Aurora Blood Moon Tribute Pt 01

Tales of Aurora - Blood Moon Tribute.

Pink dawn above, orange desert below, the jet soared heavenwards like a homesick angel. Sitting back in the co-pilot's seat, Alana Blake took a breath and looked around. "Not such a bad old bus."

"I still prefer the Stream." Rebekah Watson replied, strapped into the left hand seat on the far side of the centre console.

Ally hefted a shoulder. "Well at least she's a freebie."

"After what we've been through," Beck narrowed her eyes, "I'd hardly call her free."

Ally looked herself over. Like Beck, she was still dressed in the clothes from the island, in her case a sheer silk slip, sky blue, mottled with blood. She cast Beck's torn and filthy black niqab disparaging glare. "You know you really should lose that silly bloody garbage bag."

"Soon as we hit the border." Beck replied. "It's symbolic."

"Right." Ally said under her breath. "Symbolic of your mental retardation." A light winked on as the sleek corporate machine captured 40 thousand feet and levelled out. "Woo hoo!" Ally cheered and they both punched the air. "Top of Climb!"

Beck shook her head. "Well bugger me! We actually did it."

Ally shot her a big, white grin. "Too right, Flea. We made it."

"Angels forty in a stolen aeroplane."

Ally nodded. "And we're not even type-rated. Just can't wait till they make the movie."

"Movie?" Beck said. "It's more the trial I'm worried about."

"Trial!" Ally scoffed. "Pfft! We're refugees now, asylum seekers. Escaped political prisoners."

"Speak for yourself." Beck sniffed, "I'm royalty you know? You may call me 'Your Majesty'."

"'Your Travesty', more like it."

"Did you just insult me?" Beck gasped, then her arm shot out. "OFF WITH HER HEEAAD!"

"Is it true, though, Flea? All jokes aside?"

"What?"

"Are you really a queen?"

Beck studied her nails. "Well I couldn't understand a word they were saying, but I'm gonna say 'yes'."

"Which might also mean 'no'."

"Let' err on the side of caution."

"Delusions of grandeur you mean. Here. What Mach number should we be using?"

Beck tapped the query into an iPad. "Point eight-five according to goggle." she said, then sat back and heaved a deep breath. Banter aside, it had been one hell of a night, and one of the gang hadn't made it. Ally was right, it would make an awesome movie, and she knew just the person to write the script. She settled the headset over her ears and adjusted the mike, peak of a borrowed baseball cap pulled down, shading her eyes from the rising sun.

Ally heaved a sigh. "Wonder what's gonna happen back there?"

Beck jerked her head. "In the cab?"

"In the sandpit, idiot."

"Who cares?" Beck frowned. "That frikken' place is a looney bin."

"It's civil war, Flea. Lot of good people gonna get hurt."

"What do you mean? We brought 'em all with us."

"Not all of them."

Beck squinted at her. "And I thought you were supposed to be the hard one."

"I am 'ard!" Ally scowled, "Dead 'ard! It's just... you know... an experience like that. It changes a girl."

"They'll sort it out." Beck muttered, crossing her arms. If a country were run by that sort of freak show, it got what it deserved. Anyway, if her old man's plea hadn't fallen on deaf ears... Turning her head, she looked out the window at the desert-scape below, orange dunes, heaped row on row, in serried ranks all the way to the hazy horizon. A fleeting glint caught her eye and she shot upright in her seat. "Oh ohhh!"

Ally looked at her. "No 'oh ohhs', Flea. I'm too T and E."

"Just saw a reflection." Beck said, nose against the plexiglass. "I think it's a plane."

Ally craned her neck, trying to see past her pal out the window. "Where?"

" 'Bout ten o'clock, slightly low."

"Yeah... nahhh..." Ally said hopefully, "just a ground reflection."

Beck relaxed a little but there it was again. "Fuck!" she said, "It IS a plane."

"Settle petal." Ally said. After all she'd been through, she just wasn't in the mood for any bad news.

The converging aircraft left a burst of contrail behind, and Beck picked out the tiny black speck at its origin. She slumped in her seat. "It's a fuckin' fighter."

"No," Ally shook her head, clinging steadfastly to her denial. "They're all busy."

When Beck looked at Ally her face had turned pale. "Not all of them."

Ally threw off her mantle of hopeless optimism. "Taking over."

Beck raised her hands. "Handing over. What are you gonna do?"

"Tell the others. Buckle up Buckaroos."

Beck selected the cabin PA. "Guys," she quavered, "Everyone in their seats. Seatbelts fastened, batten down any loose items."

Seconds later there was a knock at the door and Beck keyed the lock. The door opened and a haggard old man stuck his head in the cockpit. "I just saw a jet."

"We know." the pilots chorused, then Beck looked at him. "Everyone in a seat?"

