Aurora - Blood Moon Tribute Pt. 10

A voice spoke up in the local tongue, then in English added, "Face down on the path. Get down."

Beck rolled her eyes. "Out of the fucking frying pan..."

The trooper put a finger to his lips. "Shhh..."

Four men set off in a crouch for the helipad while two more covered the rear, facing back the way they'd just come. The rest went to ground, knees parked on the backs of the prostrate fugitives, nothing forceful, just a formality. A radio hissed with static, followed by a little, garbled voice from some distant planet. And there they waited for the violence to ignite, but a few minutes later the recce squad doubled back, footsteps kicking up little clouds of moondust. "Clear, Boss."

A young, slim officer got to his feet and keyed his radio. "Seif?"

The rear-guard scampered back to the party. "All clear, sir."

The officer straightened and gestured the civilians to their feet. "Up, up."

His guests struggled upright, groaning, and dusted themselves off. In excellent English the officer asked, "Who are you people? And what are you doing here? This place is-"

"Prohibited." Ally sighed, "We know, we know."

A trooper jabbed her in the ribs with his weapon. "Do not interrupt His Highness."

"'Sir'..." the officer said wearily in the local tongue, "you're meant to call me 'sir'."

"Apologies, Your Highness... I mean, sorry... sir."

The officer gestured at Watson with his chin. "You! Old sir. Who were those men just then? Were they Southern Alliance?"

Watson shrugged. "Well, they didn't give us their business cards."

Beck elbowed her old man in the ribs. "We are lost, sir." she said, taking the reins. "We took a wrong turn in the dark. We were making our way back when we crossed paths with those soldiers. We have no idea who they were."

The officer eyed Beck shrewdly while she spoke. Unbuckling his helmet, he hitched it by the chinstrap to his hip and stood bare-headed, sweat beading his brow. Under the moonlight, his hair was a lighter shade of brown and even in the darkness his eyes were pale. Beneath the daubing of camo-stick his skin was almost fair, not quite Caucasian, but definitely not local either. A fifty-fifty mixture of the DNA palette.

He slipped a phone from a webbing pouch- only he was allowed such a luxury, as a royal he was allowed anything- and swiped up a message. His eyes flicked between Beck and the image on the screen- sent by his brother, Rashiid. That braggart just couldn't help himself. There the little blonde was, in a gloating selfie, taken, by all appearances, up in the mountains. The message read, 'Look what Dad just gave me'. He closed his phone and put it away, then looked at Beck and cleared his throat. "Forgive me for asking. But might you be Lady Rebekah?"

Beck's shoulders slumped in defeat, but when she opened her mouth to reply, Ally barged her aside. "No!" she snapped. "She is NOT Lady Rebekah! She is CAPTAIN Rebekah Watson, Aussie citizen. And I am Captain Alana Blake. We were kidnapped on the ramp in Ab Aldafra. Then dragged here against our-"

The officer waved her down, clearly perplexed. "Please, Madam, please, just calm down. We mean you no harm. I am just trying to establish your identities. Lady Rebekah?"

His men gathered around, hanging on the exchange, reeking of gun-smoke and body odour, cigarettes and adrenaline. The officer jerked his chin at a grizzled old NCO. "Waleed?"

"Sir?"

"Move the men out, set up a perimeter. We can't all have our eyes down like this."

"Sir." the NCO dipped his head. 4 pairs of squaddies saddled up and scuttled stooping into the night, taking up position covering each quadrant. One of the remaining troops tapped the officer on the arm.

After a muttered conversation, the officer looked at Watson. "Forgive me, sir. Might you be Woodrow-Munt?"

Suddenly, finally, totally over the charade, Watson ran a hand across his grimy pate. "No. I am not. I am Damon Watson. Moth-eaten layabout and busted-arse yachtie."

"I'm not sure I understand your title." the officer frowned. "And these others?" He nodded at the gathering of frightened females. "It seems very odd that you might be out here with them."

"There was shooting at the palace." Watson said and let it hang.

"Of course," the officer nodded, "that sort of thing can be very frightening. What I mean is, I find it odd that you should be out here with His Majesty's consort."

"Yes... yes," Watson conceded, "but it's not how it looks, I assure you."

The officer looked at him, clearly baffled.

"I mean it's nothing sinister." the old man explained. "You have my word."

The women all nodded. "He's a complete gentleman." Ally affirmed and Cassandra put in a bid.

"He wouldn't even hurt a fly. He actually catches them and puts them outside."

The officer gestured for silence again. "And you, Madam," he looked at Hope, "please remove your head cover."

