(This is a collaborative post by [@Dinh AaronMk] and [@Vilageidiotx]) [b]Socotra[/b] Azima spent the morning near the sea, waiting for the villagers that had went to town to radio her position to either China or Persia.. The weather was calm. The sea crooned on the edge of the pebble-strewn beach, and near the horizon the sun shone pale through the lingering humidity left behind by the storm. A cool breeze blew across the sea from the North-East, tempering the equatorial heat. After all that she had been through, she allowed herself to feel at peace. She wore a grey ankle-length tunic borrowed from the natives, and it hung loose enough to let the breeze cool her skin. Her borrowed sandals sat at the foot of a leafy baobab tree, and she hazarded the pebbles and rocks so that she could feel the smooth white sand against her feet. Tewodros and Olivier played with the native children at the edge of the surf, building sand-domes and decorating them with seashells. She watched them from the corner of her eye, making sure she knew where her son was at all times, but she had another reason to be on the beach this morning. Two tiny yellow crabs scurried by as she searched for good stones on the ground. Only the best stones would do, and she inspected them thoroughly before choosing whether or not accept them. Those she took went to the construction of a simple cairn on the tide-line. She had been stacking the perfect stones since dawn, and the cairn had continued to grow until it stood at breast height. It was the best she could do to ensure that Elani had a monument on this island, so near to where she had perished. Elani had never been a strong woman. She lacked the tenacity of the great women that Ethiopia had produced, possessing neither the power of Taytu Betul, the Queen she had named her only daughter for, nor the spiritual certainty of the rebel Zewditu, who had nearly brought down Iyasu during the Great War. But where she hadn't been strong, she made up for in her kindness. Azima had came to the Imperial court as a little girl, torn away from her mother by a father who had no interest in her. In that time, it was Elani who took her in and played the parent. In many ways, Azima loved her more than she did her own father. Elani had been born to one of the minor nobles of old Ethiopia, a family that had stayed loyal to Iyasu during his reforms, and their reward had been the marriage of their daughter to the Emperor's only surviving son. Her new family became her entire life as she raised three children and a fourth misplaced little girl under the shady eucalyptuses of Imperial Ethiopia. When Iyasu died, Yohannes had ascended the throne and Elani became a Queen. And when Yohannes died fifteen years later by the bullet of an unknown assassin, Elani's happiness was over. The following years slowly killed the person that she was as she saw one son go to war with another, the first one to disappear into the wilderness and the second one to nearly die from another would-be assassin. It had been too much for her, and it destroyed her mind. In some ways, her unexpected death had been a mercy. Azima could only hope that it had been painless. The Queen stood in silence in front of cairn. She knew that it was time to leave, but it was difficult to pull herself away. Once she left this spot, it would be saying goodbye to Elani forever. Instead, she allowed herself to be carried away by a day dream. Under a rustling baobab tree, with children chattering on the edge of the murmuring equatorial sea, Azima dreamed about her childhood. She remembered climbing trees, and eating sweets in the garden. She remembered the woman that would be her mother-in-law later in life teaching her how to drink coffee on the veranda with her ladies, and standing closely by as she petted one of the lions in the Emperor's menagerie. The morning crawled, and Azima remembered. Her day-dream was broken by the growl of a four-wheel drive antique. It was Polish built, one of the old post-war cars they sold in small numbers to the ruined West European economies after the Great War. They had sold well in the undeveloped world, where there were few good roads for a normal vehicle to travel. It was tub-shaped, a rusted black boat on thick tires with only a windshield and old-style pop out headlights to break its strange outline. There were signs that this one had been patched up several times by crafty Socotrans. Two stick-thin men with stick-thin mustaches rode in the car, one at the drivers wheel and the other standing on the floorboard like an ancient Assyrian on a chariot. He was waving to get her attention, and they stopped near enough to the water that the spray lapped at their wheels. "Good Queen!" the standing man shouted. "The Chinese have been contacted! They will be coming here!" "Are you sure they were Chinese?" she asked. She was nervous about the native's ability to call for help. It seemed risky, considering that there were Spaniards about, but they had insisted she stay hidden in the countryside until they send for help. With nothing to her name now but her son, there had been no other choice