Aurora - Blood Moon Tribute Pt. 06

Another trip down memory lane, back to his childhood. In the Principal's office, falsely accused, wondering why he was there.

"I am a man of science," the prince said, "as are you. And I have followed your work, with great interest and a modicum of understanding."

"Thank you Your-"

"SILENCE! Not one more word! I have a better grasp than most of the technology you have evolved. And I wish to tell you. How much I abhor your work, how much I abhor you!"

Shabaaz half-turned then commenced pacing slowly around the old man, as he stood, rooted to the spot, sphincter clenched, knees knocking.

"Your invention is a crime against nature." the prince growled. "It is a crime against god. Most of all it is a crime against humanity, for the unimaginable suffering it will cause. You seek to create a brand-new elite, the immortals, richer and more powerful, more self-indulgent, more dissolute, more depraved than any that's ever existed. And you will do this for your own self-enrichment, as if you are not already rich enough already."

He couldn't see, but Watson knew the colour had drained from his face, and the hair was standing up on his sweat-prickled scalp.

"And you dare to come here, seeking my father's connivance. He is a good man, let me assure you. A wise ruler who loves his people and truly takes care of them. Yet he still belongs to the past, a desperate and violent past when nations warred while empires rose and fell. He is also sadly steeped in mysticism, and is now bedazzled by your promise of youth and immortality. And what for you? What do you seek in exchange? Hmm? A week's unbridled debauchery? In the bastardised facsimile of some medieval orgy? A relic of our brutal beginnings, degrading and outdated, a haven for despots and criminals from all over the world? Who flock to do business on my sovereign land? And as for that bestial 'Sports day'. Fit only for savages. Savages like you, Mister Munt. Savages like you. Bringing shame to my country, making us a laughing stock. Holding us back, while all those countries around us advance."

With the prince behind him, Watson opened his mouth to speak then closed it again. What could he say? Without owning up to the subterfuge and giving himself away?

"Men like you are the new barbarians." Prince Faisal growled, "Sucking the lifeblood out of the planet, treating your fellow man as livestock. Like farm animals. Using your obscene wealth, mostly ill-gotten, to feed your lowest, filthiest, most savage carnal desires. Yes... even feasting on the flesh of unborn humans. Nothing is too low for you."

The prince pulled up, close enough for Watson to smell his breath. "I am a man of great wealth also, Mister Munt. And once upon a time, a man of great power. While I might have renounced my claim to the throne, I yet retain my share of the royal family's treasure. In my case a matter of billions. And what have I done? I have used that wealth to build half a dozen hospitals. Where treatment is free to anyone in need... national, expatriate, guest worker, tourist... we do not discriminate. I used my wealth to fund the country's first ambulance helicopter, available twenty-four hours a day to anyone in need. Anyone, from the desert to the sea, anywhere, anytime they may be sick or lost or injured. And I am a surgeon. With twenty years' experience. I serve my fellow man, rich or poor, including casualties on the front line, friend or foe. This is the true measure of a man, Mister Munt... what he gives, not what he has."

The prince looked at his watch then ran a hand over his close-cropped scalp. "I had to leave the operating theatre for this. This... this... unfortunate exchange. Now I must get back. But heed my words. If you do set up in this country, you will have a well-resourced and powerful enemy. And I swear. I will make it my life's mission to destroy your work and hopefully you. Mister Munt, only devils and gods are immortal... and this abomination will never yield a god. In parting I beseech you... if there is one shred of decency left in you, renounce your vile creation."

Looking left and right, the prince departed, tugging his suit jacket straight on the way. CCTV saw him coming, and he passed through the open door without breaking stride. Watson looked around. The door behind him opened and in walked Sook, bemused by the advances of several security guards. They all wanted a piece of the handsome young man, though they dared not touch him, on pain of ritual killing. Ghazal dogged her steps, wringing his hands, torn by competing imperatives- follow the king's orders and fawn all over the guest, or treat him with the same disdain as the angry prince had. "Lord Munt..." he inveigled, "the time is near. His Majesty awaits."

"What about my gift?" Watson asked, effortlessly slipping back into character- imperious contempt and lofty arrogance, parallel tracks greased with powerful beta-blockers.

"It is already in the Parley Room." Ghazal replied. "Quick. Quick! His majesty awaits."

A pair of palace security goons- tactical types all in black, rocking Kevlar pots and assault rifles, fell-in on his flanks and with the subtlest shove of a rifle butt urged him forward. "Hey!" Watson glared, "they are not to touch me! Tell them."

