Aurora - Blood Moon Tribute Pt. 06

"In a few days?" the king pressed, "how will I look?"

"Radiant, Your Majesty."

"Rejuvenated? For example, if a young woman were to take my eye... Would she find me... how do I say...?"

"Irresistible, Your Majesty? Utterly, yes."

The king shook down his sleeve and clapped his hands, beaming. "You know, I think I can feel it already."

Watson hefted a shoulder. "I'm not surprised, Your Majesty. The therapy works best on those who are already of great strength and vitality."

The king looked at his doctor. "Hear that, Samia?"

"Indeed," the woman bowed, all the while studiously avoiding eye-contact. "I have always said you are a remarkable specimen."

"Very good!" the king boomed, struggling upright onto his feet. Stewards darted in and straightened his robes as he held out his hands. "Lord Gideon!"

Watson glanced at a security guard and got a tiny nod in reply. Stepping up, he pressed his forehead to the kings fat knuckles then took 2 paces back.

"The time has come for you to take your leave," the king said, "but I will meet you soon on the island. There we might walk together, and you can tell me all about your plans. The factory you wish to build. How we might do business."

Watson bowed his head. "I look forward to it, My Liege." he said, grateful for the dismissal. The doctor's unwavering scrutiny was nerve-racking, and Watson couldn't help feeling she knew.

"I would see you to the door myself," the king said, slowly and awkwardly resuming his seat, "but there is much to do before I can rest. Thank you, Lord Gideon, from the bottom of my heart." The king waved him away and the security stepped up, marching him to the door, where they paused to pass their burden to the tactical team. One step, 2, and they came to a halt again, waiting for walls to move and corridors to open. Watson guessed the labyrinthine effect was real and deliberate, controlled by operators manning CCTVs, navigated only by those in the know.

The hallway yawned open, long and dim, and a guard nudged him forward with a shoulder. They set off, Watson feeling small and vulnerable, longing for Sook and her fearless energy. What on Earth had he been thinking, he wondered, up shit creek and drifting downstream, so close the edge of the world he could see water pouring over the side.

The corridor was barely 4-men wide, specifically designed to limit frustrate raiders. And for that reason meant to be one-way, only 1 party permitted at any one time. But when the squaddie on point suddenly propped, and Watson, up on tiptoes, looked over his shoulder, he saw a formation of bulky black shapes moving down the hallway towards them. The guard to his rear seized Watson by the shoulder, then dragged him back and took up position, shoulder to shoulder with his counterpart, rifles levelled. The point man raised a black, gloved hand. "STOP!"

Bent at the waist, peeking between them, Watson watched a small, angry woman break from the huddle and hurry forward. The troopers traded looks, and Watson saw their shoulders slump ever so slightly. It was the Witch of the Wedding Cake, the Wife Wrangler in-chief, psychotherapist and man-hater, Inayat Ahmad. DOCTOR Inayat Ahmad to the likes of them. "What are you doing here?" she demanded in an angry whisper.

A guard thumbed over his shoulder. "Escorting His Excellency back from the Parley Room."

"I can see that, you idiot. I mean what are you doing in my designated corridor?"

The squaddie shrugged. "You'll have to ask ops."

"Trust me, I will, and if you mental defectives have taken the wrong one!" She looked around in a quandary. The king himself had just been on the blower telling her to expedite. He'd just taken the cure and was keen to put its miraculous powers to the test- he wanted his Perpetual and he wanted her now. "You'll have to go back."

"No Ma'am, we can't do that."

Inayat's arm shot out, pointing back the way she'd just come, at two hulking guards, also black-clad Tacticals- standing at ease with their rifles resting over their arms. "You do know who I am, don't you?"

"I'm sorry Doctor," the point man said, "but it's strictly forbidden. Palace protocol. Once a guest is dismissed, they must not return, except by His Majesty's command. We're simply not authorised, but perhaps you can ask..."

"There's no time for that." Inayat spat, then stared at the floor, chewing a thumbnail. "Look, stand back. Have your handicap stand between you with his face to the wall. We'll have to squeeze by."

"Face the wall? We can't do that. He's a VVIP. He's been picked for the inner circle."

Inayat looked around for something to hit. "Well just stand clear then and let us go by. I don't believe this! Someone's in for a flogging."

