Aurora - Blood Moon Tribute Pt. 07

Sook followed Watson as far as the bridge between the islands. "Excellency," a steward bowed, indicating a broad, yellow line painted across the paving, "this line symbolises the ancient demarcation, between the utilitarian dwellings of the rank and file," he tilted his head in the direction of the complex- barracks, gymnasium, showrooms, warehouse, terminal, dock facilities- on the smaller island, "and His Majesty's mountain fortress. You may cross this line but your manservant must not. It is very important, for both symbolic and practical purposes, and the punishment is very severe."

Watson looked at the steward down his nose. "You will vouchsafe the safety of my assistant?"

The steward bowed. "You have His Majesty's word. The young sir will come to no harm."

Watson looked around. Like a sky-diver who thought it might be fun to jump out of a plane without his parachute, halfway down he was having second thoughts. "Well, if he must. But I require access, at any time, night or day."

The steward stifled a smirk, thinking, 'I bet you do.' "Indeed, Excellency, you are free to come and go as you wish. And the young sir is free to meet you at this point. But only this far."

"Soo... Aki." Watson said, "go and make yourself comfortable. I'll check on you as soon as I'm settled. If you have any trouble, Aki, ANY trouble at all, you call me."

Sook bowed. "Master." and Watson watched her go, like a parent seeing his child off at the gate on the first day of school.

"If you'll come this way." The steward said, gesturing at a gaggle of golf carts, parked in a small gravel layby, on the far side of the bridge, at the foot of the boulder-strewn hill. "We shall take the Widowmaker path, an honour reserved for those of the king's inner circle. Those worthy knights and warlords who helped King Salman on his way."

The sun was barely an hour into its journey but the temperature was already soaring and sweat was already beading the old man's brow. Rather than sit in the back, Watson piled into the front of the buggy beside the uniformed steward. Looking relatively cool, in his starched white tunic and navy blue pants, the steward shot Watson the odd, nervous side-eye as they set off, out of the gravelled layby up a winding cobbled path. "How big is this place?" Watson asked in his haughtiest Brit.

"Excellency?"

"The island?"

"The main island is just over one hundred British acres, Excellency. Modelled on Jebel Nur."

"Modelled?"

"Built, Excellency. On top of the original island."

"Seems like a lot of trouble to go to."

"The location was pinpointed by His Majesty's seers, My Lord. One auspicious night under a mystic constellation. They oversaw the palace construction. The island, it is said, embodies many a great secret."

"Indeed." Watson intoned, then looked at him. "And tell me, where did you learn such excellent English?"

"School, My Lord." the steward replied, omitting to explain it was in fact the academy, where he'd studied to become a member of the feared Secret Police.

They rounded a bend and the magnificent palace- part fortress, part desert chateau, leapt into view, a stunning combination of quasi-history and wishful thinking, brought to life by cutting-edge technology. Yet another local reminder that, when money was no object, anything was possible. "So," Watson said, dryly, "this is where we're staying?"

"Yes, Excellency," the driver nodded, "if you'll permit me. I'll take you to your accommodations, then return and have your luggage delivered."

After short walk across an elaborately-tiled forecourt, they boarded a gilded elevator, riding up to the guest accommodation, 3rd tier from the top. His guide led the old man down a long, curved passageway, to a heavy wooden door, bearing a large, brass plaque, emblazoned with the name of Watson's alter-ego.

The apartment was gorgeous. Spacious, airy, yet relatively dim after the dazzle outside and deliciously cool. In-house help hurried past to open the room's big sliding glass doors, and Watson heard the sound of running water. Pausing on the way to test the bed's tensile properties, Watson wandered through the living room, then stuck his head outside to find his own personal pool, five meters by three, in a palm-fringed grotto, cool and green with a rectangle of cerulean sky overhead.

"Excellency?" a voice said, and Watson turned to find yet another house-keep standing behind him. "On behalf of His Majesty, Abdulaziz bin Salman Al Shabazz, I bid you welcome. I am Ali, your personal assistant. Breakfast will be served in the VVIP dining room in half an hour. Would you like my help to shower?"

Watson looked the servant up and down, glaring. This individual was dressed like something out of a Disney cartoon, loose pantaloons, silk shirt under a snazzy red waistcoat. "Do I look like a child to you?"

"Of course not, Excellency." the lackey bowed without so much as batting an eyelid. "I shall be waiting outside."