Hope did as ordered, then stood, carefully avoiding the young officer's eyes. He studied her for a moment. "I feel I know you."

Fluent in the local tongue, Hope said, "Please, My Lord, I am but a lowly servant. As is my sister." She tilted her head in Beck's direction, "We are loyal servants of the Lady Rebekah."

"You are her maids?"

"Yes, My Lord. And her wellbeing is our responsibility."

"So tell me, Madam. This old man? Who is he? How did you meet? And what are you all doing down here?"

Hope's chin wobbled and she started to cry. "There was so much shooting, My Lord. We all fled. Then, on our way, we came across these other young maidens. In our panic, I fear we got lost."

"Yes, but..." the officer frowned. "What about the old man?"

Hope's eyes rose as far as the officer's chest. "My Lord?"

"Never mind." he said gruffly then turned on Ally. Slipping a torch from his webbing, he obscured most of the beam with his fingers and scanned her torso with two narrow strips of light. "Forgive me, Madam. But are you injured?"

Ally looked herself over, and for the first time realised her slip was saturated. Her slip, her hands, her legs all the way to her shoes, covered in blood. Sook's blood. Face in her hands, Ally dissolved into heart-rending sobs, while the 3 remaining troops tried to look elsewhere. Beck folded her into an embrace. "Look, Mister..."

"Iskander, please call me Iskander."

The troops exchanged a glance with their crusty old NCO. Since being foisted on the squad, fresh out of Officer Training at the tender age of 16, His Royal Highness, Lieutenant Iskander, had led them fearlessly and intelligently into countless fierce battles, down on the border, or rooting out extremists from the cities and towns. He led from the front and never needlessly risked his men. He was a clever tactician and not above taking advice from the rank and file. But while his head was in the game, his heart was never in killing, and he had no idea of how to treat civilians. With distrust and contempt and armed intimidation.

"Mister Iskander." Beck blubbed, "We have just lost one of our friends. One of our best friends. And all we were doing was trying not to get killed. But she died anyway. And for what? What possible harm could we do? Please, Mister Iskander, we just want to go home."

The officer looked here and there as if wrestling with his confusion. "I still don't understand. You are trothed to my... to His Majesty, the king. Are you not?"

Beck nodded sullenly. There was no denying it.

"Then your place is in the palace. With your husband-to-be."

Hope weighed in, all forty kilos of her. "I beg you, My Lord. Don't send her back. If she should fall into the wrong hands."

"What wrong hands?" Iskander scowled. "The palace has been secured. His Majesty awaits my arrival. Lady Rebekah is his property and must be returned."

Hope collapsed at his feet. "No, My Lord, no! I beg you. I fear the situation is not what it seems. Should any misfortune have befallen His Majesty, may god forbid, then Lady Rebekah is in grave danger."

"Nothing has happened to His Majesty." Iskander said testily. "According to my intel the situation is all under control. The king is safe, I can assure you. Get up now. Get up!"

Hope stood. She and Floraliza looked at him, heads shaking, eyes streaming tears. In spite of what he'd been told by his brother, that the Southerner's sneak attack had been quickly repelled, that their father was in his chambers all safe and sound, the young officer found the maids' anguish unnerving.

The squad's radioman pressed an earpiece to his ear. After listening to an incoming call, he looked up. "Sir, it's Sunray-Alpha again. Asking for a sitrep."

Iskander compressed his lips. Rashiid, for the tenth time, giving him the hurry-up. "Tell him we're patrolling. We had an unidentified aircraft movement."

The radioman nodded. "Sir."

Iskander looked from one face to another. 3 young western women, 1 young Asian. 2 bonded maids and an elderly white man of dubious provenance. Civilians, dead-weight in a scrap, yet he couldn't simply abandon them. The old sergeant overheard his thoughts and cleared his throat. "Sir, if I may suggest. Perhaps we might send the clean one back to the boat. For later. For the boys. The old man and her Ladyship can come with us."

"And the others?"

"They can take their chances out here. They'll be fine. Someone will find them eventually."

"My Liege!" Hope implored. "Just for tonight. Until you're sure it's safe for us to go back. Just leave us. We will stay RIGHT here, I promise."

"They'll be cheering us from the mountain tops," the NCO said, "if we return with the prize. His Majesty's wife. And I'm one hundred percent that this is Lord Woodrow-Munt."

The officer had been trying to grow a moustache, but so far had barely managed a scattering of fine, fair bristles. Smoothing his jaw, he looked at Beck. "They say you are Australian."

Beck looked around in a quandary... was that a good thing or a bad thing? "That's correct. Yes."