"A couple have had to double up but they're only little. What should we do?"

Ally and Beck swapped a glance. "Consider the error of your ways?" Ally suggested.

"I reckon that's an F-sixteen." Beck muttered, peering out the window.

Ally thumbed the autopilot to standby and gave the wings an exploratory waggle. "No sweat. If he's never chased moocows in the Territory, in a busted-arse one-eighty, he doesn't stand a snowflake's chance."

"Sweetheart?" Watson said, looking at his beloved Rebekah.

"Strap in, Dommy, she knows what she's doing."

With one last look at the two young women, the old man nodded and the door closed behind him. Waiting till he'd gone, Beck looked at Ally. "You do know what you're doing, don't you?"

Ally blew a raspberry. "What do you think, Flea, of course I do." Hand's tightening on the control yoke, she narrowed her eyes. "And we'll never know what hit us if I don't."

Full Moon, so big and bright in the sky overhead it seemed they could reach out out and touch it. 10,000 feet below, the Ab Aldafran desert resembled a vast, wrinkled blanket, casting an ochre glow into the indigo sky. Sweet sand, the locals called it. The Gulfstream dipped a wing, turning inbound in the hold, and the lights of the city stole into view, a great, spangled spider web, strung with fairy lights. Down-moon beyond the shore, the inky darkness of the gulf appeared, peppered with tiny points of illumination- drilling rigs and wellheads, gas flares and tenders, sprawling offshore platforms the size of small towns.

Trussed firmly into the left-hand seat, Beck watched the waypoint track slowly down the navigation display, at the top of their racetrack holding pattern. She yawned so wide her jaw popped, then palmed her eyes with a groan, tired, bored and impatient. She looked at the shadowy figure in the right-hand seat, half-lit by the loom of the flatscreen displays and the sliver radiance beaming through the windscreen. "How much longer are they gonna hold us here?"

Ally roused herself then wriggled in her seat. At holding speed, the Gulfstream was almost silent and it didn't take much imagination to believe they were lost in space, with the planet turning slowly beneath them. "What am I?" she carped, "a fuckin' mind reader?"

"Well we've been drilling around here for twenty fucking minutes." Beck huffed. "My ass is numb. Don't they care?"

"'We've been nyin nyi nyin nyi nyee yee'." Ally mocked. "Harden up Princess! Anyway, you don't know holding till you've tried to get into Adelaide. Those pricks are vicious."

"But why are they holding us?" Beck whined. "We had a flight plan."

Ally raised a finger for quiet as a new voice came up on frequency, a deep baritone with a slow American drawl, so laid back, so in charge, the pilot sounded a few breaths short of a coma. "Al Sharma approach. Regal One."

"Ah!" Ally said, "there you go. That's why."

"Why?" Beck asked, one hand on the instrument hood, peering into the dark.

"It's the royals."

"Which ones?"

Ally shrugged. "King? Queen? Grand Poo Bah? Regal's the royal flight. The boss on his way back from visiting his favourite camel. Or one of his snotty kids. Who knows? But one thing's for sure. They always shut down the airspace every time these idiots go flying."

"Why?"

"Cos' they're idiots. Aren't you listening?"

The approach controller, South African by the accent, was busy radioing instructions in the background. "Well it's rude if you ask me." Beck said grumpily. "We were here first."

Ally grunted with laughter. "I think you'll find that they were, Flea. Anyway, let's not argue the point, or they'll just cancel our clearance and we'll have to divert."

"Without an overflight?"

"Better than copping a SAM up the cloaca."

"Where would we go?"

Ally shrugged. "Al Bukoosh?"

"What about Ras Al Darma?" Beck said brightly. "I hear the prisons there are quite salubrious."

Ally arched her eyebrows. "Are they now?"

"Uh huh." Beck nodded, her eyes, in the gloom, big and disarming. "No more than ten to a bed and every cell has its very own shithole."

"No kidding? Its very own shithole?"

"Uh huh. And hot and cold running rats. It's all laid on."

"Hot and cold running rats?" Ally echoed, working hard to stifle her laughter. "Wow."

"Both species." Beck confirmed. "Rattus rattus, and Rattus norvegicus."

"I used to dream about Rattus rattus." Ally sighed.

"And every second Sunday..." Beck said, "cockroach free."

"No way!"

"Uh huh."

"And how about the guards? Do they piss all over you?"

"Only on bath day."

"When's that?"

"The last Friday."

"Of every month?"

"Every year."

"You don't say!" Ally mused, then brightened. "Well count my ass in!"

"No worries." Beck said. "A reservation for two."

Ally pulled herself upright to peer out the windscreen, "Hang on," she said, pointing at a tiny constellation of flashing strobes and winking red anti-cols, 2 thousand feet below, streaking through the night in the opposite direction, "there it is."