"Please, please, they speak no English. They are just doing their job."

"And what about Aki?"

"The young sir must wait here, Excellency. Fear not, he will be safe. Now quickly, Lord Gideon, His Majesty is most desirous to meet you."

The trio entered a long, dim corridor and the door closed quietly behind them. 'Once more into the breach, dear friends' Watson thought, fighting the urge to giggle. Infiltrate a palace, in a country that still dished out the death penalty. Serve up a fake magic elixir to an autocratic king, under the eye of armed security. A line from Monty Python popped into his mind. 'Crucifixion's a doddle.'

After several 90 degree turns, left and right, they pulled up at a blank dead-end and stood waiting, under the black, compound eye of a CCTV. Watson felt vibration underfoot and the entire corridor translated sideways, gradually exposing the entry to another long hallway. He was in a labyrinth, literally- there was no way in and no way back without an escort. Where was Ariadne, he wondered, and her ball of thread when he needed them?

The party came to a halt at yet another dead end. More shifting floors, and the wall opened in front of them to reveal a huge, multi-faceted space- a hexagon perhaps, though there was no time to count the separate panels. The tacticals fell back, and a second pair of operatives took their place, dressed in the maroon livery of the king's personal guard. One swept Watson with a metal detector, just for fun, then tugged at his belt buckle, and finally checked under his lapels, breathing hot, garlic fumes into his face. Dismissing the escort with a jerk of the chin, they took Watson by the elbow and walked him across the ornate tiling to the middle of the huge, domed room.

Most of the space was steeped in funereal gloom. Oil-burning torches at intervals round the walls cast a flickering orange glow throughout the cavernous space. Guards stood at attention around the perimeter, one for the entry to each of the facets. Unlike the troopers in the escort- just rank-and-file- these were clad in a ceremonial uniform- pleated kilts, sandals and heavy leather shin guards, dark brown, gilt leather plastrons and what looked like Nemes, a headdress worn in ancient Egypt. For a few dizzying moments, Watson felt as if he'd just wandered onto the set of a DeMillian epic, the setting so grand, the props so corny, it was hard to believe he was meant to take it seriously.

Overhead lights in the very centre of the room cast a bright, yellow glow, like morning sunshine, over a low wooden dais at the epicentre of the space. And there, in the centre of the dais, stood a plush chaise lounge, draped in silks and leopard skins. A figure heaved upwards off the lounge, beckoning. "Come!" a voice called, "Lord Gideon, come."

Another subtle nudge sent Watson on his way. As he approached, his eyes lit on the golden casket, on a low, teak table to the left of the dais. The offering. His offering. The three stooges- the king's seers- stood in the shadows behind, glaring daggers. What divinations had they whispered in the ears of their king?

His Majesty Abdulaziz bin Salman Al Shabazz, King of Ab Aldafra, Father of the people, Lion of the Desert, direct descendant of Salman the Great, pushed his bulk upright and gestured once more at the hesitant guest. "Come, come!" he beamed, bright white teeth shining out of a neatly trimmed black beard, his head covered in a humble, red-checked keffiyeh, shoulders draped with black, gold trimmed robes over a simple white dishdasha. "My brother, do not be afraid. You are my honoured guest, I bid you welcome."

"Your Majesty," Watson inclined his head, "I am honoured. The countless tales of greatness do not do you justice."

At the base of the dais, Watson went down on one knee, as the king leant over and offered his hand. Following protocol, Watson took the king's hand and pressed the knuckles to his forehead, then withdrew, while a steward darted out of the wings with sanitizer. The king accepted a squirt and waited patiently, while the servant rubbed perfumed alcohol into his hand, quickly dried it off and scurried away. "I trust you had a pleasant journey?" the king asked- excellent English straight out of Cambridge.

"Very pleasant indeed," Watson lied, "it almost felt like I was coming home."

"Excellent!" the king said, reclining once more. "And I wish to offer my thanks, for making yourself available at such short notice. I have a lot on my saucer, as you British like to say."

"Indeed, Your Majesty. Your capacity for work is legendary."

A tense silence fell across huge domed room. Details were surfacing from the gloom, on the walls beyond the dais, ornate, intricate, geometric patterns, four, five and six-fold symmetry wrought in multicoloured tiles, ancient mathematics made visible. The king sat smiling while his guest admired the décor.

