Aurora - Blood Moon Tribute Pt. 07

A ceremonial guard in a stiff white kilt, with a heavy leather plastron strapped over his torso, wearing sandals and shin-guards, his head covered in an Egyptian-themed Nemes, strode to the centre of the room. Standing at attention at intervals around the chambers, his colleagues looked on nervously. Fresh out of training, they'd been rushed to the island to replace the previous team, 3 of whom had died, many others who'd been wounded, and the rest who'd been jailed after the attack on the Sea Palace. For losing the king's betrothed. In preparation for their solemn role, the newbies had been given a pep-talk, by their commander, who'd pledged a personal beheading for anyone who screwed up.

The captain of the guard rapped the floor with the butt of a stout wooden staff, and all motion ceased as a hush fell over the hall. And there, right on cue, the rising sun hurled a lance of golden sunlight into the wall, the star briefly recreated in a dazzling golden disc, inscribed with flowing black calligraphy. The king's 3 clerics gathered around the mini-sun as it visibly rose, sliding slowly up the wall and gradually fading. The senior mystic looked up, wearing an expression of borderline wonder. "Your Majesty." he said.

The king gestured impatiently. "Well come on. What did it say?"

The cleric swallowed. "It says, 'Slow is the camel, but patient is the Earth'."

The king blinked. "Meaning?"

Fat Cleric gave Short Round a discreet nudge. As well as a seasoned debaucher, the junior seer was also something of a fabulist, and babbling wordsmith. "Ahem... Your Majesty. This verse has always been used to urge patience and resilience. God himself is encouraging you, in light of the... the... the..."

"Recent tribulations, Sire." Reverend Rake cut in. His brother cleric had been at the hashish again and seemed a mite tongue tied. "This verse urges all who labour in their journey, do not lose hope, for the Lord himself will vouchsafe their safe arrival."

"Is this so?" the king asked Fat Cleric.

"In the Herald's own words, Sire. It is so."

"And the unrest we've just experienced?"

The mystics exchanged glances. How to double-down now without being later called to account? "A passing breeze." Fat Cleric said, as ambiguous a reassurance as he could muster.

The king clapped his hands and everyone jumped. "Splendid! Marvellous! Just the news I wanted to hear." Pausing, he looked around. "Now, where are my warrior's implements?"

Servants rushed in, lugging a long trestle table. A bale of scarlet silk was thrown over the top, and a relay of minions scurried over, bearing an assortment of heavy weaponry, from a gold-plated assault rifle with underslung grenade thrower, to a Carl Gustaf recoilless rifle and a Barrett fifty-cal. The king strolled past, running a finger over the cold metalwork. "And what have you got for me?" he asked, hefting a Russian RPG. He looked at his adviser. "On sports day? What is my quarry?"

It was the same thing every festival, like an impatient child shaking presents under the Christmas tree. "Umm... My Lord," his sweating servant replied, "I believe... One African elephant, a bull. Two giraffe. Two lions, a lioness-"

"Any tigers?" the king asked brightly.

"I'm sorry no, My Lord. But we did manage a brace of leopard. Good leapers. Quite vicious. Err... two bears, a brown and a black, and a bull gorilla. We thought perhaps the crossbow for him..." he lay his hand on the weapon, "... the bolts are tipped with explosive."

The king arched an eyebrow. Sports day was the penultimate event. Where he would showcase his skill as a hunter, his strength as a sovereign. At the bullring, in front of the troops, in front of the guests, in front of the slaves and his travelling wives. And his newly betrothed. His prowess and magnificence on public display, yet all for her. As he lay the RPG carefully down, a second adviser whispered in the first adviser's ear.

"Oh, My Liege. And two rhinoceros. A gift from his Excellency Mister Zhao. We thought this Carl Gustaf might do for them. And the fifty-cal for the elephant."

The king nodded. A tank-buster. For the tanks of the animal world. He thought back to earlier times when dissidents were on the menu. In the good old days, the days of preteen girls and boys, entire families bought, sold and executed. Before the Western press in all its hypocrisy denounced the great tradition, bringing an ignominious end to a thousand years of glorious culture and lifestyle.

A commotion caught the king's attention and he looked around, as silk curtains parted and a woman forced her way past security. Dressed in a navy-blue, sequined abaya, her hair discreetly hidden under a gold-trimmed hijab, Inayat umm Ahmad paused to bow, then hurried to the king in a swirl of robes. Kneeling at his feet, she pressed the king's fat knuckles to her forehead. "My Liege."