"There what is?" Beck asked, craning her neck.

"That A-three-eighty."

"Which one?"

"Which one do ya think? The royals."

"An A-three-eighty?" Beck frowned, craning her neck the better to see. "That's their runabout? How big's their family?"

"Who knows? Who cares? There's usually only one or two on board anyway. And their ass-lickers of course- they call 'em an 'entourage'. Lower deck's for your slaves and harem. And your favourite goats. And your falcon collection."

"Falcon collection." Beck snorted. "Yeah, right."

"No really!" Ally said, "I'm serious." She pointed at her chin, "See my face? This is my serious face."

"Falcons?"

"Seriously."

"Real ones?"

"Yep. Flapping, squawking, shitting real ones."

Beck crossed her arms. "Well that's just cruel."

Ally huffed and puffed with indignation. "They're just racing chickens, Flea. What about the slaves?"

"Fuck 'em."

"No. That's what the harem's for. The slaves are just for fucking-over."

"Poor birds."

Ally heaved a sigh and slumped back in her seat. "Goddammit! Don't you wish we could empty the shitter in flight?"

"What for?"

"Well, they're on the reciprocal, aren't they? They're gonna pass right underneath."

"That's a bit harsh." Beck admonished.

Ally squinted at her. "You fuckin' what? They're a cunch of bunts, Flea. They only just abolished slavery in the last twenty years. In fact they didn't abolish it at all, they just rebranded it. With a flashy new label, 'bonded labour', which is virtually the same. Chicks can't drive, and if a chick gets raped, guess who goes to jail? Hint. Not the guy. Animal cruelty is rife, wife-beating is legal. So don't feeling sorry for the motherfuckers."

"Well in that case..." Beck said, watching the aircraft disappear under the nose, "right now would be perfect."

"Bombs awaaaayyyy!" Ally cried.

Beck went, "Dooosh!" and Ally pumped her fist.

"Got hiiiimmm! Take that your royal shite-ness." Ally looked at Beck and arched her eyebrows. "You know, the king of this shithole has a real reputation. He's got a thing for Western girls apparently. Virgins especially. Waddaya reckon? Why not tell him you're a virgin then have your way with him. Who knows, you might wind up with your very own GulfStream."

Beck affected a shudder. "I'd rather sew it up thanks very much. Getting bonked by some greasy old man. In a tent. In the desert. On a carpet all covered in camel poo."

"Picky, picky, picky."

Beck heard their callsign over the radio and keyed her mike. "Victor Alpha Whiskey go ahead."

The approach controller radioed up fresh arrival instructions and Ally got busy with the computer, loading the approach that would take them down to finals of the runway in the distance. Two more holds to lose height and they were on their way. "Can't wait to get to the hotel." Ally said excitedly.

Neither could Beck. Her boss, backer, and favourite sex toy, Roger Bragg, was already there, hanging out for her arrival.

"Soon as we check-in," Ally said, rubbing her hands, "I'm heading straight down to the Calm Nest. Two shawarmas, thanks, and a large fruit cocktail. What about you, Flea? Wanna come with?"

"Me?" Beck replied, hiding a smile, "Nahh... I might just have an early one in."

"Yeah, right." Ally snorted. "Except you're not the one who's gonna be in."

Beck looked at Ally with a big cheeky smile. "What are you suggesting Captain Blake?"

"It's not a suggestion, Flea, it's a fact. Still, at least I get the night off."

"From what?"

"You! Someone should stick a warning label on you."

"What?"

"You're insatiable Flea. Admit it."

"Hmph..." Beck said, "never heard you complaining."

"Because you always have your tongue down my throat."

Beck shot her a lascivious smile. "That's not where I usually put it, Ally."

"My point exactly." Ally nodded, trying to sound aggrieved, in fact trying to veil her jealousy. The longer they spent together, the more she was coming to think of Beck as her personal property. The girl was hers, even if she had to bonk Beck's old man from time to time in token gratitude. Not that it was any great hardship- the doddering old codger was actually a match for her in the sack, in spite of her initial predictions. Something of a first for her. But sharing her girl with their boss... the old green-eyed monster stirred at the very idea.

Beck shook her platinum hair back. "You know, Rodge wouldn't mind if you wanted to join in. He really likes you, you know, even if he's scared of you."

Ally gave her head a resolute shake. "No! I told you before, I'm not bonking the boss. If he chucks a hearty or tries to sue me for damages... Where am I gonna get another job as cushy as this?"

"Have it your way." Beck sighed. "I think you'd love it. Anyway, we should probably knock off the pre-landing checks."

Ally roused herself and called up the page. "You're the boss, boss."

They rattled through the checks and Beck thumbed the autopilot to standby. "Might hand-fly this one," she said over the raucous blare of the decouple alarm, "just for funsies."

