Aurora - Blood Moon Tribute Pt. 07

Well, that was just awesome, Beck thought, standing at the window, nose pressed to the glass. Stood up by the prince on their very first date, with not so much as a 'seeya around'. And now Hope. After all she'd done for the girl, standing up for her, all the pleases and thank you's, the little African ingrate had gone and deserted her. No spine. No sense of duty. Not like Floraliza. She would have stuck by her come thick or thin.

All alone in the mountain redoubt- save for a hundred-odd servants, domestics, security guards and groundkeepers- Beck heaved a sigh. Stars were budding in the rapidly darkening firmament, and she shuddered as a tidal wave of melancholy crashed over her. This was one of their favourite times, her and her old man, just the two of them together way out on empty sea, watching for the very first stars and saying together, 'Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might, have this wish I wish tonight'. Beck smeared the tears from her eyes. "I wish I was home." she quietly keened, "Me and Ally. I wish we could just go home."

She stood for a moment, sobbing softly to herself, and when she looked up, two stars broke out of the heavens and came spiralling down, a red one and a green one, taking turns. The nav lights of a circling aircraft, Beck thought, smearing her eyes with the sleeve of her black silk pyjamas. The helicopter. It was back. Barely five minutes after departing and it had returned. Her spirits picked themselves up and dusted themselves off as she straightened her shirt. Someone had changed their mind, the prince or his escort, and sure enough, the chopper's search light came on, playing over the helipad that now sat in the dark. There would be a dinner, after all, and maybe some wine. And conversation, with a man, an actual man... not the sort she'd normally hang out with, granted, but good looking in his own way and mostly harmless. And who knows, a little tiling perhaps, later on.

Beck looked over her shoulder. "Hope? Hope? Where are you god dammit? The prince is back, I need my dress." Something in silk for a change, she thought, nothing too fussy, enough to enhance the swell of her breasts and the press of her semi-erect nipples- the way the locals ran their air conditioning that was easily achieved. And no underwear of course, no Visible Panty Line to spoil the allure. Beck watched dark figures scatter from the idling machine, trying to spot the prince. That one maybe, scooting up the stairs. He sure did look in a hurry, like some hot chick had promised him a nice juicy gobble.

The impulse took her and she hurried to the bathroom to pee. Better now than later, when things got hot and heavy. Returning to the darkened room, she stepped up to the panoramic window to find the chopper, lights off and almost invisible, still idling on the pad. There was dull, distant thud and what sounded like the rattle of gunfire, and Beck looked over her shoulder. "Hope?"

The door blew open, smashing hard against the stops, and a pair of rifle wielding figures burst in, shoulders hunched, knees flexed, sweeping the room with their silencers. Startled clear up off the floor, Beck turned, legs shaking, mouth hanging open, heart hammering with the rush of adrenaline. One intruder said, 'It's her!', and the second keyed his radio. "Eyes on the prize. Blue sector. Fall back and prepare to cover withdrawal."

The first figure flipped back his Night Vision Goggles. Stepping up to the quaking blonde he offered his hand. "Lady Rebekah?"

"Jesus Christ!" Beck huffed and raked back her hair. "This must be the national sport."

The trooper's accent betrayed a South African heritage. "Don't be frightened, Lady Rebekah. We're here to rescue you."

Beck shrank back until she was hard against the glass. "Well you're too late. I've already been rescued."

"No, My Lady, you were abducted."

"By southerners or someone. Yes, I know. I was there."

"No." the trooper offered an apologetic smile, "By Rashiid. The attack on the palace was just a ruse."

"Bullshit!"

"I wish it were."

"This is insane. You come busting into here expecting me to believe this? I wanna talk to someone, someone in authority. I wanna speak to the king."

"If we do our job you'll have the rest of your life to do that." the squaddie said, snapping his fingers. "Come! Come!"

"Well where's the prince? Get Rashiid up here and let's hear his side of the story."

"He's not here, I'm sorry, My Lady."

"Well where is he?"

The trooper's body language betrayed just a hint of impatience. "He's gone to the Sea Palace of you really must know."

"Is that where you're taking me?"

"Please," the trooper said, "we just don't have time. Let's go. I can fill you in on the way."

"And if I don't wanna go?"

The trooper patted a pouch on is utility vest, grinning. "His Majesty has authorised tranquilizers. Your choice. Stay upright and chat, or I can dart you now and throw you over my shoulder." He snapped his fingers again. "Come, My Lady. Come."

The second trooper moved to the door and peeked carefully outside. "Boss?"

"Well?" the squaddie asked, "Walking and talking, or punching out zees?"

Beck looked around in a quandary. "What'll I wear?"

"It's not a fashion parade, Ma'am. Those'll do fine."