Two more housekeepers were meanwhile busy installing Watson's wardrobe. When they finished, and slid the slatted wooden doors shut over his overpriced rags, they turned, bowed and withdrew. Alone at last, Watson sat on the end of the bed, then fell back, bouncing on the thick, stiff mattress, the sound of falling water filling his ears. He was here now, against all odds. He'd made it onto the Island. The British arms dealer had given him a fright, but like Sook had said, the deeper he got into this whole, reckless charade, the harder it would be for anyone to out him.

The old man closed his eyes and heaved a deep sigh. "Phase one..." he mumbled. "Collect underpants."

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After breakfast in the dining hall, listening to financiers and industrialists, tax lawyers and magnates, diplomats, socialites and criminals all spruiking their wares, Watson spent the rest of the day in his room, lounging by the pool with its ornamental waterfall, ordering-in food, pacing, fretting, counting down. The coming evening marked the official beginning of the festivities. Tonight, they would gather in the Great Hall of the Surrender, one level below the royal chambers, the décor heavy with silks, linen and camel wool, meant to resemble some gargantuan desert tent. Just like the one erected outside the fortress, a millennium ago, where the great King Salman had accepted capitulation. And tonight, like the vanquished of old, Watson, masquerading as Lord Gideon Woodrow-Munt, and the rest of the VVIPs, would perform their own ritual surrender, bow down and pledge their allegiance to His Majesty the King. After that it was all feasting and drinking. Food, wine, party drugs and dancing girls, as the guests got to know one another under the covert surveillance of their new king.

And as it turned out, in spite of the old man's sarcasm, it was fancy dress after all. In the guise of 'traditional costume', he dressed in baggy silk pantaloons, much like his servant's, a simple, linen, long-sleeved tunic with a golden silk waistcoat, and soft leather boots, halfway up to his knees, in green and yellow, with turned up toes. The ensemble was more nouveau-Cossack than Northern Alliance but slightly embarrasing all the same. And all designed to set him apart from the locals, who stuck to traditional desert dress. Marking him indelibly as a foreigner. A conquered outsider.

As he stood studying his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror, a knuckle rapped on the door. This was a zoo, Watson reminded himself, and he was just another exhibit, a cashed-up inmate at the beck and call of his host. The caller tapped a second time and he heaved a weary sigh. "Come."

The door opened and Ali leant in. "Your Excellency?"

"What is it, Ali?"

"May I enter?"

"What do you want?"

Ali opened the door wide and Watson's heart skipped a beat. A stunning young female stood in the hallway outside, nervously fidgeting with a small silk handbag- the sum total of her possessions for her visit to his room. Toothbrush, floss, some feminine products, lipstick, eyeliner, a brush and a comb. And even the most cursory glance revealed she was naked under the see-through gown. Light brown hair framed a heart-shaped face, almost child-like. Small nose, full lips, big, bewitching grey eyes. A manga doll in the flesh, small, delicate, perfectly proportioned, exuding just a hint of trepidation. She stood holding his gaze, while the old man blinked and twitched. "And what is the meaning of this?" he finally demanded.

"This is Miss Cassandra." Ali replied with a bow. "She will be your hostess for the duration."

"Ambassador." the girl corrected.

"Indeed." Ali bowed again. If by ambassador she meant live-in, high-class hooker. "She will be your ambassador."

Watson shook his head, fleetingly confused. He'd obviously drifted off during this part of the briefing. "Ambassador for what?"

"For all your... needs." Ali said and Cassandra gave a nod. While she saw to his... needs... the rich old man would see to hers- fame and fortune, a nice juicy review, a multi-multi billionaire to list as referee on her CV.

The blood drained from Watson's face. Here he was, deep in enemy territory, being served this delicacy on a silver platter. "That's alright," he said, in spite of his surging desire, "I won't be needing her."

The servant and the girl looked at each other in shock. "I beg your pardon, Excellency? You mean you don't find her attractive?"

"I didn't say that, Ali. I said I didn't need her."

Ali looked around in frustration. "But... your Excellency. She is a gift from His Majesty, the King, chosen by his match-makers. A token of his great goodwill and boundless generosity. If you were to send her back..."

The girl smeared her eyes and tugged the servant's sleeve. "Perhaps he'd prefer a different sort of ambassador?"

Ali looked at her frowning and the penny dropped. "Is that correct, your Excellency? Would you prefer a boy? If you like I could-"

Watson looked around glaring. "No! I do NOT want a boy."