Ally tightened her straps and braced herself on the instrument hood. "This should be good."

"Well, don't forget, you taught me everything I know."

"I know." Ally nodded. "That's what I'm afraid of."

The approach and landing, manually flown, were of course flawless. After shutting down outside a 3-story glass FBO, they bumped fists and unstrapped. First one out, Ally unlatched the door, then stood aside as the hot desert air tumbled in. It was fall in the region, but the atmosphere was nonetheless oppressive, hot as an oven, gritty with dust and pollution. Beck appeared at Ally's side and inhaled deeply through her nose. "Mmm... Ohhh yeahh... that smell."

"Like a seaside shitter on boxing day." Ally griped.

"I love it actually." Beck said dreamily.

Ally looked at her. "Are you for real?"

Beck nodded. "Reminds me of Dubers. When I did my type-rating."

Ally nodded, a faraway look in her eyes. "Yeah... that was a pretty awesome time come to think of it."

Beck gave her a nudge. "Remember the fireworks? When you did me from behind on the balcony?"

"How could I forget?"

Beck's face lit up, "They went off just when I was cumming. And you said you'd arranged it especially."

"Cost me a bomb." Ally said then elbowed Beck in the ribs. "Bomb. Get it?"

"They were beautiful." Beck sighed.

"And then they stopped," Ally snapped her fingers, "just as I was having an orgasm, and the whole of fuckin' Dubai heard."

"Fuck me," Beck sighed, "we've had some good times."

Ally set off down the airstairs, Beck hot on her heels. Travelling without passengers meant they were dressed in civvies, out of uniform, Beck in denim shorts and a Hello Kitty T-shirt, a pair of trusty old Converse on her delicate feet. Ally, meanwhile, was clad in ripped designer denims, low-cut and turned up at the ankles, and a long-sleeved V-neck midriff top revealing a dash of flat belly. Slipping on earmuffs, they pulled up under the Gulfstream's nose in the darkness, waiting as a jet got airborne. When the roar had died to a rumble and the ground stopped shaking underfoot, they whipped off the hearing protection and took up where they'd left off. "We have had some pretty good times." Ally concurred. "Haven't we?"

"With many more to come, let's hope."

Ally gestured with her chin at an aircraft in the distance. "Well, looky there. There's that A-three eighty."

Beck squinted at the aircraft. "Is that poo I can see all over the fuse?"

Ally snorted with laughter. "Shoosh Flea, you never know who might be listening."

"Oh, right," Beck said, "I keep forgetting. Sense of humour's not part of the culture."

"Culture's not part of the culture." Ally sniffed. "Not as we know it."

As they watched, a squadron of huge black SUVs peeled away from the plane, roof-mounted ambers strobing. An armoured car swept in from the side, its grim-faced gunner manning the roof-mounted fifty cal, leading the parade down the taxiway.

"Why don't they just take an Uber like everyone else?" Beck said.

"Well where's the raging self-importance in that?"

The armoured car roared past, twenty-five meters away, its gunner giving the two young western females the eye. Ally's sixth sense picked up Beck's urge to give him the finger and she surreptitiously gripped the girl's hand. "Don't even think about it, Flea."

"Just look at that motherfucker ogling us."

"Well can you blame him? When all the local chicks get around dressed in garbage bags?"

"Take a photo, fuck-stick." Beck snarled, "It'll last longer."

The cavalcade sped past, nose to tail, the armoured car, two black SUVs, three black limousines, with a pair of SUVs and a second armoured car bringing up the rear. "The people must love them, obviously." Beck muttered, "Judging by the firepower. You know, I saw the Aussie PM one day, buying a coffee. With one lonely little bodyguard looking after him."

As if someone had heard, the night lit up with the blaze of red brake lights and the convoy screeched to a precipitous halt. Beck went, "What the fuck?" as the business end of a machine gun swivelled to face them. The doors of the rear SUVs flew open and several men in black, some comically wearing sunglasses, dismounted. Beck nudged her partner. "Ally?"

Ally manoeuvred in front of her. "Relax, Flea, I'm sure it's just routine. Let me do the talking, okay?"

The closer they got the bigger they looked. These were goons in the classical mould, dressed in cheap, ill-fitting, off-the-rack black suits, brandishing machine pistols. "Good evening, ladies." one announced, as a cordon formed around them. Several were locals, but the man who'd just spoken was a New Zealander.

"Kiwi, huh?" Ally said amiably, looking him up and down. "You're a long way from home."

"Cabin crew, right? Off this plane?"

"What if we are?"

A second lowland gorilla muscled up, this one American. "Ladies. Greetings. His Royal Highness, Rashiid bin Abdulaziz, Al Shabazz, requests the pleasure of your company."