"Up!" the king boomed good naturedly, "Doctor Inayat, up." Looking around, he caught the eye of a steward. "Quickly!" he snapped his fingers, "Tea for the good Doctor Inayat. And bring her some sweets."

The doctor inclined her head. "My Lord, you do indulge me. A man of such greatness, while I am so humble."

"Nonsense." the king said, oblivious to the doctor's ritual sycophancy. "We are all sisters and brothers under god."

A pair of stewards rushed in, bearing silver trays, one laden with a teapot and glasses, the other piled with nougats and baclava. A glass was hastily poured and passed to the doctor. "What news of Lady Rebekah?" the king asked, rubbing his hands.

Inayat took a token sip then placed her glass on the tray. "Her Ladyship sleeps." she said, dismissing the servants with a flick of her fingers.

"And rightly so." the king rumbled. "After the past few days, I can't imagine how tired she must be."

Inayat wiped her mouth. "Indeed, My Liege." she said, her eyes suddenly evasive. How thrilled she'd been to hear of the young whore's abduction, how gutted to see her return. And with the screaming wall one defiant gesture away. "Her safe delivery was nothing short of a miracle. Now, I must wake her soon to complete her transformation."

"The past few days must have been exhausting for such a delicate creature." the king said. "Let her rest."

Inayat looked around. It was well within His Majesty's power, should he feel so disposed, to order her, Inayat, executed on the spot. But she had traditions to uphold. And a score to settle. "My Dear Majesty..." she said, looking stricken, "there is yet much to do. The purging, the purifications. And while it grieves me to burden you with something so trivial...I feel I must inform you..."

The king knitted his brows. "Inform me of what, Madam Inayat? My fair Lady Rebekah? Is she alright?"

"Of course, My Liege, of course. I would never let any harm come to her. But, My Lord. I fear these past few days may have well affected her mind. We call it 'post-traumatic stress' in the medical world. She seems most unstable, perhaps even a little unhinged. I hesitate to say, but she may be dangerous."

"My sweet little filly? Surely not!"

"I beg you, my Liege, might you reconsider? I have just had word of a worthy young maiden. A Scandinavian, of stunning looks and magnificent bearing. Her father is a man of great wealth. A man of great power, a shipping magnate. While he did not make the cut, he has nevertheless been most persistent in his entreaty. If Your Majesty would only cast his eye over this beauty."

"That won't be necessary." the king said, dismissing the very notion. "Pray tell him, for me. My Perpetual is already chosen. Maybe next time."

Inayat searched the hall for another handful of mud to sling. "My Lord, one more thing. It pains me to inform you. The fair Lady Rebekah has brought with her two unauthorised maids. Lowly girls, commoners, one Asian, the other black. And she now insists they abide in her chambers."

The king pulled back, looking perplexed. "And why are you telling me this, Madam Inayat?"

Inayat looked around helplessly. Not only had His Majesty broken with custom, selecting a Perpetual before the event, but a bunch of hand-picked maids were now busy twiddling their thumbs, while two filthy guttersluts shared the royal bedchamber. "It's a breach of protocol." she said. "A slap in the face of tradition. Hand maidens must needs be of superior breeding, and several have already been chosen. For Lady Rebekah. The best of the best, well trained, highly educated, and all from noble stock. Not some... some... expatriate riffraff not fit to blow Her Ladyship's nose. My Lord, she... she..."

The king raised his hand, cutting her off. "These young maidens? They are the ones Her Ladyship desires?"

"They are of low breeding." Inayat persisted. "Who knows what despicable habits they might have brought with them."

"Yet she desires them?"

Inayat licked her lips, reaching up her sleeve for the ace. "My Lord. One of the maidens may have been intimate with Her Ladyship."

A hush fell over the chambers and the king narrowed his eyes. "And what," he rumbled, "would give you that idea?"

Inayat tugged at the neck of her abaya. "You... Your Majesty... They... We... I... I have seen the imagery. And it suggests..."

"Imagery?"

"CCTV."

"You were spying on her?"

Inayat blinked like she'd just been slapped. "Spying? Me? Why no, My Lord."

"If not spying, then what do you call it?"

"It's simply protocol, My Liege. In the Wedding Cake. To monitor her comfort and safety. Every minute of the day, like all Perpetuals."

"You were meant to monitor my bride, if I am not mistaken. Not watch her every move."

"Of course not, My Liege."

"Then tell me. Did actually witness her committing any prohibited acts?"

Many times, Inayat thought, from many different angles. With the camera zoomed in and the sound turned up. Eyes downcast she shook her head, thinking it time to quit while she actually still had one. "No, My Lord."

