The Chronicles of Ki
Book 1: In The Beginning
© Copyright 2024 Frank Walters Clark ~ All Rights Reserved
Mount Nis’s massively wide peak stands flat and broken. Centered on it is the giant installation of the Sect of Shem’s Royal Space Academy. Authorized access is by way of skyship only.
Dozens of seven-level buildings lay sprawled around a dual purpose, quadrant- shaped plaza. Serving as a launch pad and a drilling arena; day and night there is always something going on.
The buildings hold barracks, staff offices, meeting halls, and kitchen and dining areas. The classrooms are geared to educate students in rocket—shem—sciences, and military practices on the quad.
In order to graduate, students are required to input massive amounts of data about Nibiru’s long history. Video and audio recordings by the millions, taken from cameras posted at every niche, every corner of their lives.
Privacy is no longer a part of their reality, given up for the sake of feeling safe and secure in their daily lives. Never quite realizing, they will not ever be safe and secure, no matter how their government justifies it.
The older records are carefully protected, then relegated to a huge, temperature-controlled and secured underground storage library.
The sect’s high philosopher, Curator of Ecid, is an adjutant member of the royal court. A thousand sars old, extremely wrinkled and bony, the white-haired old man holds the official title: Grand Philosopher of Shem.
Earlier, billowing dust and spraying lightning, a skyship delivered a royal angelic directly to Curator of Ecid: His services are commanded by the king.
Sitting in consult with his second, Shem Seven Algot, Curator of Ecid sips from a cup of hot tinglee tea. He wants to have everything in order prior to his royal appearance.
Reading from the missive, Algot says, “If I interpret this properly, the king is facing a monumental disharmony among our citizens.”
Sliding low in his seat, Curator of Ecid says, “He is stirring trouble again, Algot. So how is this one any different from those in his recent past?”
Shem Seven Algot is a light-skinned, trim and muscular man. Long hours of intense studies have sharpened his mind, long hours of physical training his body.
“Records reveal there is no difference,” Algot says.
The high philosopher glances over and smiles, his voice betraying fondness for his second. “He has no sense of direction, Algot. The slightest disruption throws his advisors into an uproar.”
Algot eases into his response, saying, “With all that is going on around him? Might you devise our king is overwhelmed?”
“Overburdened? What other matters are so important besides governing and keeping the peace?”
“Is it possible he is attentive only to those who are servile to him, and disregards those who serve the best interests of our country?”
Light sparkles in the old man’s eyes and he says, “He is afraid for himself more so than others. Consistently sending himself down.”
“Ah-h, master,” Algot says. “You do not need my counsel.”
The old man chuckles, his intellect fired. “You sly devil! I now recall why I appointed you my adjutant.”
Shem Seven Algot rises, pats his master on the shoulder, then winks at him. Leaving, he calls over his shoulder.
“Should I prepare your travel satchels?”
Curator of Ecid calls back, “Yes, you may. And prepare your own, too.”