals, Curator of Ecid removes his compad, and taps in the code for Shem Seven Algot’s device.
The link never completes though, and he recodes it. Same result, no link.
“My king, there seems to be a problem with my compad. I do not understand, it was working earlier.”
King Dal picks up his own compad from his worktable and hands it to the curator.
“Here, try mine. Royal Z-1 com channels and all that nonsense.”
Curator of Ecid taps in Algot’s code again and gets the same result. “Yours does not seem to be working either, my king.”
“Let me try.” King Dal recalls the code from the compad’s memory, transmits it and gets the same result: No link. Anger flits across his face.
Pressing a single key on his compad, activating an access point for which only he has control, he shouts in his comset, “Clear all channels and all e-device access points immediately!”
A moment later a voice sounds over both their compads, “Done, my king!”
“I do not know who is responsible for this fiasco, Curator of Ecid, but rest assured, I will find out.”
Dropping his feet to the floor, King Dal rises and says, “Perhaps we should move our discussion to morrow next, Curator of Ecid. My royal guard will accompany you to your quarters. Any immediate concerns, he is quite capable.”
Relieved and embarrassed for his king, Curator of Ecid bows, “At your command. Early day next, then, my lord?”
Almost as if Curator of Ecid were never there, King Dal moves to another floatable where a decanter of wine sits tantalizing.
Curator of Ecid walks quietly to the portalway, the royal guard vaporshifts it, and together they leave. Suspicions weigh heavy on the curator’s mind.
* * *
Curator of Ecid dismounts from the gravlift outside his quarters. A guard is posted at the portalway.
With the royal guard at his side, he reaches to vaporshift the portal’s mesh door. Silent and imposing, the husky soldier moves and blocks his access.
Curator of Ecid fumes, tired of seemingly endless omissions and royal antics. “What is the meaning of this outrage!”
The royal guard steps forward and brings his e-spear to bear across his chest, then leans nose-to-nose with the guard, “Stand aside, hero. The king’s business is at hand.”
“I have my orders, envoy.”
The king’s guard bristles, “Do you not see the insignia of the king’s royal guard emblazoned upon my breastplate?”
The soldier’s courage falters, but his stance remains steadfast.
“I do, envoy. Still…”
The king’s guard threatens, “Hero! Mark my words. You will stand down or you will die, on this very spot, at this very moment. Is that understood, soldier?”
“Yes, envoy!”
Crushed by an overwhelming display of power, the hero finally steps aside. No order no matter how royal can equal the value of his life.
Shem Seven Algot stands just inside the open portal. He looks bewildered, and has his arms held out in welcome.
“I heard the whole thing, master! What was it about?”
Curator of Ecid grasps his second’s arm for support and turns, offering a salutary to his royal escort. “You have done well, Hero. I truly am in your debt.”
Snapping his e-spear in a salute, Royal King’s Guard Phel turns, then mounts up and disappears on the gravlift.
Leaning on Algot’s proffered hand, Curator of Ecid walks slowly to the couch, and slumps down against one of its arms, feeling depleted. “I have never before felt so much raw emotion, up-close and violent.”
Algot sits and wraps an arm around his master’s shoulders. The old man’s face is ashen. “Are you not well, master? May I draw you a refreshment?”
Curator of Ecid shakes his head, sad and discouraged. “A warm cup of wine I think, Algot. I know it is not permitted, but nothing else will wash this foul taste from my mouth.”
Curator of Ecid sits up and takes the long- stemmed glass Algot offers him. Sipping, he holds his head and stares at nothing. “Something is amiss, Algot.”
Algot moves to one of the beds and pulls a blanket loose, then returns to wrap it around Curator of Ecid’s body. His curator looks crushed.
“Rest is what I believe you need just now, my master. It seems this encounter has affected you more than you think.”
Curator of Ecid swallows the remainder of the wine then drops the glass on the couch and stands, unsteady and unsure, and says, “If you would Algot, please wake me at 04:00 hours, for ablutions and prayers.”
Helping his senior to bed and covering him, Shem Seven Algot is deeply concerned. This is an unusual response from a man known for his steadfastness.