Aurora - Blood Moon Tribute Pt. 01

Ally blinked. "Say fuckin' what?"

The rent-a-thugs glanced at each other. "Wassamatter? Your ears not working?"

Ally stirred a finger in her ear. "You know, now you mention it."

The Kiwi narrowed his eyes, the gesture totally wasted thanks to his wraparound shades. "Looks like we got ourselves a comedian."

"That's rich," Ally scoffed, "coming from a wannabe MIB, in a too-small suit and sunglasses. It's night time, you know. Take them off. You look ridiculous."

The goon levelled a finger at her. "Best shut the fuck up, Skippy, if you know what's good for you."

Ally swept her fringe back. "Oooo... now I am scared." She tried to count them off without actually moving her eyes. Five of the assholes. Grim-faced door-kickers, three of them swarthy locals. Armed and stupid.

The American, an ex-marine type with a buzz-cut and white sidewalls, his forehead gleaming with sweat, weighed in. "Look, we don't have time for this. His Royal Highness has just invited you to join him. At the mountain palace. It's not a request, it's a command."

Ally looked at her slim, tanned wrist. "Sorry boys," she said, trying hard to walk it back, "we're on a really tight schedule. We still have to clean the dunny and vacuum the seats. A galley-rat's work is never done you know."

"Are you fuckin' thick?" the New Zealander demanded. "His Royal Highness, third in line to the throne... of the country in which you are guests... has just asked you to join him at the palace. The Prince. Get it?"

"What for?" Beck piped up.

The New Zealander threw his arms up. "Does it matter?"

"Well yes it does." Ally said reasonably. "I mean, if you just expect us to drop everything we're doing. For tea and bikkies. Besides. He could be anyone."

The American clenched his teeth. "He is not just 'anyone'. He is the Crown Prince. Rashiid, bin Abdulaziz Al Shabazz. And he has invited you to join him for tea."

"Here!" Ally snapped her fingers. "Let's see your ID!"

The American turned aside and ran a hand across his sweat-damp stubble. "Jesus H Christ. What planet are these clueless bitches from?"

"Australia." the New Zealander snarled. "Isn't it obvious?"

"Well that figures." the American snorted. "Listen Missy, I'll say this one more time, real slow, just for you. His Royal Highness, Prince Rashiid, bin Abdulaziz Al Shabazz, requests the pleasure of your company for tea." He gestured in the direction of the idling SUVs. "At the palace, got it? And we've been asked to take you there."

"Look, mate," Ally said, "we'd love to, really. But all jokes aside. We are aircrew, savvy? The pilots. We have half an hour's work to put the aeroplane to bed, and then we are hitting the hotel. We fly back to Earth tomorrow, via London, and have to be up at zero dark thirty. We are but lowly aviators, just doing what we're told. Thank his Royal Highness for his generous invitation, but please, tell him we must regretfully decline."

Beck nodded eagerly in agreement. She had never heard her fiery little mentor sound so conciliatory, so polite, when they both knew exactly what she really wanted to say- 'Go tell his royal highness to go fuck himself, AND the camel he rode in on'. The New Zealander looked down his nose at Ally. "You really have no idea, do you? How we do things over here? Okay then, have it your way."

The goon moved away out of earshot and spoke at length to his wrist. A moment later, the convoy got underway, leaving the 2 tail-end SUVs behind. Ally slipped her phone from a back pocket. "I'm ringing the embassy."

A big brown paw appeared out of nowhere and took the phone.

"Oi!" Ally railed, "Give that back you fuckin' camel shagger!"

Beck nudged her with an elbow. Red and blues were flashing in the distance, and the mournful wail of sirens floated through the simmering air. "Ally," Beck said, "it might be better if we don't provoke them."

Two airport police cars screeched to a theatrical halt barely a few meters away. The doors opened up and the cops tumbled out, in the grey uniforms and blue berets of the Airport Police. After a short, rapid-fire conversation, the two trembling females almost swooned with relief as the men in black all turned to leave. Some common sense at last- they were guests, after all, not to mention staff of a high-flying law firm. Not the sort of visitors to fuck with. Ally turned to speak to Beck as the scrum formed around them, and big meaty paws seized her wrists. "WHAT THE FUCK?" she shouted, "LET GO OF ME!"