but to accept and believe in their confidence. "I did not talk to them, but I am told it is China. If it is not, we will know. It is the fishermen who communicate the message." She imagined a string of HAM radios on the back of wooden sail boats. How else could they be involved? Surely they were not sailing to Pemba and back so quickly. "That is good. Before they come, I have one more thing to do." the Queen requested. "Take me and the children to see the priests." -- Sitting at the long dining table, Sen Zhou sat hunched over a bowl of simple white rice. The taste as bland and inoffensive as the bland and sapped of life as the walls of the ship's interior. It carried no flare, or prestige in particular. It just was. It only had its own purpose, like the ship. It wasn't made to dazzle or surprise, but to just execute its own thing. All along the side of the officer sat equally hunched sailors, pilots and soldiers eating from the same drab lunch meal. Scattered throughout the rest of the narrow lunch hall the fishermen leveed into the search for Azima's downed aircraft sat partaking in the same free meal as the rest. It had been a while since they went on the search and still all they uncovered were drifting debris. And somewhere floating at sea where those damnable priests. Zhou tried to shut them out of her mind. She had sentenced them to die. Among the lingering anger that plagued her mind the last thing she needed was conflicting guilt for calling the order. So she shut it out. Let the old men dive into the great dark sea below for whatever insane purpose they did. Maybe they'd find their God, drowned and waterlogged at the bottom of the sea. Then they could realize how hopeless their faith was. She looked back down at her plate of sterile white rice, and took a pinch with the tips of her chopsticks. Without ceremony she chewed on the steamed grains. She desperately wanted something to change in this mission, before the Spanish came as well to confirm or collect. There was a lingering doubt that for whatever they could bring the Chinese here couldn't well fight. She sighed deep stabbing the bowl of rice again. The situation in Djibouti hadn't gone much better as radio reports went. There was a burning jealousy she had for the men there. They got to see real combat. She was cut away from that. It was the same funny feeling she had when she was withdrawn from the Philippines. The nagging internal conflict some veterans felt with their action. The diametrically conflicting relationship they had for war. On one hand: wanting to be free of it when in the field, on the other wanting to be back in it when they were free of it. Many would consider being here at sea to be a vacation. But it hardly felt it. From the other side of the mess hall the door opened. Catching it in the corner of her vision Zhou looked up mid-bites to find one of the communications officers step in. On the far side of the room he stood lost among the crowd, scanning the heads of the sailors and airmen present. He looked passed Zhou, but then on his return back found her and walked across the room. “Zhoong Xiao,” he started as he came up to earshot, “We received a message from the bridge not long ago.” “Yes, and?” Zhou responded, “Are the Spanish coming?” “No, comrade.” bowed the officer, “We believe it involves the Queen, Azima.” Zhou stopped eating and looked up at him, eyes intense as she starred up. “Some fishermen from the island of Socotra made contact over the radio. They have in their village Azima.” Zhou sat frozen in disbelief. Someone found the empress? Hastily pushing aside her pull of rice she sat up from the table. “Get me a crew and fill me in on the way!” she demanded, “We're going to close up shop. Let's go.” -- The salty air had not done no favors for the Polish off-roader, and the decaying suspension jostled them back and forth when the driver accelerated across the uneven beach. Azima held the children close to her, afraid that they might spill from the cab if they were allowed out of her grip. She sat tensely in her seat, grimacing with every bump, and she watched the sea to pass the time. A thin line of storm debris sullied the beach and marked the tide line. Toward the land, the beach became rough and climbed into rocky hills. Toward the water, the beach was smooth, clean, and white. The sea itself was cleared of the murk that had been left by the storm. It returned to its native color; the tropical bright blue of clear shimmering water above alabaster sands. It was a warm look, an environment of profound relaxation, and she drank in every bit of it. China would mean safety, she knew this, but it would also be an exile that would put her to work. Azima and her children would become the face of the embattled Africans to a politically foreign east. When a cliff-face crossed over the beach and blocked their way, the driver took to a goat path that meandered into the hills. She recognized this place. It was where she had wandered aimlessly looking for her children two nights before. She scanned for the driftwood she had stacked in a failed attempt to start a fire that