"There you go then!" the king said, "I'm sure it was all just play." He looked around with a glint in his eye. "The Lady Rebekah is young and fertile. If the little filly is feeling a little bit frisky... then perhaps it was for want of a stallion."

Aside from a cough and a snicker or two, the pavilion was silent and a pin could be heard hitting the Persian silk carpet several levels below.

"But Sire," Inayat said meekly, "to be a true virgin. Lady Rebekah must-"

"ENOUGH!" the king roared and Inayat jumped. "I am your king, Doctor Inayat! Lady Rebekah is my bride to be! Disrespect her and you disrespect me."

"My Lord..." Inayat pleaded, "I... I... I only want what's best for you."

"I will be the judge of what's best for me. I am the king, am I not? At least I was the last time I looked."

Inayat bowed. "As you wish, My Lord."

"As I command!" the king boomed, "As god wills."

"Very good, Your Majesty."

"Now go!" the king snapped, discharging her with a wave of the hand, but before she'd reached the curtains he called out to her. "And Doctor Ahmad?"

Inayat teetered to a halt, then looked back over her shoulder. "My Lord?"

"Please see to it. Have Lady Rebekah's maidens inducted into the court. They will return with us back to the Sea Palace."

The doctor dipped her head, insult now heaped on injury. "As Your Majesty commands." she said, and hurried away.

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Dawn gathered itself up over the horizon as the gunboat entered a long, narrow channel. The sight bore with it a tidal wave of nostalgia. Like a thousand dawns before, safe under the wing his beloved Aurora, creeping into a sleeping port after some long, lonely passage. A presence appeared at the old man's elbow and he looked down, to see his little Korean sidekick, the morning breeze tugging at her short dark hair. She pointed at a channel marker. "Why are some of them red and the other ones green?"

"The channel markers? POST."

Sook looked at him from the corner of her eye. "Come again?"

"Gladly." The old man said, but his double entendre sailed harmlessly over her head. He cleared his throat. "Port out, starboard towards. If you're going into the harbour, keep the green light to your right. If you're going away, keep it to your left."

"Why?"

"So you don't hit anything."

Sook nodded. "Ohhh... I knew that."

Watson allowed himself a smile. The longer he spent with Sook, the more and more adorable the cocky little brat became. Leaning over the rail, he strained to make out the navigation lights of the king's superyacht, a few miles away bringing up the stern. They'd overtaken the larger vessel halfway to the island, cruising past at a good thirty knots, what resembled some sort of ocean-going party. Empty bottles rained over the side- locals called it the Bottle Moon Tribute. According to legend, the seabed on the way to the island was entirely paved with glass.

"Can you still see the love boat?" Sook asked.

"They're just in the channel."

"You know, Rebekah is probably on board."

"I'm flat out thinking about anything else." Watson replied darkly. "Where did you just disappear to, anyway?"

Sook thumbed over her shoulder. "Downstairs. Talking to Sergey. That's Petrov's boot-boy. He asked if I was gay."

"Did he now? Well, that was very rude of him."

Sook shook her head. "Nahh... that's just the Russians. They're very direct. He asked if you and me were having sex."

"Having sex?" Watson blew a raspberry at the very idea. "As if. What did you say?"

Sook looked up, arching an eyebrow. "I said I was a Shaolin monk. And I'd taken a vow of chastity. And if anyone so much as tried to touch my junk, I was duty-bound to kill them, then myself."

"Seriously?" Watson chuckled. "What did he say?"

"He said, 'have no fear'. He wouldn't lay a hand on me cos' he really hates faggots."

The gunboat loped effortlessly over a long, lazy swell, driven by its twin gas-turbine engines, bows slicing the warm, hypersaline waters. The old man stood, flexing his knees, deftly absorbing the motion of the deck underfoot. Head back, he inhaled deeply through his nose. "I can smell land."

Sook sniffed the salty breeze. "All I can smell is jet exhaust."

"You need to concentrate." Turning on the spot, he straightened his arm, pointing. "There. About two o'clock. I can see lights."

Sook lay her cheek on his forearm, squinting. "Nahh... Those are just stars."

"Nuh," Watson said, "they're not scintillating. They're too low on the horizon in any case. See that? A red obstacle light? And I can see a hill." The gunboat heeled slightly and the phantom landmass came around onto the bow. "We must be close."

Sook rubbed her hands. "Treasure Island! How exciting.

As the sun rose and the island resolved, they were able to make out more and more details. A low rocky mount, two or three hundred meters high, a sand-coloured palace of several stepped-levels, reminiscent of the Sea Palace and Prince Rashiid's mountain fortress. No small surprise, since the same British architect- a former Blood Moon VVIP- had designed all three, plus a host of other Ab Aldafran state buildings. "Well," Sook said, "there's home for the next few days."