Beck was too busy fending off to come to her aid. They were trying to cuff her, but her arms were so skinny and her hands so small they simply slipped off. Someone produced a set of heavy-duty zip-ties- flexi-cuffs- problem solved. Ally, meanwhile, was cursing loudly at her attackers as they huffed and grunted, struggling to hold her. "Do you have any idea who we are?" she squeaked. "Do you know who we work for? You fucking knuckle draggers! You'll be lucky to work as tea boys when our boss hears of this. Let go of me!"

"You are under arrest." one of the officers said in heavily accented English.

"What the fuck for?" Ally scowled. "We were just standing here minding our own business."

"You have insulted the Royal Family. That is a crime."

"We didn't insult anyone, Officer." Beck pleaded. "Honest."

Two cops picked Beck up under the arms and carried her bodily to one of the police cars.

"LEAVE HER ALONE!" Ally shrieked. "I'M THE CAPTAIN, JUST TAKE ME! TAKE YOUR FUCKIN' HANDS OFF HER!"

The doors shut and the car wheelied off. The remaining police inched Ally towards their vehicle, barely able to move her. "WHAT THE FUCK?" she bellowed, "BRING HER BACK!"

Picking Ally up, they tried to bundle her into the car. In a last, desperate effort, she raked one officer's shin with the sharp edge of her Scarpas. Fighting free, she broke into a sprint, pelting across the apron after Beck. After barely fifty meters, the cop car cut her off, and the doors flew open again. One police officer crash-tackled her to the ground, another sat on her, a third cuffed her wrists behind her back. Picked up by the scruff of the neck, and a fistful of hair, she was flung like a sackful of laundry onto the back seat. While she struggled to rise, two burly cops piled in on top of her. Doors slammed in sequence, one, two, three, and the Mercedes sped off into oblivion.

Beck sat back counting her breaths, willing her heart to slow. She thought back to the day, in her childhood, when some scumbag dragged her out of the house after everyone else had fallen unconscious. Aged eight or nine, she sat on the edge of the passenger seat, watching a totally alien cityscape roll by, while her kidnapper drove around looking for somewhere to do her. Couldn't take her back to his pad, his bitch wouldn't approve, and he didn't have the money for a motel. Not even a cheap one. And he was driving a pickup, worst luck, so no back seat to use in emergencies. So, he started door-knocking cronies and associates instead. No luck there either- some had been jailed or had recently absconded, others were simply not home. Until the third or fourth squat, where the female occupant offered a baggy of meth for the girl, and when the deal was done, sold the child back to her mother for twice that amount. By the end of the big adventure, Beck was back in her squalid room, having enjoyed a four-hour joyride complete with MacDonalds.

And it felt exactly the same tonight, incredibly scary but also exhilarating, thrilling in its own strange way, roaring through a huge, foreign city, weaving through traffic, blasting through stop signs and traffic lights. This was all just one big misunderstanding, she was sure. One telephone call and Roger Bragg would appear, putting the fear of god into these thugs, kicking butts and taking names. This was a civilised country, after all, at least civilised for this part of the world. They couldn't just bundle her off like this. Not without consequences.

After twenty odd minutes of aimless driving, the car pulled off the 6-lane arterial and trundled through a maze of narrow back-streets, on the wrongs side of the tracks, down near the port. It came to a stop and sat idling, in a dusty ally between 2 darkened apartment towers. The inside light came on. For a moment nothing was said, as Beck looked at the officers one by one, each in turn. Four of them, 2 in the front- driver and passenger- 2 in the rear either side. Big noses, beady eyes, bushy beards, thick black eyebrows. "Is this the police headquarters?" she asked at length. "What are we doing?"

The police conferred briefly between themselves then one produced a phone. The conversation escalated into what sounded like an argument, then one officer bailed out from the back, to be replaced by one from the front. Pecking order, Beck figured. Settling into the driver's seat, the glowering ejectee took the phone and turned around, obviously filming her. At the same time, Beck felt pressure against her midriff and looked down, to find the new arrival with the hem of her T-shirt in his big, hairy hand. "What the...?" she demanded, wiggling her hips, trying to pin the hand with her elbow.

All Western whores had great big milk-jugs... it was a matter of fact... thanks to Western decadence and prohibited foods. So why was this little platinum-haired harlot so flat chested? Was she hiding them? Had she strapped them down? Only one way to find out, and no need to even ask. She was theirs now, property of the Ab Aldafra, and they were at liberty to do as they pleased. While one cop grabbed her wrists and wrenched her arms up out of the way, the other reefed her T-shirt up to expose a tiny, padded, floral-patterned bra. And underneath, most disappointingly, two little bumps hardly fit for a twelve-year old.