'Of course not,' Ali thought, 'you already have one'. "Forgive me, Excellency. But I can't just send her back. Not without providing a replacement. If you were to reject His Majesty's gift..."

Watson turned away to look at himself in the mirror, trying to head-off an unscheduled hard-on. Because the girl was drop-dead gorgeous, and she was standing there all but naked. The stuff of his wildest dreams. Again. "Well..." he sighed, trying to sound put-out, while surreptitiously rearranging the contents of his pantaloons, "...come on. Come in."

The girl walked in and went straight to the end of the bed, where she sat herself down, knees pressed together, handbag in her lap. Bells, hooters and sirens went off in Watson's brain. She was dropping The Hint. According to a snippet of secret female lore, revealed long ago by a drunk woman friend... if a girl came to your room and sat on your bed...

"Thank you, Ali." Watson said. "That will be all."

Ali bowed out, and Watson began to fear for the poor man's spine. But not for long. The door eased shut and Watson looked around, to find the beautiful young girl intently watching him. "Do you know who I am?" he asked brusquely, checking his face in the mirror.

"Lord Gideon Woodrow-Munt." Cassandra replied.

"Amazing! So you can read the sign on my door. And do you know what I do?"

"Well," the girl said, as if just stood up at school, "I know you are a geneticist."

"Gene engineer, actually. Molecular artisan. Do know what that is?"

Cassandra shrugged. "Well, I did a little genetics at school."

"Wholly inadequate," Watson snapped, "if you are to barely comprehend the least of my work." He turned around and looked at her, heart pounding, aching to reach out and cup that face in his hands. To taste those lips. Inhale the scent of her shining brown hair. And he could. He knew he could. That's what she'd come for after all, no more remarkable in the present context than complementary nuts at the bar. Still, peckish as he might be, he was on a mission and had bigger fish to fry. Pulling an ornate, padded wooden chair away from the desk, he placed it carefully in front of the girl and sat down. "Do you know what else I am?"

Cassandra flicked her hair back, frowning. "I'm not sure I understand the question."

"Then allow me to elucidate. I am a geneticist, as you say. A gene engineer. And I'm also a genius. And a billionaire. A multi-multi, multi-multi-billionaire. Soon to be a trillionaire, possibly the richest man in history. I am also a former fighter pilot, and mountaineer, besides which I'm a recluse. And though I doubt you possess the acumen to realise, I am simply the most amazing man you will ever set eyes on."

The young girl nodded indulgently, recalling her instructions. They were simple. Flatter, pamper, appease and entertain. Indulge, humour, fuck and satisfy. "Which is why I chose you." she piped. "I figured it would be the chance of a lifetime."

Watson sat back, blinking. "You actually chose me?"

"Of course." Cassandra nodded, though by 'chose' she meant 'assigned'. By a computer algorithm.

"Is that so? Well, there's something else you should know." Watson leant into her and levelled a finger in her face. "I despise publicity. In fact I eschew celebrity of any kind. Any exposure to the swarming herd beasts, the moping, moronic masses who could no more grasp my brilliance than fly to the moon. If you ever breath so much as a word of what goes on between us, I WILL destroy you."

Cassandra's jaw sagged and she looked truly shocked. "My Lord. Never! We have sworn an oath of secrecy, on pain of death. I am the king's ambassador, here to make you happy and comfortable. It's my duty."

Watson withdrew his finger and sat, staring into the bottomless grey eyes of the young girl in front of him. He could smell her perfume, nothing overpowering, just a hint of fruit and musk, clean and fresh. "Good," he nodded. "Then we understand each other. Now, tell me. Who is Cassandra?"

"Me?" she pointed at herself, surprised he'd even asked. According to rumour, as scant as it was- the penalty for divulgence being death- some girls worked the Tribute in its entirety without ever being asked more than their first name. Any further indulgence, from pleasantries to material gifts, was simply profit. "Well, let's see. My name is Cassandra Ortega, and I'm eighteen years old-"

Watson inwardly rolled his eyes- every single female in this land, between the ages of 14 to 24, was somehow magically 18.

"-and I come from Argentina. I was born in Sao Paulo but grew up mostly in Ushuaia."

"Tierra del Fuego?"

Cassandra's face lit up with a big, happy smile. "You've heard of it?"

"Of course. I'm a genius."