"Not for you." Watson teased, eying off the magnificent edifice- sawn sandstone and gold-tinted glass, flanked by stairways. "You're down with the peasants, and don't you forget it."

Movement caught their eye and their Chinese travelling companion slouched to the bow, to see for himself the rise of the island. Then the Russian, who at least treated Watson to a curt nod of acknowledgement. Something of an extravagance, since he, like the Chinese, was not there to make friends. As apex predators unrivalled on the Earth, elites feared no one aside from other elites. Amity was neither sought, nor was it given. And spiritual sustenance such as love and affection could always be bought, cheaply and in great abundance, used as required and just as easily discarded.

The sun was just making its grand entrance when the gunboat entered a beautiful horseshoe bay, between the big, rocky island with its palace, and a smaller scrap of land, the two connected by a low, stonework bridge. Navy crewmen appeared, readying ropes for mooring while, backing and filling, the gunboat edged sideways to a stout, concrete dock. The sleek grey hull shouldered up against huge rubber bumpers- worn-out mining-truck tyres- and the hiss of the engines died to a whisper. "Not bad." Watson nodded, "Nice technique. Couldn't have done better myself."

Golf buggies sat at the ready by the shore of the larger island, for the gunboat's 6 guests- Watson-Munt the gene genius, the plutonium-dealer, Petrov, Zhang the ivory magnate, Lavigne the fashion designer, Poll, a Swiss banker, and a Brit, Devine, a retired Army officer and latter-day weapons dealer. Disembarking last, behind Watson and Sook, before setting off for his assigned buggy, Devine reached out and tapped Watson on the back.

The old man turned with a glare, then brushed his shoulder. "Can I help you?"

The general doffed his cap. "Lord Munt? You don't remember me?"

"It's Lord Woodrow-Munt, actually. And no, I don't. Why? Should I?"

"We've met before." Devine said, "Buckingham Palace. You don't remember? That's odd. I thought you were a genius."

"A genius," Watson said haughtily, "not a bloody video recorder."

"But a fellow summiteer? And it was only several years ago. Surely that should stick."

This was Watson's worst fear come to life, that he should cross the path of someone who knew his subject. Recalling the script, thinking on the ragged edge, he looked the officer up and down. "What year?"

"Buckingham Palace?"

"Your Everest attempt."

"But surely you'd know."

"Humour me."

Devine looked around, realising he may have stepped on his own dangling organ. So convinced this man was a fraud- the reclusive Munt was famous for using body doubles- he realised he might be poking the genuine article. The monster himself. He hefted a shoulder. "Seventy six."

Watson narrowed his eyes. "And that is so memorable why? We climbed that bloody mountain years before. The hard way. By the seventies it was open to day-trippers."

"Is that so?" Devine sneered. "Well, you were the only one to make it back as far as I recall. And there is only one, dodgy, black and white shot, of someone who might be you, on top of what might be the summit. Truth is, nobody knows."

"Truth is, one man does. And you're looking at him."

Devine offered his hand. "Well lets at least greet each other as gentlemen."

Before he could stop himself, Watson reached out in a reciprocal gesture and Devine seized his wrist. Rather than shake, he held Watson's hand up, squinting at it, like some exotic specimen.

"HEY!" Sook yelled while Watson struggled to pull away. "No one touches his Lordship."

"That's even odder." the Brit smirked as Sook winkled herself between them. "You may have forgotten but I certainly haven't. Last time we met you were missing a few fingers. From your little jaunt up Everest. And you were shorter then, old boy."

"Five." Watson said, wrenching free.

"What?"

"Fingers. I lost five to be precise. Three off the right and two off the left."

"I see... Grow back, did they?"

"Can you read?" Watson growled, raising his hands, turning them front to back so his tormentor could see. Using Munt's scientific paper for reference, Tanya's beautician had steeped Watson's fingertips in dilute sulphuric acid, then pared his fingernails back to tiny slivers. "If by chance you can, look up the article by Woodrow-Munt, Nakamura, Bown et al... 'Stem cell-seeded 3D-printed matrix regeneration of human phalanges. An in vivo study'." He raised a hand, rubbing acid-etched fingers and thumb together. "Journal of Cell and Tissue Research. You can find it on-line... old boy." Sook put her fists down and Watson turned to go, then on second thoughts stopped and looked over his shoulder. "And what's with the uniform? No one told me this was fancy dress."