"Yes Ma'am." the squaddie nodded, then turned on Watson, who was waiting patiently, still none the wiser. "You," the trooper said, forcing Watson politely but firmly back against the wall, "stand clear."

Inayat turned on her heel and stormed off, back to the dark huddle twenty meters away. She disappeared into the midst of the pack, and at the count of 2 the formation set off, not so much as march as a stroll, in consideration of the individual in their midst. As they pressed past, Watson caught a glimpse of a tiny figure dressed from head to toe in black, a mask covering her face. Only the eyes were visible, sky blue, big and frightened. They met the old man's.

The blue eyes shied away then just as quickly shot back. "DAMON!" a voice shrieked and the figure fell in a heap to the floor, as if the burqa had just been emptied of its occupant. Guards unlimbered their weapons, as the old man broke away, arms outstretched, reaching for the formless black bundle.

"MOOSH?"

"NO!" Inayat screamed, "IT'S FORBIDDEN!"

"REBEKAH?"

"GET HIM OUT OF HERE!" Inayat screeched, on the brink of grabbing a weapon and just shooting the old man herself. One of her squaddies lay a rifle across Watson's chest, bulldozing him backwards down the corridor. Hurdling the roadblock, Watson's own escort gathered around him, then seized him by the arms, and made a run for it away from the scene of the crime. Heads were going to roll, that Bitch Doctor would see to it.

Shaken by the melee, Inayat's troopers hoisted Beck back onto her feet, heads swivelling in case of lurking witnesses. Beck's big blue eyes were rolling in their sockets- she was clearly in shock, overcome, obviously at the prospect of meeting the king. Her future husband, unless a miracle intervened and he came to his senses. Inayat luffed Beck's burqa, while the soldiers looked away, embarrassed- the girl had opened her bowels, pray god it was only flatus. "Lady Rebekah..." Inayat panted, gripping Beck's jaw, trying to get her to focus. They were already late by a good two minutes- not fashionably late, in the palace there was no such thing.

"Damon..."

"My Lady, please focus."

"Damon..."

"There are no demons." Inayat said crossly, "It was just an old man."

"Where am I?" Beck slurred, "What happened?"

"You just fainted, My Lady. It's not uncommon."

"That man..."

"The man?" Inayat asked, "did he frighten you?"

"He looked like..."

"Someone you know?" No surprise, these bleachers all looked the same. "Forget him, My Lady, you're safe. Please, just compose yourself, you are about to meet His Majesty."

Her escort half-led, half carried Beck down the length of the dimly lit hallway, the girl still reeling from the brief yet intensely compelling hallucination. Just like the time she was on the bed in that big black cruiser, with a knife at her throat, about to be raped. And right on the precipice her attacker was hurled aside, and there he stood, Watson, her old man, partner, saviour, teacher, love of her life. Perhaps it was an omen, she thought. Perhaps her higher mind had already given up hope, leaving her subconscious to deal with the mess.

Another wall opened and they marched her into the room, Inayat bowing and scraping, all smiles and gushing platitudes. Beck's eyes roamed the cavernous interior, dimly lit like much of the palace, as if it were inhabited by some species of bat. Having greeted the sovereign, after making her apologies, Inayat returned to Beck's side. Tugging at the bow on the back of Beck's head, she untied the face-apron and passed it to a steward. "Just act normal," she said in a low voice, "like you've been shown."

Beck gave a little nod. She was beyond fighting right now, counting on some future chance to make her escape. She'd do it, too. When the locals' backs were turned, the minute they let their guard down. When Damon came to get her, somewhere, somehow.

Over on the dais, composing himself for show, the king assumed the posture of a Roman Emperor, semi-reclined on the chaise lounge. The time had come for the big reveal... not just her to him, but him to her... and he wanted to make the very best impression. But his heart was hammering as he watched Inayat prepare the gift. Already deliberately late just to pique his appetite, she was now fussing and faffing, winding the dial up to 'excruciating'. In the words of the Westerners, making him gag for it.