The cop hiked a bra cup up and pinched her nipple, frowning. The others ducked and weaved, vying for a direct line of sight as a second cop lay his hand on her chest. Beck brought her knees up and pulled her elbows in, trying to shake-off the assault. "NO!" she squealed, "NO! STOP! Please, stop! I'm a virgin!"

There was a sufficient collective grasp of English to stop the cops in their tracks. "I'm a virgin," Beck huffed, "and I have come to your country to give my virginity to your king."

Mention of the 'K' word brought an instant change to the ambience.

"That's right." Beck nodded feverishly. "That's why I came here. To meet the king. To give him my virginity. That's my gift to him. But when he finds out... and don't worry, he will... some scaly traffic cops helped themselves to what was rightfully his... well... I wouldn't want to be in your shoes."

One of the cops, a senior officer judging by the bling, gestured at her with his chin. "His Majesty, long may he reign, would not sully himself with a filthy whore like you."

"That's not true," Beck said, thinking on the ragged edge, "and you know it. The king is a great and powerful man, and his prowess in lovemaking is legendary. Even in my country. His conquests number in the hundreds and thousands, and he's still going strong. Am I right?"

The police all began talking at once until the officer waved them down. Beck shimmied her shirt down, bra still awry, as the tone in the vehicle turned none too jovial. The officer gestured with his bushy-bearded chin. "I will bet you one million talens you are telling a lie."

"But if I'm not..." Beck said, "and the king finds out... well... we all know what's gonna happen."

The little slut's self-assurance was unnerving. The king did have a taste for undercooked Western meat, everyone knew. By the same token, the enmity between His Majesty and his third son, Prince Rashiid, was the worst-kept secret in the land. Which might explain the Prince's involvement, out of pure spite. Trying to inseminate the girl before his father could, for once she was sullied the king wouldn't touch her. "You say you came to meet His Majesty?" the officer challenged. "Who sent you?"

"My... my..."

"Just as I thought." the officer snorted, "You are lying."

"NO!" Beck glared. "My family sent me. As a gift to the king."

"His Highness can have any high-born woman he desires. Why would he bother with you?"

"How do I know? You'll have to ask him."

"And such a flat chest." the officer sneered. "Where's your womanhood?"

"After being blessed by his Highness," Beck said, "I'm sure I'll have plenty to show. But let me tell you. I have travelled halfway around the world to give him this gift. And heaven help you... if I turn up and the box is already open."

A sullen, thoughtful silence filled the Merc. Beck sat back, heavy breathing, hoping against hope. This was a modern, civilised country with all the mod-cons... universities and hospitals, parks, fountains, shopping malls, good roads, tidy suburbs and lots of glittering architecture. With a few local quirks, granted, like women not being allowed to drive- or do pretty much anything for that matter. But it stood to reason that their monarch would be an educated man, urbane, sophisticated, not some medieval despot. If anyone could get her out of this mess. Pouncing on the cops' patent uncertainty, Beck spoke up. "In fact, tell you what. If you can take me to His Majesty's place. I'll see to it personally that you all get a handsome reward."

Another volley of conferring glances. 'Reward...' that word had such a nice ring. After a brief, glaring standoff, the officer turned away. Grunting orders at the driver, he sat staring straight ahead as the boys in the back moved aside. Sweating fit to melt, trembling like a leaf in a storm, Beck struggled to restore her bra and sat back stony-faced, as the Merc rolled out of the ally and onto the main road.

20 miles away on the far side of the city, another police Mercedes roared through the night, along a lonely desert superhighway, 4 lanes aside, lit by towering overhead lights at 2 hundred-meter intervals. Three police occupied the 2 front seats, the passengers almost sitting on each other, while a single volunteer was in the rear, sitting crossways, legs out, boots jamming their prisoner into the corner. One of the front seat passengers was nursing a split lip, from a head-butt, served up by the pint-sized hellion who now wore a hood to stop her from biting. In the course of a spirited discussion, the battered police had discussed just clubbing her senseless, then dumping her in the canal and letting the Sanitation Department take care of it. Until one of the officers pointed out now she was under arrest, she was property of the king, and should she go missing, so would they. For the next twenty years. Their orders were clear. Take her to the prison and teach her some manners, but otherwise make sure she stays in one piece.