The officer ran a hand through his short, sandy hair. "Then we share a bond."

Beck looked at him, genuinely surprised. "We do?"

The officer sighed. "Yes. My mother came from Australia. When she was young, the way they describe her, she looked very much like you."

A short, stunned silence ran its course and Beck cleared her throat. "Well, she must be very proud of you."

"Alas," he said, a faraway look in his eyes, "she gave her life to god in return for mine."

Another round of stilted quietude.

"They say Australians have no respect for authority," the officer went on, "but they're kind and they're funny. And my mother, they say, was just like that. What we call a 'free spirit'. It is said, she would ride through the city on a magnificent white horse, in a blue silk burqa with the hood pulled back. With just two household guards on horses for protection. No armoured cars, no speeding motorcade, no beating people for raising their eyes. Just my mother and her horse. And she would talk to the commoners. She'd put their children on her horse and walk them around the park. And if someone were sick or needy, she would see to it herself they were given remedy. And her beauty, they say, the sun itself could not match her radiance."

The crusty old NCO grit his teeth. He'd heard this story ten thousand times, each rendition as sickly sweet as the last. Yet, as much as everyone missed her, from palace staff to the lowliest citizen, the young royal's mother was just one more Blood Moon Tribute, in a centuries-long parade of ritual breeders. It was true, she had ridden through town on a horse, not white but dappled grey, a cranky old mare she'd saved from the knackers. With only 2 guards, that was also true. And she did take the kids for rides, and ask after the locals' welfare. And, in fact, she was also quite beautiful, another thing he couldn't deny, with long, platinum blonde hair she wore in a plait.

Yet many others said she'd dragged the royal family into disrepute. First of all she was a foreigner, worse than that a commoner, not high-born. Small, slim and poorly endowed, she liked to run around, barefoot, with all the girls and boys playing soccer, with her burqa tucked into her underpants. Flaunting every single law of royal etiquette and decorum, all with the starry-eyed blessing of a besotted old king. Not that the public didn't adore her. But the other wives... they despised her, and whispered rumours said they were plotting her death.

Iskander unhitched his helmet and put it back on. The NCO pushed Hope and Floraliza back with his weapon, then slung it over his shoulder and pulled a pair of heavy-duty flex-cuffs from his belt. "What are you doing, Sarge?" the officer asked.

He gestured at Watson. "Cuffing this idiot."

"Leave him, Sergeant. Sunray's in my ear. He wants up there, asap."

"But Sire," the sergeant protested, "what about the net-cast? It said be on the lookout for an elderly bleacher, with white hair and beard. This old fossil matches the description perfectly."

"Dead weight, Sarge. They'll have to wait here."

"All of them?"

"All of them?"

The NCO blinked. "Even Lady Rebekah?"

Iskander nodded.

"But, Sire... His Majesty's wife. All alone out here in the dark. With some strange man. The king will have a coronary, god bless and protect him."

Iskander looked at Beck. "This old man? Are you sure you can trust him?"

Beck fought the urge to sidle under Watson's black wing. "With my life."

"What makes you so sure?"

Beck bit her tongue. 'Because he's just come halfway round the world on a wing and a prayer to save me. Just like he's done several times before, when the odds were equally slim'. "Because he's Australian."

"Ah." Iskander nodded, as if that made sense.

Ally cleared her throat. "So am I."

"Me too." Cassandra weighed in. "I grew up next to the Opera House."

"And me," Selene raised a hand, "I-"

Iskander bid them be silent. "Then we will leave you here. Until the situation becomes clear. But, old sir," he jerked his chin at Watson, "should any harm befall His Majesty's bride... I will gut you myself. Sarge?"

The NCO knew what was coming and heaved a deep, exasperated sigh. "Sir?"

"Call the perimeter in."

The sergeant sent his 2 remaining troops off to do the officer's bidding, then looked at Iskander, imploring. "Sire... we have just stumbled upon a virtual pot of gold. And we're just gonna leave it?"

"For the time being."

The sergeant palmed his forehead. "I'm sorry, sir, I just don't get it. The King's wife and that missing VVIP. A couple of white girls for the voyage back home. Think of the honour. Think of the praise and prestige. And think of the men, how much fun they'd have with this pair."

"This is a military operation, Sarge" Iskander said dryly, "not a scavenger hunt. Get the men to saddle up."

The NCO stalked off and, with a few harsh whispers, tore one or two troops a new one, venting his anger. Crunching back to Iskander, scowling, he wrenched his helmet on and buckled the chinstrap.

Iskander looked at him. "Good to go?"

"Yes, Your Highness."