"Wow. Most people have never even heard of the place. Have you been there?"

"We were actually talking about you." Watson parried, carefully avoiding any unnecessary complications.

"Of course, Your Excellency, my apologies. Well, let's see. My dad was an Army General and my mom was a schoolteacher. After Ushuaia, I went to high school in Buenos Aires, where I also started doing acting and modelling. In my second year of modelling, I got taken up by Tusk-" The old man looked at her with a question mark on his face. "The modelling agency." Cassandra explained. "It's very famous. And then last year my manager hooked me up. Put me up for Blood Moon, with another girl from the house. And, well, we were both eventually chosen and here I am."

"And what exactly do you hope to gain out of this?" Watson-Munt asked, warming to the girl in spite of himself.

"Oh, every girl wants the Blood Moon on her CV. It's a real feather in your cap. In the modelling world. A lot of Blood Moon girls go on to Hollywood."

"And it doesn't worry you?" he asked, "That some filthy-rich old... geneticist... a man old enough to be your grandfather, might... you know... make advances?"

"Worry me?" Cassandra frowned. "Why on Earth would it worry me? That's what I'm here for. It's a tradition, a celebration going back a thousand years. And, I mean, it's not like you're some creepy old homeless guy. You're a VVIP. Did you know, between you... between the men on this island? There is as much combined wealth in this palace as most of the world combined." Her eyes lit up and she smiled a big, dimpled smile. "Places like this, like the Blood Moon. This is where the future is made." By now the girl was almost shaking with unbridled excitement. "And to think, if something goes down that goes on to change the world- I can say, 'I was there!'"

Something like conferring on an already bloated kleptocracy the power of immortality. And it struck him. This was elite culture in all its essence. Rich old men gorging themselves on stunning young women. These so-called VVIPs were almost a parody in fact. An ugly caricature. Wrinkled carcases pumping their rancid old semen into the warm embrace of pure young receptacles, all in the pursuit of eternal life. There was a sigh of disappointment in the front of Watson's pants as the blood pressure subsided. "So," he asked, "what does the planet think of all this?"

Cassandra tilted her head. "What planet?"

Watson twirled his finger, instantly regretting the slip. "This one. The Earth. What does the rest of the world have to say?"

"About?"

"About the Blood Moon? About the future of mankind being settled in the course of a royal soiree?"

Cassandra shrugged. "Who cares?"

"Correct answer." Watson said, greasing back into character, all the while mentally rubbing his hands. The young woman's cavalier disregard for the planet, the one he held so dear, was just the green light he needed. He stood, half a bar swinging around in his pantomime costume, then opened the refrigerator. French Champagne, fresh oysters, caviar. Sensing movement behind him, the old man looked over his shoulder to find Cassandra on her feet, posing in front of the mirror, preening. His eyes travelled over the young female's striking rear-view, her features undiminished by the gauzy material. Slim and supple, narrow of waist and broad of hip, she was small but perfectly proportioned. The golden ratio- they weren't bloody kidding.

The girl noticed his scrutiny and turned around. "Well?" she said, "Do you like what you see?"

The short answer was, 'yes'. He did like it. He liked it a lot. It occurred to the old man, ever since finding that tiny blonde stowaway in his RIB, he'd enjoyed a parade of stunning young females the likes of which he had never imagined. Rebekah, Maya, Vicky and Hayley. Paula, Erin, Vi. Aiko and Katsumi, the identical Japanese twins, not to mention Tanya, Caddy and Katrina. And, a couple of nights ago, the little Korean Sook, as if he somehow needed reminding of the miracle. All this after 30-odd years of adult life, most of it banged up in the husk of a dead marriage, with barely a fling every few years to leaven the drudgery. More young pussy in the past 4 years than the rest of his life combined. And to think. The whole thing had started with a broken-down boat.

Or had it? Not for the first time the old man wondered if it might, in fact, just be a dream. Whether he might, in reality, be in a persistent vegetative state, in some care facility somewhere, merely hallucinating. Brain dead to the outside world, cavorting in the isolation of his own mind. And there she stood, another living fantasy, 18 if she were a day, with a body like something out of a top-shelf porn studio. And she was offering herself, throwing herself at him more like, in a luxury apartment, in a palace on a royal desert island. He nodded. Brain dead, definitely. Trussed in a wheelchair, sitting in the sun, empty-eyed and drooling while the party rampaged on.