Inayat knelt behind her, straightening Beck's diamond studded golden cape under the heavy black drape. One more tradition flushed down the toilet, all for the sake of this skinny young whore- the cape was meant for her wedding night, not show and tell. When all was in order Inayat straightened again and put her lips to Beck's ear. "His Majesty has been looking forward to this moment so don't disappoint him. And don't forget the cannibals."

Beck nodded once more. At the very same time her big blue eyes settled on a settee on a low, circular stage, under the warm yellow glow of overhead spotlights. And a figure. All she could make out at first was a face, a big, white smile shining out of a black, neatly-trimmed beard, but very little made too much sense besides. Was he somehow buried underneath a big pile of cushions, like a kid playing forts? Or was another body hiding under those gold-trimmed robes? For the king, she knew, from countless documentaries, was a virile man of action. A stud, a warrior... an aged warrior perhaps, but still a warrior nonetheless. And here she was staring at some sort of travesty. A practical joke, an elephant seal with the head of a man, sunning itself on a couch.

Inayat gestured at a steward nearby. Taking a knee beside Beck, she and the servant took hold of the burqa's hem, then slowly straightened. Throwing his imperious detachment to the wind, the king struggled upright, slung his legs off the lounge and parked his elbows on his knees, all the better to watch the great unveiling.

Beck raised her arms and the burqa came off, revealing a small, slim female with dazzling blonde hair, woven into a thick, platinum plait, piled on her head. Her lithe little body was draped with a stunning golden cape, its hood thrown back, the front opened slightly to reveal a sheer silk slip of pale gold underneath. Diamonds sparkled all over her shoulders and chest. A dozen constellations, reproduced with painstaking fidelity, a portrait of the cosmos in glittering carbon. The king raised a massive fat arm. "Come, my Darling," he beckoned, "come."

Beck curled her toes in the embroidered silk slippers, repelled by the sight of the figure in front of her, compelled by the threats of the woman behind. She took a step, throwing off her revulsion, momentum bearing her onwards into another step. And yet another, until she was standing before the king, unable to drag her eyes away from the vision below the hem of his robes- massive fat ankles, covered in mottled, flaky skin stretched tight as a drum. And those fat, sandalled feet, and the split, chalky toenails. Beck shuddered.

The king feasted his eyes. How like his beloved Niqiya she was, a reincarnation, her identical twin. From the very same lands, Herald be praised, on the far side of the world. And for all her fear and trembling, he could see that flash in her eye. Just like Niqiya. A free spirit, a child of the wild, untamed, impetuous, feisty and fun-loving. And that body... his eyes strayed to the 2 little bumps on her chest, heaving up and down under the mantle of gold. Exactly as he remembered them. Exactly how he remembered her. When they were together, Niqiya had always made him feel like a teenager. Now, between this little beauty and his new friend's magic potion, he'd know that joy once again. "Come," he said, extending his hand, "don't be afraid."

Going down on one knee, Beck took the king's hand as she'd practiced, over and over. With Floraliza, in her room, inevitably slithering her tongue up Floraliza's arm, while the girl cringed and cackled, not quite pulling away when Beck snuffled her armpit.

Now here she was, staring at something resembling a ham, with a bunch of little fat sausages stuck on the end. The irrepressible thought of nuzzling his monstrous armpit brought gorge to her throat. "My Lord." she said, pressing the king's knuckles to her forehead.

"Please, child," the king said, "please. Let me kiss your hands. Come. Rise."

Beck raised her eyes. Looking past the king she saw 3 dour old men, a fat one, a skinny one, and one that looked like a wombat, dressed-up in robes and turbans like something out of a pantomime. The fat one was whispering in the skinny one's ear, while the wombat just stared at her, fidgeting with a string of beads. The king took her hands and gave them a tiny shake. "What riches!" he beamed, "What adventures await! I shall lay the world at your tender feet."

"My Liege-" Beck said and the floor trembled underfoot. For a moment the huge room seemed frozen in time, anxious glances ricocheting from one kilted guard to another. Not about to let some little tectonic ruckus spoil his fun, the king rubbed his big hooked nose over the back of Beck's hand, inhaling her smell. There was a second shudder, liked a distant explosion, and a door flew open.