The Naval prison was located deep in the desert- at the end of the road, literally, just one more inadvertent irony for which the region was famed. The gates swung open as the Merc drew up and it passed through without stopping, across a narrow strip of no-man's land and through another gate. Into a huge, walled compound topped with razor wire and studded with watchtowers. Tall concrete cell blocks, three stories high, radiated outwards in the shape of an 'X' from a central admin hub. A gate in the admin tower swung open as they drew up, and the Merc descended a ramp into the brightly-lit basement.

Still bound and hooded, Ally was manhandled out of the vehicle and half dragged, half carried across an underground parking lot to a steep flight of stairs. As she was pushed, stumbling, ever upwards, she braced herself for the inevitable, the old heave-ho and a few seconds of free-fall, a graceful ballistic arc with a sudden stop at the bottom. Instead, she was herded through several doorways and finally pushed roughly down, into the friendly embrace of a padded chair. Hands groped her neck and the hood came off, and Ally sat blinking. "Jesus," she croaked, "who just turned on the lights?"

As her vision adjusted, she found herself, still handcuffed, behind a huge wooden desk. The top was piled with paperwork, 3 different telephones, an overflowing ashtray and a computer display. And there, on the far side, sat a big, burly male. Black uniform with lots of silver. Bushy moustache, goatee, thick black monobrow. Close-cropped pate with a receding hairline, if not handsome then at least good looking. He cracked a smile. "Captain Alana, how good of you to join us."

"Pleasure's all mine." Ally grated, still struggling to keep her eyes open.

"I hope my men treated you well."

"Oh, yes," Ally replied, her voice dripping with sincerity, "all perfect gentlemen, chivalrous to a fault. I mean that punch in the head they gave me, one of the most polite I've ever received."

"This is a law-abiding country," he shrugged, "the men don't see much action. When a job does come along they can get a little... how do you say... taken away."

Looking up, the officer snapped orders at the idle bystanders and a bunch of keys appeared. Grabbing her by the neck, one pushed her down till her head was between her knees, while the other unlocked the handcuffs as roughly as he could. They let her go and Ally sat up, rubbing her wrists. "See what I mean?" she said, looking from one glowering face to the other. "Absolute charmers."

With a jerk of the head and a flicker of his brow, the seated officer sent the airport police packing. Ally looked around as her vision cleared to find herself all alone in a tiny, run-down office, steel shelves on one side burdened with bulging file-folders, a pot plant in the corner which hadn't seen water since The Flood. "They are not well educated." the officer explained as the door shut behind them. "Unlike them I am well educated. I am also well-travelled and highly intelligent. I think you'll find me most perspicacious. I spent two years studying in the Great Satan you see. At UC Berkeley, learning the ways of the west. I love the United States, parts of it anyway, but its moral decline was quite shocking to witness. Praise god I wasn't corrupted. Piety is the armour of the righteous as they say. Tea, Captain?"

"White with two thanks." Ally nodded. "Do you have a name or should I just call you 'mate'?"

"Oh, I do apologise." the male said, picking up a white porcelain teapot and filling a small, grimy glass with urine-coloured tea. "Allow me to introduce myself. Brigadier Talfi Khamim, Commandant."

"And you're still working the graveyard shift? You should learn to delegate."

"A conscientious officer's work is never done." he smiled. "You are Australian, yes? And you are a pilot? And your companion, she is a pilot too?"

Ally downed her tea in a single gulp and held out her glass. "Yes, I am. And yes, she is. And I'm responsible for her. Whatever trumped up charges we've been accused of, I demand we be released immediately. Captain Watson especially, wherever she is. Come to think of it, where is she?"

The brigadier waved her down. "Please, please, relax. She is being well taken care of."

"Yeah? Well if anything happens to her, mate, you're in a world of pain. You and anyone else who lays a hand on her."

The brigadier smiled a big white smile. "You are a brave young lady, to sit there and threaten me so."

"It's not a threat, it's a promise."

"Am I correct?" he said, pouring her tea, "All Western males are homosexuals? Which is why young Western womans must always be so... forceful?"

"Know what I'd do?" Ally said, then drained her glass, "Hook over to my country. Then swing by a pub. Look for a bunch of blokes and ask 'em yourself."

The brigadier nodded thoughtfully. "Good idea. Tell me... why do so many Western womans dress like men?"

"Fuckin' bizarre, innit?" Ally frowned, feigning dismay. "And why do mens over here always dress like womans? And wear sandals on their feets, and tea towels on their head. And the chicks... well... don't get me started. Walking around in the heat of the day in those frikken' garbage bags."