"My seers tell me there is a Jewess in your lineage." the king suddenly said, still sporting the same warm smile.

"There is?" Watson replied, blinking like he'd just been slapped. This was news to him.

The king studied his fingernails. "My good Lord Gideon, You did not mention this."

"I... we... Forgive me Your Majesty, I didn't know."

"Perhaps..." the king said, "it was many aeons ago. So it is possible. These things get lost, or sometimes they are buried."

"If Your Majesty pleases," Watson said, "much of the family history was lost in World War two. In the bombings."

"Of course," the king said, "of course. I just wanted you to know... there is nothing my three wise men cannot see. Your Western science is no match for their skill. When they peer into the depths of your soul, they see everything... past, present, future... nothing is hidden."

"I understand, Your Majesty, and I accord them the utmost reverence."

The king turned his head slightly and spoke to the trio behind his back. Fat Cleric, Short Round, the tall, thin Reverend Rake, mindlessly shuffling their infernal prayer beads, self-serving, arrogant, fakirs of the highest order. The king shifted his bulk again, coming upright, knees splayed, arms on his thighs. "Tell me," he said, "what of your gift?"

"Your Majesty?" Watson frowned.

"How it was made, what it contains, what it does. In simple terms, for I am a simple man."

"That is clearly not the case." Watson said, looking around. "Your acumen is legendary."

"I am an old man. Indulge me."

"Well, Your Majesty," Watson began, drawing on every ounce of his storytelling ability. "This product is the result of decades of research, by thousands of scientists all over the world. All driven by the discovery that ageing is not a foregone conclusion."

"It's not?"

"A scientific fact that's has been established beyond doubt, Your Majesty."

"So, we can be immortal?"

"Barring accident or disease, Your Majesty, there is absolutely no reason why not. Of course, accidents can be avoided, and diseases mostly cured."

"But why you?" the king asked shrewdly, "How did you succeed, if so many others have failed?"

Watson wanted to say, 'because Gideon Woodrow-Munt, the psychopath billionaire, who inherited the research from his own father, has no compunction harvesting stem cells from live foetuses, and has never been constrained by ethics or morals. "My laboratory was able to access resources others could not. Now we have the patent, the data are ours alone."

"And what does it do? In simple terms?"

"Maintains your telomeres," Watson replied, "in a persistent youthful state. And provides a gene editing tool to repair damaged DNA.

"There are no side-effects?"

"No, Your Majesty, there is no reason to be. None of the substances are foreign to the body. We all have DNA and it's all the same."

"Even a mighty King's?"

"The... err... nucleotides, yes, Your Majesty. It's the way they're put together that counts."

"So the treatment is safe? As much as I desire youth, I have my people to think of."

"One hundred percent, Sire, I give you my word. This treatment merely holds on to what father-time takes away. It's no different to a vitamin supplement." One derived, Watson added silently, from unborn humans.

"Very well!" the king said, then gestured at the casket. "How much do I require? To become young again?"

Watson cleared his throat. "I... ah... there are twenty vials, Your Majesty, one for an initial dose, with monthly boosters after that. Until you stabilise."

The king looked into the distance, an image himself as a twenty-something stud, astride a white horse, shirtless in silk pantaloons, brandishing a scimitar, skin burnished with sweat and oil. "If I should require more?"

"Well, by then, Your Majesty, with your indulgence, we'll be producing it right here, in Ab Aldafra. To sell all over the world. Exclusive manufacturers, with the super-rich our clientele. Of course for you, the treatment is free."

The king looked like a kid who'd just heard he was going to Disneyland. "How do I take it?" he asked. "This miracle cure? How is it administered?"

"Intravenously, Your Majesty. A needle into a vein."

"Excellent!" the king said, rubbing his hands, "I am ready."

"Your Majesty?"

"I am ready to take the cure." the king said, then looked up and snapped his fingers. A steward raced in, gingerly picked up the casket, then stepped up to Watson.

"What..." Watson asked, looking around, "what would you have me do?"

"Pick one." the king said, as the steward opened the lid.

"Pick one?"

"A vial."

"B... but..." Watson stammered, "they're all the same."

"Then pick one."

Sweat prickled his scalp as the old man winkled a vial out of the silk padding. A second steward stepped up, bearing a golden tray, in the middle of which, on a cushion of folded white linen, lay a 20-mil syringe, already prepped with an orange-capped needle. Watson approached the dais to make the offering.