night, but she did not find it. It was only when they passed the abandoned stone house that her recognition was confirmed. They went across the rocky path at the lowest part of the ridge, swerving around umbrella-shaped dragons blood trees and bloated baobabs. A camel stood near the path and caused the driver to take a wide berth through rougher terrain, which shook the car so fiercely that she banged her elbow into the wheel well, causing a spark of pain to shoot up her arm. The animal watched impassively as they went around, chewing its cud and staring with empty ruminant eyes. They descended into a green valley where a shallow stream trickled toward the sea. As she looked across the scrubby hills, he realized something. She was leaving Africa, the continent that had been home for her entire life. She wasn't even sure if Socotra counted as part of Africa, but to her it felt like it was. It was familiar. Here was the wide open equatorial landscape that she knew from the mainland, where dark-skinned children lived rural lives in small villages across an endless agricultural world of its very own. This island was a place in touch with its ancestors, where lives had not changed passed the occasional convenience since the arrival of the first stone-aged humans on its pristine shore. Where she was going after this she did not know. China was something else. If Africa and Socotra stood for an idealistic past, China was the future. It was a land of progress where nothing would be familiar to her. She had never considered herself a conservative person, nor had she ever felt especially sentimental, but the violence of this change shook her. Her transitory conservatism was a feeling of emotional nakedness, like what was happening was out of her control. It was the feeling of wanting to find a womb somewhere and crawl inside. Perhaps that was what happened to Elani, the thing that caused her to lose her mind. Azima was a different Queen, and she was made of stronger stuff. She had fought in the last war, toe to toe against the enemy. In this war, she would fight in a different way. She pulled Tewodros closer to herself and shook the uncertainty from her mind the best that she could. It was a mental state she would have to fight against so that she could stay strong for her child, and for her country. The driver slowed to a creep when they joined the stream bed, as if he was afraid the centimeter-deep water might drown the engine. Azima watched the beach come back into view between the steep scrubby hills. Near the tide-line, she spotted a fragile driftwood hut and a thin line of grey woodsmoke rising from a cookfire. The car choked to a stop in front of the fire. Azima climbed out, her limbs shaky from the ride, and she saw one of the priests come from behind the hut. He was thin, bruised, and covered in shredded rags. He had lost his sword, and in its stead he held a driftwood cudgel. "Queen. It is good that you are alive." he said politely, but with am aloof chilliness that came off as almost malicious. The priests had spent their lives dedicated to God, and these men were amongst the most fervent of their type. Where there is obsession, there is always some lack of social aptitude, and the priests showed this to be true. The malice she detected was, she accepted, likely nothing more than awkwardness. "It is good to see you as well, though I heard that your brothers were alive." she peaked out toward the sea, "Where are they?" "Swimming." he said. He eyed the natives suspiciously, and his cudgel arm hung tense. "Swimming? It is a lovely day I suppose." "Not for recreation, Queen." he answered quickly. "We are still on duty, as you might say, and our charge is out there." he motioned toward the sea with his cudgel. The Ark. They were looking for the Ark. She should have known they would, but in her mind it was as lost as the plane that had carried them. It struck her as odd how flippant she was being over such an important relic, but she had never been anymore than nominally religious, having inherited an almost secular form of cultural Islam from her father. She wasn't even sure if she really believed at all, or if her religiosity added up to nothing more than an innate belief in some sort of Allah and a warm deference to any mosque she happened to pass by. "Do you know where the Tabot is?" she asked. A lump formed in her throat. If they knew where the wreck was, they might know where Elani's body was. He hesitated to answered. "No, we do not. I saw a glimmer when I went out last, so we are looking in that direction." She nodded. She felt relieved for an instant, and that made her ashamed. Why was she afraid of finding Elani? "I have something to..." she started to say, but she was cut off when Tewodros began to howl. Her motherly instinct kicked in and she swung down to where he was. Him and Olivier had been crouched down next to the cook fire, where a curled sliver of silver metal sat suspended above the fire. On it was the pink and white flesh of a crab firming over the heat. "What did you do?" she said, worried. She saw where he had blistered his finger and understood