Black silk pyjamas with nothing underneath? "You know," Beck said, testing the envelope, "if this is all bullshit and I go with you. You guys are in a world of pain."

The trooper sighed deeply in frustration. "And if it's not, and you don't, we still are. For the last time, before I hit you with some sleepy go-bye-byes. Shall we? There's still some active shooters out there. This place is not safe."

Beck winkled her feet into the embroidered silk slippers. "You got a name?" she asked, dogging the squaddie's steps across the chambers to the broken door.

"Bravo two."

Beck gave a snort of derision. "I bet the other kids gave you stick."

Bravo 2's camo-painted face lit up with a big, happy grin. He loved this job, even at the worst of times. Boldly going where local operators feared to go, and even when they did they just fucked up. Coming to the rescue of such a feisty little damsel was just icing on the Claymore.

They set off, creeping down a long, dimly lit passageway, keeping low, her rescuers- one in front, one behind, scanning with their rifles, fore and aft, side to side. "Why would he do that?" Beck asked as if it had only just occurred to her. "Prince Rashiid? To his own dad?"

The lead squaddie pulled ahead and quickly turned, finger to his lips calling for silence. Another pair of operators appeared from a side-passage, stood clear to let the first party through, then took up the rear guard as Bravo and their prize ducked through a service entrance onto the terrace outside.

Down three flights of stairs and onto the helipad. Her blonde hair flailing, they ran Beck to the aircraft through a stupefying maelstrom of motion and sound, the pounding of the rotors overhead, the screech of two jet engines, the hammering downwash, hot gusts of jet fuel-perfumed exhaust. Bravo 2 picked her up under the arms and hoisted her like a child on her way for a joyride, into the red-lit rear cabin, before piling in after her. Head down, he strapped her to troop seat in the middle row of three. Two further pairs of operators converged on the aircraft, Beck was willing to bet they were Alpha and Charlie, two strapping in on the rear row of seats, the last pair buckling-up either side, one to her left, one to her right.

The doors thumped shut, cutting out much of the racket. The troops to her sides safed their weapons, and Bravo 2 tapped her knee with a pair of yellow earmuffs.

Beck craned her neck trying to see into the cockpit, but much of the magic was hidden from view. In the process of adjusting the earmuffs, one ear-cup fell off, exposing Beck to the stupefying din of a machine that flew by beating the atmosphere into submission. Looking down, she found a discarded headset at her feet, earphones and a mike, and pulled them on, just in time to hear the pilots finish their checklist. The engines spooled up and Beck felt the floor move underfoot, as the nose reared up and the helicopter rose into the hover.

"Just in the nick." someone said. "He was just about to launch."

Sitting in front of her, facing the rear, Bravos 1 and 2 had traded their K-pots for green David Clark headsets, revealing sweaty scalps and stubbled heads, thick necks and weathered complexions, on weary faces daubed with camo-paint.

"That would have been embarrassing, eh?" Bravo 1 said. "Start a regional war when they had nothing to do with it. Still, look on the bright side. We'd have been lounging around in Monaco with the old boy."

"Who spilled the beans?" yet another voice asked. "On little Prince Ratshit?"

"The totty's aunty apparently."

The helicopter towered skywards from a low hover, rotors hacking into the air, then nosed-over to an eye-popping attitude, accelerating rapidly into smooth forward flight.

"That little noodle?" the trooper beside Beck asked. Bravo 1 nodded. "I'd hate to be in her shoes when Ratshit finds out."

"What's an Ornty?" Beck asked.

The troops threw their hands up like they'd just been shot at. "Eish!" Bravo 1 exclaimed, "Who gave that little chot a headset?"

"What's the matter?" Beck challenged, "You said we could chat. Now. What's an 'Ornty'?"

"Umm..." Bravo 1 hedged, then carefully enunciated, "Aunty, My Lady. As in Aunt. Your dad's sister."

Beck knitted her brow. "My Aunt?"

Bravo 1 palmed his forehead. "Your maid."

"Hope? You mean Hope? You're saying she betrayed me?"

The men swapped glances around her. "Actually, she might have just saved your... ahem... skin. You see the prince has... well...he has some unfortunate habits. When it comes to the girls.... Young ladies, beg your pardon."

"Like what?" Beck frowned.

"Well... he sort of falls in love with them."

"So what's wrong with that? He's only human."

"Well, Ma'am. He sort of... falls out again. In a few days."

"Hmph!" Beck crossed her arms, glaring. "Him and every other man on Earth."

Bravo 1 tugged the collar of his ballistic vest. "Maybe. But it's more what he does afterwards."

Beck waited a few breaths for elaboration. "Well? What?"

"Easy." another voice warned, heading off his squad-mate. "This is all palace in confidence."

"Let's just say he's not a very good host."

"Or employer for that matter." another voice added.

