The Chronicles of Ki
Book 1: In The Beginning
© Copyright 2024 Frank Walters Clark ~ All Rights Reserved
Once a high-ranking general and honored leader of the Royal Annunaki Heroes, nowadays Catma of Uruk hides his Tri-Star of Courage in shame. The medallion reminds him of his eternal blood-oath to his king, a vow he can no longer honor.
Battle-scarred and testy, Catma rises stiff each morning at zero six hundred, and exercises to maintain his physique. A regimen which allows him to clear his mind, putting away troubling thoughts of a king who, in his self-aggrandizement, consistently ignores his closest advisors, Catma included.
Two hours later, Catma waits outside an abandoned military headquarters for his meeting with the king’s son, Prince Dalu. His lordship is late, and totally out of character.
A large crumbling building, it stands under the intermittent cones of a single light tower. Over the sars rains have leeched it to a faded gray.
Catma formerly was King Dal’s aide-de- camp. When Prince Dalu came of age and required officer’s training, he was reassigned as his sole trusted advisor.
Cracks appear lately in Catma’s mask of constancy. Brought on by memories of the prince as a child and his bent to extreme, sometimes deadly violence.
Finally, the royal skyship circles and lands on a pad at installation’s edge. The huge black bird’s gyrogrids wind up, then down and stop. A hatch vaporshifts open, and a ladder extends and locks into place.
Lord Dalu flies out to the ground with arms spread. Removing his black gloves, he neatly tucks them away in his belt.
He is tall and wiry, with white-blonde hair and dark-skinned narrow features. Above high cheek bones, his eyes are crystalline-blue.
He acknowledges Catma’s bow, then turns to look up at the tall, ugly complex. Shaking his head in disgust, he says, “Not what I imagined, but I suppose it will have to do.”
Catma glances at him, “Like fine wines, older has greater spirit, my lord.”
“And do you have spirit, old man?” “We shall soon discover, my lord.”
Lord Dalu spins about and curls a finger. Heading at a clip toward the building’s main door he says, “Let us have a look.”
Inside, Lord Dalu grimaces: The desk sergeant’s lobby is a waste land.
Floating tables—floatables—lie on the floor, dead. Bulkheads are moldy and broken and hang in fissured sheets.
Démodé compudata systems are in pieces, tangles of broken wires. Small, cove mounted, food and beverage access panels are ripped loose and hang useless.
“This is your choice, Catma. What are your thoughts about it?”
Catma sighs, and scratches at his thinly bearded chin. Lifting an eyebrow, he says, “If you will tell me the purpose behind this mission, my lord, maybe I can offer an opinion.”
Dusting off a small, padded bench with his glove, Lord Dalu sits down and crosses a leg over. Propping his elbow on his knee, he rests chin in hand.
“There is no precedence for what we’re about to do, Catma. I am forming a new battalion, outside the ranks of the royal guard, and I expect complete secrecy.”
In the embodiment of a royal guardsman, Catma stands erect, fist over heart, and first salutes the king’s name. “Dal! I am yours, my prince.”
His aide has been deficient once before, a failing that nearly cost Lord Dalu his life. Therefore, vigilance is needed.
“Dal, high commander. I will approve your every manifesting requisition from this moment forward. Execute this mission in a timely fashion, Catma. Failure is unacceptable.”
Lord Dalu rises, brushes dust off the seat of his uniform, then steps away and says, “Two considerations for you, commander. Rebuild this installation and recruit a full regiment from among the ranks of the royal Annunaki Heroes. Officers included.”
“What title shall I give this new regiment, my lord?”
“Black Gloves, which our men will proudly wear.”
“So it is and so it shall be, my lord.”
Watching as Lord Dalu’s bird streaks into sector leap, Catma of Uruk considers what he has just heard. The royal guard in him whispers conspiracy, but his conscience shouts retribution. For the divisive words and acts of their king.
Catma of Uruk is firm on one thought, though: There will be a reckoning.