at once. "I burning!" he cried. "I burning!" she held him in her arms and sucked on his finger. From the corner of her eye, she saw Olivier reach out with his good arm to snatch a bite of crab, and she shot him a look that stopped him in his tracks. When she looked back up, she saw that one of the swimmers had returned. Before he went to swim, he had removed all of his clothes save for a linen breach-cloth which, soaked with sea water, hid absolutely nothing from sight. She looked away. He approached them and, when he saw her, he quickly found his dry robe and tossed it about himself. "Queen." he said abruptly. "I was wanting to tell you." she began, bouncing Tewodros to keep him occupied. "That the Chinese have arrived. I can arrange to get you transport." "We cannot go anywhere." one priest said. "Not without the Holy Tabot." the other one said, crossing himself. Water dripped from his stringy hair. "Are you going to live right here?" she asked, surprised. "On the beach?" "Yes." one priest said. "The natives are Moslem. They would not understand." the other said. She nodded. "And when you do find it, how are you going to get it out of the water." "I do not know, but I have faith that God will show us the way." the dry priest said. "We cannot ask the natives, as we have told you. And we cannot ask the Chinese because they are non-believers. And besides that, they are unhappy with us." "They are unhappy with you?" Azima asked, bewildered. "Yes. When they came looking for the wreck, they found us at sea and left us there." "Left you?" she asked, suddenly concerned. What had happened since the wreck that the Chinese would be cold to them. "They were arrogant, and so I corrected them." the wet priest informed. "Non-believers do not have the right to talk as the Chinese do. God cannot will such a thing, and a man of God cannot abide it." "Arrogant." she nodded. Truly, the priests were no diplomats. She hoped they had not ruined it for her and her children. -- The warm salty air of the ocean swept into the helicopter cabin as it sped over the waves of the ocean. The sky was clear, and peering through the cabin window Sen Zhou could look out into the horizon for several clear miles. Unimpeded by storm clouds, rain, or the drab walls of ship-bound imprisonment. And there was among the crew a excited hum. A silent tensity that spoke of returning to Pemba. A restrained hope for warm food and no sea sickness. And to be rid of the Somalian fishermen. “Are we still on course?” Zhou asked, restraining the bubbling juvenile excitement. Setting out into the hot sun of the African coast she had set aside the discomfort of dress code, opening the top buttons of her uniform, her collar flapped in the air filling the open cabin. It was a relief against the eager sweat that soaked into her uniform's undershirt hugging her tightly kept breasts. Her black hair also trailed untamed in the twirling wind and she smiled, round cheeks flush with excitement as they flew against the reflection of the sea. This was their best lead and she wouldn't now be doomed to looking at wreckage in the water. If this course was clear: then there would be no more pieces of aircraft cabin, no aircraft seats, and no shredded cloth. It can all drown as it became waterlogged. “So far in: yes.” the pilot replied. His head almost completely enclosed by the bulbous, beetle-like pilot's helmet. Tinted shades gave off a almost monolithic, emotionless look to his face. Only his nose to chin were open to the air. And even then it might be shut away by a face-mask designed to muffle the noise of action when using the radio. “You told me the same thing the comm officers told you.” he continued, “The island of Socotra. Natives called in and said they have Azima and are willing to see her off safely.” Zhou smiled giddily. She was less worried about straying off course, and more excited to have the lead. Much so she pried and asked. Simply wanting to hear it again and again. “Eyes open, we're coming up on the island.” the co-pilot called out. Herself another military woman. Zhou looked up into the horizon. In the distance loomed the pencil-thin dash of a landmass over the waves. Its color and form disguised by the distance and the haze of sky and sea. But it was there. She giggled excitedly to herself, and wringing her hands tight on the pilot's chairs pushed herself back into the cabin. She had only with her two other soldiers who sat placated at the chopper's edge. Their rifles slung casually on their backs without even so much as their magazines loaded. Under the speeding chopper the color of the water changed over from deep-sea blue. Shifting over towards lighter turquoise as the shallow sands rose to meet the surface. An arid, tropical landscape rose over the waves. Dotted with many trees so bulbous and swollen at their bases they were much like melting candles left to wilt on the rocks. Brown and red rocks marched and rose as sentries over the sand of the beach and the scrub of the rising highlands. Twisting two-tracks snaked along the coast without logical direction or bearing. The coastal scrub land soon gave