"What's he do?" Beck demanded. "What's gonna happen to my maid?"

"Well..." Bravo 1 admitted wearily, "Let's just say he can be a little... unforgiving."

"What will he do?" Beck persisted. "If he finds out?"

One of the troops down the back grunted with laughter. "She'll be off to the screaming wall."

Beck screwed her face up. "The what?"

"Can it, Boet!" Bravo 1 said before the other squaddie could reply, but Beck's imagination was already in overdrive.

"I am ordering you to tell me." Beck breathed. "What is the screaming wall?"

"Nothing." Bravo 1 sighed. "It's just a rumour."

Beck's eyes searched the dimly lit rear cabin. Wall. Scream. With remote, rugged mountains firmly in her mind's eye, connotation and context came together. "Is that a cliff or something? The screaming wall? It's a cliff, isn't it?"

Stony silence, underscored by the racket of the flying machine, told Beck all she needed to know. She narrowed her eyes. "And you're telling me the prince will throw her off? If he finds out?"

Once more the sullen, brooding silence.

"Better her than you." someone said, "Which is why we just put our asses in a sling."

"Turn around!" Beck said.

Bravo 1 looked at her, blinking. "What?"

"I said turn around!"

"Negative, Ma'am, that is not possible!"

Beck sucked in a huge lungful of air. "I SAID TURN AROUND NOW! WE ARE GOING BACK TO GET HER!"

A disembodied voice said, "But she's just a fucking maid!"

"She's not a fucking maid," Beck glared, "she's a human being! An innocent woman! We are going back to get her!"

Bravo 1 did his best to wave her down. "We can't go back, Your Ladyship, we just don't have that authority."

One of the pilots up front, listening in, broke into the conversation. "I can radio the Puma, Boss. See if he's still on the ground."

Beck hammer-fisted the seat, stamping her feet. "I AM LADY REBEKAH, CONSORT OF THE KING! I AM THE BLOOD MOON TRIBUTE! YOU WILL OBEY! GO BACK TO THE PALACE AT ONCE AND GET MY MAID!"

The troops looked around helplessly at each other. "But My Lady," Bravo 1 pleaded, "it's just too risky. The prince's security outnumbers us ten to one. They'll be all over the palace by now and they WILL shoot to kill."

Beck levelled a finger at him. "You dare talk back to me? I am Lady Rebekah, Blood Moon Tribute. Consort to his Majesty the King, Abdulaziz, bin Salman Al Shabazz. You will turn this aircraft around and return to the mountain immediately. You will go back to the palace and rescue my maid. Understand?"

Bravo 1 looked at her, jaw clenched, muscles twitching. He'd picked up classier lollipop on the strip in Pattaya. If this ranting pipsqueak believed she was anything other than gold-plated cherry, she was out of her tree, yet her here she was, throwing her forty-odd kilos around as if she was actually someone. And all because some dirty old man, with a grandiose title and a taste for undercooked meat, had taken a shine to her. He briefly considered just opening the door and throwing the little cunt out, then return to base and sadly report they'd been unable to find her. Just then, the image of a seven-figure payroll fluttered down and landed on his left shoulder, and after a brief tussle, the angel of Better Judgement took off from his right. Eyes holding the little blonde's withering scowl, he keyed his intercom. "Gus?"

"Alright, alright," the pilot growled, "I heard." Rolling into a steep, shuddering turn at a couple of G, he racked the aircraft's nose around, while Beck, quite unaffected by the familiar forces, sat staring out the window with her arms crossed.

"If this turns to shit..." Bravo 1 said.

"You will not speak unless spoken to." Beck cut him off. "Understand?"

Bravo 1 gave 2 clicks of his mike in acknowledgement, as the helicopter descended into the embrace of the mountains.

It seemed to take a very long time, sitting on the pad, engines running, Alpha team kneeling beside the machine, peering through their night scopes, while Charlie ran interference and Bravo disappeared back into the palace. Until all at once a little black female was thrown bodily on board and the troops tumbled in, still scrambling for their seats as the aircraft took off. Bravo 1 secured his seatbelt then lifted the crying African off the deck, and sat her in the middle between him and his gasping comrade. "Get her a headset." Beck ordered once Bravo 1 had ditched his helmet for his own set of phones.

The troops fossicked around until someone came up with a spare David Clark. Leaning forward, Beck squeezed Hope's knee. "Hope? Can you hear me?"

The crying woman nodded.

"Put the mike close to your lips." Beck said, tapping her own mike as an example. Seconds later the sound of sniffing and blubbing filled the intercom. "Can you talk?" Beck asked.

"My Lady." Hope sobbed, "My Lady."

"Is it true?" Beck asked, "Was it you who told them? Where I was?"