"Draw it up." the king said, while Reverend Rake whispered in Fat Cleric's ear.

"Your Majesty?"

"Please, Lord Gideon, I have much to do. Draw up the shot."

Shaking hard enough to knock the beta-blockers off their receptors, Watson uncapped the needle, forced it through the rubber stopper, and slowly sucked the contents from the vial into the syringe. When the transfer was done, he carefully capped the needle, placed it on the tray, then returned the empty vial to the casket. "It is ready, Your Majesty."

Watson heard footsteps behind and the flurry of clothing, and before he could move, two black-clad guards had seized him by the arms. At the same time, a small, fifty-something woman appeared, in a pristine white medical coat, head covered in a tight black hijab. Picking up the syringe, she pulled off the cap, held it up to the light and expressed a few drops of liquid.

Watson fought back, as the goon on his right struggled to unbutton his cuff. "How dare you!" he raged, "Let go!"

The woman in front of him curled her lip. "So." she said in English. "You are afraid to take an injection fit for a king? Is that right?"

"I am NOT afraid!"

"Then why do you struggle so? Hmm?"

"This is a fifty-thousand pound suit!" Watson raged, blockers hanging on for dear life. "Look what they're doing! Tell these imbeciles, this shirt costs more than they make in a year. Let me go, confound you! Let... me... GO!"

The woman jerked her head, calling the dogs off, and they pulled back heavy-breathing from the scuffle. Suddenly released, Watson jerked his sleeves straight, then turned his glare on the attackers, one-by-one. He looked the small woman in the lab-coat up and down. "All you had to do was ask." he scowled, "that's how we do it where I come from." Unfastening his jacket, he handed it over to a steward, then unbuttoned the left cuff of his crumpled shirt. Rolling up his sleeve he said, "I think you'll find the antecubital fossa will do."

The woman stepped up and snapped a tourniquet around his bicep, plucked an alcohol swab from a waiting steward's fingers, and quickly rubbed Watson's left inside elbow. A hush fell over the room, the king on the edge of his seat, watching intently while the family doctor expertly drove the needle into Watson's vein. Hesitating briefly, seeking a nod from the king, she thumbed the plunger, forcing 10cc of pale violet liquid into the foreigner's arm. Task complete, she plucked a tiny ball of cotton-wool off the tray, pressed it against his skin, then deftly slipped the needle from his arm. "Press here." she said.

"I know what to do." Watson replied tersely, as the woman stepped back, leaving him to hold the cotton wool in place. He looked up. "Your Majesty. I regret to inform you that first shot was totally wasted. I am up to date with my own treatment, and there are now only nineteen left."

"Thank you, Lord Gideon." the king bowed, "A regrettable but necessary precaution." The king raised his arm and the lab-coated female hurried to his side.

Watson buttoned his cuff, then snapped his fingers and the steward stepped up to help him on with his jacket. "Why, Your Majesty? I've been through so many levels of security already."

"Envy is a terrible thing." the king sighed, while the female doctor busied herself.

"I come to praise you, Your Majesty, not to deceive you."

The doctor chose a second vial and the contents were wirthdrawn. A few drops shot like ground-fire through the spotlight beam. "Indeed," the king said indulgently, "and as a man of great honour, I trust you will forgive me these precautions. I have my country to think of."

The doctor approached, bearing the loaded syringe, and the king offered his arm. Head bowed, a steward rucked the king's hanging sleeve up, holding it clear, while the doctor clipped a fresh tourniquet around the king's massive bicep. The king worked his fist, clenching and unclenching like a thousand times before, while the doctor rubbed up a vein as she so frequently did. While a life of unfettered pleasure might have come at some cost, the sting of a needle was small price to pay.

The doctor looked up for final approval and the king gave a nod. The needle slid into his skin and the doctor eased back, looking for the tell-tale flash that signalled the needle's arrival in the royal bloodstream. Satisfied, she quickly released the tourniquet, then delivered the payload- 10cc of normal saline solution, with a drop or 2 of food colouring, and 1 percent alcohol to taste. His face a mask of intense concentration, the king felt the rush of cool liquid shoot up his vein. "When should I start feeling the first effects?"

Watson looked reflexively at his watch. "It is a biomolecular process, Your Majesty. The effect is immediate, but you probably won't notice it at first. But over the days and weeks and months to come, your strength will increase and your faculties will sharpen. While you conform to the change, those around you will notice it most."