The guards in their silly costumes transformed in front of Beck's eyes, reaching behind their backs for their close-quarter battle carbines. Beck's own minders, who'd been loitering in the wings, gathered in a tight huddle around her, leaving Inayat to claw her way into the cordon. Those 3 old men in fancy dress had ditched their haughty disdain, and now resembled 3 lost little kids, searching desperately for their parents.

A ceremonial guard hurried to the king's side, shrugging a black ballistic vest on over his costume. Stooping, he whispered in the king's ear, then straightened, and waved Beck's escort away with a mouthful of strident commands. And all at once they were moving, Beck in the midst of a heavy-breathing scrum, four mobile monoliths redolent of gun oil, sweat and tobacco, toes of their combat boots snicking her heels. They reached the door and stood champing at the bit, waiting for the outside corridor to align. "Come on!" Inayat cried, clinging to a trooper's belt, "What's taking them? Come on! Open the door!"

Another booming explosion echoed through the room, followed by the chatter of a machine gun. Beck's guards looked at one another, clearly afraid, yet still holding position, while the squad leader raised his fist and pounded the woodwork. "FUCKING MORONS!" he roared, "OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!"

Beck didn't have to know the language to understand what he'd just said. "Inayat!" she quavered, "We're trapped!"

More gunfire, closer now, more shouts and screams. Beck's rear-guard suddenly broke ranks behind her, to join in pounding on the wall, as if the wood panelling gave a shit about their predicament. Fully exposed, Beck looked over her shoulder to find the Parley Room empty, the king spirited away, one guard dead or dying beside the dais. He looked like a work of art, or some sort of museum display, slowly bleeding out under the spotlight.

"Fuck this!" Beck cursed. "It's not gonna open! You guys!"

Inayat joined in the screaming while Beck looked frantically around. Each tiled facet of the octagonal space had its own, big wooden door, bracketed by torches, smoky oil lights sputtering orange. A yawning black shadow, on the facet three doors down, said, 'open for business'.

Crouching black shapes skulked into the room, and a voice bellowed, "DROP YOUR WEAPONS!", adding a long burst of gunfire to make the point. Still in her cape, a garment so dazzling it seemed to generate its own glow, Beck bolted, feet barely touching the floor, and skidded sideways into the beckoning darkness. Voices, shouting, the odd, angry shot, the flash of a stun-grenade briefly lighting the hallway. Down on all fours, offering as small a target as she possibly could, she crawled away, arms and legs pumping with no idea of what lay ahead. A dead-end, an exit, an ambush, it made no difference, she was getting the hell out of there.

The hallway took a right. In virtual darkness, Beck heard the pounding of footsteps behind her, and springing to her feet, shucked the golden hood over her head and took off running. Her nostrils tingled with the scent of smoke and sea, and through a distant rectangle of inky black glimpsed the glimmer of light on water. If that apparition in the corridor wasn't her old man, then at least he might have been an omen. Heart hammering, cape flying, Beck broke into a sprint, the Great Outdoors barely twenty meters away. If there was sea, there'd be a harbour. If there was a harbour, there'd be a boat. If there was a boat she'd know how to sail the bloody thing, and would leave this cursed place behind forever.

A big black leg shot out and caught her across the shins. Beck hit the floor with a grunt, sliding halfway out of her gold silk shift, and lay for a moment, stars in her eyes the breath punched out of her lungs. Rough hands, many of them, came out of the dark, and Beck heard the huffs and gasps of men in the throes of strenuous activity. No spoken words, just a concentration of effort, a complex script rendered seamless through practice. Two hands under her armpits, lifting. Two more restoring her dignity, winkling the fallen slip up over her breasts, and, in an oddly tender gesture, gently raising the shoulder straps.

Then came the hood. Not the jewelled golden hood that went so well with her hair, but that other local fashion accessory, in standard black, with a clip-lock strap around the neck. Good for weddings, parties, anything, including kidnap and the odd execution. Yet more hands slipped zip-ties over her wrists, heavy duty numbers, interlinked and tightened to the point of pinking her skin. Last but not least, a heavy cloth bag, no way of knowing the colour, but Beck had her bets on black.

Bagged, tagged, zip-tied and hooded, Beck heard her very first voice. The squad leader pressed the key on his chest-mounted radio and in the local tongue announced, "Starlight Alpha to Sunray. We have Moonbeam. Say again, we have Moonbeam."