Iskander heaved a sigh. "Could you not call me that?"

"Very good, Sir."

"Look, Waleed. We've had each other's backs for years. Please. As much as I trust your judgement, you must also trust mine." He gestured at the mountain top. "Something's not right, Waleed, I can feel it. And all the while Sunray keeps pestering me to join him. It's no secret what my brother thinks of me. This," he twirled his finger, "might be some sort of a trap. I fear Rashiid may be trying to make a fool of me in front of the king."

Eyes downcast, the sergeant nodded. His commander was right- Rashiid's feud with his younger half-brother was the worst-kept secret in the land.

"Good. And these civilians will stay right here. If it does turn to shit uphill, the last thing we need is excess baggage."

"Very good, My Liege."

Iskander elbowed the surly NCO. "You only ever call me that when you're pissed-off."

"Sir... it's just that..."

Iskander rolled his eyes. "Stop fretting for the Herald's sake. Listen, what would you rather hunt? The lion or the lamb? Saif?"

The squad's radioman looked up. "Sir?"

"Tell Sunray-alpha. From Sunray-six. Inbound."

The squad formed up and set off back the way they had come, knees flexed, backs bent, clearing the way with their weapons. Beck raked her hair back. "Well he was nice."

"Aussie mother." Watson said, his voice pitched higher than normal. The close proximity of swarthy men brandishing assault rifles seemed to have that effect. "That's amazing." he said. "She's the second one I've heard of."

Beck gave him the eye. "Second what?"

"Aussie wife. Of the king. In fact I met another one, a friend of Tan's. And she... had... a..." The old man stared at the ground, rubbing his chin. He looked at Beck. "You don't suppose...?"

"What?"

Watson pointed. He opened his mouth and shut it again, then frowned at the ground. "You know what?"

Ally rolled her eyes. "What?"

"That friend of theirs, the one who came for a visit. She had a son."

"You think that was him?"

Watson stared into the dark, in the direction of a lost opportunity. "Well," he said, "if I was a betting man."

"Well now's a fine time to join the dots, Damo!" Ally admonished.

"But," Beck frowned, "he said his mother was dead. I think he meant she died giving birth."

"That was just a coverup," Watson sighed, "according to Caddy. So the king could save face."

Beck palmed her forehead. "And you're telling met you actually this woman? That guy's mum?"

"Yes," Watson nodded, "and he's spot on. She's exactly like you, the dead spitting image."

"Imagine if you'd told him." Ally said.

"Look, guys..." Watson pleaded, "... sorry. I just wasn't thinking straight."

"Hmm..." Beck hedged, "you know it's probably better you didn't. I mean, what would you do? If some total random piped up and said they'd just met your dead mother?"

Ally nodded knowingly- the subject of dead mothers was definitely better left untouched. She looked at the sky. The commandos in their helicopter had long disappeared, thieves fleeing the scene in a magic carpet. "Goddam!" she sighed. "What I wouldn't give for a chopper."

Cassandra looked at her askance. "Why? What would you do with it?"

"Cover it in KY and jam it up your..." Ally glared, then raised her hands. "Sorry... sorry. What I really mean is, I'd crank the thing up and get the fuck out of here."

"Do you think you could fly one?"

"They're pilots." Watson wearily explained. "Both of them."

Cassandra put a hand to her mouth. "Chopper pilots?"

"No!" Ally said emphatically. "Proper ones. Our wings are normal, they don't go round and round."

"But could fly a chopper?" Cassandra asked.

Ally shrugged. "Well I'd give it a red-hot go."

"Because I know where we can find one." Cassandra went on, desperate to win some approval. Several jaws dropped, not least of all Ally's, who now found herself on the spot.

"Where?"

Cassandra pointed up the mountain. "The king's helipad." she replied. "Right on top of the palace. They warned us not to go up there."

"You're joking, right?" Ally frowned. "There's a chopper on the roof? Just sitting there?"

The group gathered in a huddle, all at once overcome with hope and disquiet. "Unless the king has used it to fly away. But you can always tell. They turn red lights on at the top of the mountain."

Ally, Beck and Watson swapped glances. The yacht had been scuttled, the RIBs and gunboats were swarming with troops. It was too far to swim back to Ab Aldafra, and if they did get caught and the plot was revealed... well... the justice system was hardly renown for its clemency. "Do you really think you could fly it?" Beck asked.

Ally heaved a sigh, already regretting she'd even opened her mouth. "I went for a jolly in a cop machine once. In Melbourne. The chief pilot was trying to get into my pants, so he took me up for a night ride. I got to sit in the front left-hand seat."