"Forgive me, My Lady. You were in great danger. I have seen it many times. The prince. After a few days. He... he..."

"Gets sick of his new toy?"

"It's a curse, My Lady. A sickness. He can't help it."

"Then what? When he gets sick of them?"

Hope wailed into her hands. She'd been forced to watch on several occasions, as a reminder of the need for total obedience. Naked young women hurled screaming off the clifftop, a spot the prince jokingly called the departure lounge, to plummet 2 thousand feet down the screaming wall. Into the boneyard, a jumble of boulders way down below.

Beck tapped her knee. "He throws them off the mountain, doesn't he?"

Hope nodded, still racked with sobs.

"You saved my life, Hope. And it could have cost you your own."

After 2 years serving the prince in his palace, day in, day out, never a moment's rest. In a state of constant dread, abused and insulted, death hadn't seemed too great a price to pay. If she could save just one life. Bending, Beck's erstwhile maid picked up a heavy paper bag that looked like it might have come from a fashion boutique.

"What's this?" Beck frowned, pulling the fibre handles apart and peering inside.

"Your golden cape, My Lady. You left it behind."

Beck looked up with tears in her eyes, then nudged Bravo 1's shin with her slippered toe. "Bravo 1? Where are we going? Now? To the Sea Palace?"

"To the Island." Bravo 1 replied, not deigning to look at her. Then as an afterthought added, "Ma'am."

"Island?"

"Treasure Island, for the fu... festival."

Beck rubbed the golden spider silk between finger and thumb. If there was only one thing she wanted out of this... "Change of plan." she said. "Take us back to the Sea Palace..."

"Oh for fuck's sake!" Bravo 1 cursed. "My Lady, I beg you."

Beck raised a hand. "I left something behind." she said then narrowed her eyes. "My other maid. The fucking one. And we are going to get her. Her name is Floraliza. Radio ahead and have them take her to the helipad. Down by the dock. I am Lady Rebekah," she said, and Bravo 1's lips tightened in the hint of a sneer, "Blood Moon Tribute, Consort of the King. And boys, I promise, if you help me out. I will see to it personally, you will have a rich reward."

Another exchange of looks. Rich reward? Well why didn't she say so in the first place?

"Hope..." Beck continued, "once I marry the king. When we make it off the island, I promise you. You can go home. Back to your family, with enough money to last the rest of your days."

There was a moment's stunned silence then the chopper pilot spoke up, a Brit by the sounds. "That was flippin' hairy getting in there." he said to no one in particular. No one but Beck. "Especially that second time, eh? With the wind picking up and no pad lights and all. Phew! Some of the hardest flying I've ever done." He looked at his copilot who sat, hands on thighs, fingers crossed, silently lobbying for a big fat wad of appreciation. "Mark? Huh? What do you reckon?"

"Absolutely!" the copilot nodded. "One hundred and ten percent the hardest of my career."

Typical pilots, Beck thought, smiling to herself. Full of shit and greedy as sin. "And Bravo 1?" she said sweetly, "Please add the drivers to that list. For awesomeness rendered."

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The Sea Palace was still in an uproar, while outside the walls it was business as usual. The Royal Family had a long and colourful history of bloody internecine warfare- the king had deposed his own father, who in turn had killed his uncle, who in turn had killed his own brother for the crown.

Hoodwinked into believing that southern terrorists had launched an attack on the palace, then kidnapped his betrothed and carried her off to the border, laughing all the way, the king had gone to the brink of launching a retaliatory strike, using fighter-bombers and mobile artillery, a faux pas that would have plunged two well-armed and mutually belligerent countries into war. Had some simple worker- a maid, a virtual slave, the lowest of the low- not called to reveal the Lady's whereabouts, there would have been no Blood Moon Tribute and no royal marriage. And countless casualties on both sides. Mostly civilians.

A stroke of luck indeed. Had the king sent his forces south the palace would have been vulnerable, exposed to all sorts of misfortunes, such as a coup. Now Rashiid was safely ensconced in the Sea Palace, where he would remain, at His Majesty's pleasure, until the king's marriage to his chosen one was a fait accompli. Whereupon the headstrong prince would surely lose interest- he had a thing for brides-to-be, but not for those already royally consummated. While the king departed the palace by helicopter, bound for his island, and a reunion with his one true love, VVIPs commenced boarding his super-yacht for the 4-hour voyage across the gulf. Laden with treasure, including 100 or more of the world's most desirable young maidens, His Majesty's travelling wives, and a host of showgirls, grist for the festivities. At the same time, a few select guests prepared to journey to the island by royal gunboat, a warrior's voyage, and rare privilege granted to but a few. Like Lord Gideon Woodrow-Munt, on whom had been bestowed the official royal title, 'Friend of His Majesty, Bearer of God's Gift of Immortality.'