way into dusty hills dotted by the sentries of baobab trees. The rush of the leaves and scraggly, twisted bushes rushed under neath them as they sped across the desert landscape. Searching the ground and the horizon for a sign or indication of civilization. Somewhere to stop and chase their leads. “This is Wu Chang,” the pilot said, lifting the covered radio microphone to his mouth. “Of Chinese naval helicopter group A01 out of Pemba. Calling to request information on the location of one Princess Azima, over.” He relaxed his hand on the microphone. Zhou looked down at him as he listened, hoping that whoever had brokered contact with them knew Chinese and was still there. There was a strained awkward silence from the pilot as they rose over the rising red mountains of Socotra's interior. “Pemba. Azima. Nuqadah.” he shouted into the microphone. Zhou rose a curious brow. “I didn't know you could speak Arabic.” she observed interested. “I lived among the Hui of Beijing.” the pilot replied dead-pan. “Do you know where Azima is then?” she asked. “No.” scoffed the pilot, unpleasant and annoyed, “But I know someone who does.” he sighed as he banked the helicopter about. He nodded into the distance over the ridges to a faint and hazy radio tower. With the aircraft's course changed, they flew north-west over the mountains. Beyond the rocky cliffs, settled in the lowland sat a small town. Marked by white-washed buildings that shone in the warm summer sun and the single minaret of a mosque, dwarfed only by the great distances between them and it. The helicopter banked about the radio tower outside the city as it searched for a landing place. In the lush wet-season growth below a simple hut stood among palms and cypress trees. A dirt two-track split the growth in two as it wound through rocky hills at the foot of the mountains. Rushing out into open, stricken and bewildered men ran out into the sun as they looked up at the descending chopper. Zhou hung out the door as she looked down at the gawking Arabs standing in the grass below. The foliage rippled and danced furiously in the down thrust of the lowering aircraft. Darting and shouting, they ran about in confused disorder before the Chinese touched down. “Azima!?” Zhou shouted, almost stupidly. But with any hope these men would remember why they were here. There was a sense of timid fear of the groaning dark-green comma that now rested on the ground before them. Its twirling rotors kicked up a stormy cyclone of air, even resting. But in coming to terms, or some other realization a man ran forward. “Azima!” he cheered excitedly, “Maleeka!” he smiled nervously as he approached the helicopter. “Get in, get in!” Zhou invited impatiently, throwing out a hand to pull him in. He grabbed her hand with insecure hesitation as he was pulled inside. “Assalaam alaikum.” the pilot welcomed from the pilot's seat. The welcome caught the man off guard and nearly stunned him in such a way he might have fallen out of the aircraft as the engine's motor roared to a greater ferocity as they lifted off. “W-wassalaam alaikum.” the Socotran replied distantly frightened and twitchy as he sat between the two indifferent, if armed Chinese soldiers in back with him. He even looked up to Zhou with a curious and awkward look on his face, as if expecting something different. The pilot called back to him, asking a question. Zhou didn't know if what he was saying was correct in any way and for all purposes she hoped that it was what they needed. A sneaky bug suggested the good fortune of all of this. But forcefully she cast the thought aside, reminding herself that some asset officer saw the need to equip her with a crew with one Arab speaker at least. It hardly mattered to her where he learned it, or how much of it he knew. So long as he knew. There was a certain confidence in the Socotran though as he babbled direction in his foreign tongue to the pilot. Even nervous and anxious being surrounded by the foreign Chinese he pointed and shouted from the back of the cabin where he fearfully gripped the cold metal walls as they lifted off and flew down along the coast. His face went as pale as the settlement below as he looked over to watch the coastal town pass by through the open cabin doors. Zhou imagined this had to be the first time he ever saw a helicopter, never mind riding in one. He was twitchy, and his knuckles and fingers glowed white-hot as he held on for dear life to stay in his naked metal seat. Zhou looked up from their civilian passenger. The conversation he held with the pilot wasn't her world, as much as she hated not knowing it. But it had to be. The northern waters off of Socotra shone in the sun and the twisting and swaying landscape of the coast below slithered like a snake. Following its path to a t was the road, cutting a serpentine path at the water's edge. Their passenger stood up from his cheat, and pointing began to exclaim something in Arabic. Pointing down below to stood a simple hut, a pencil-thin trail of smoke trailed up into the sky from a fire in the yard. And gathered around it stood figures, and nearby an old automobile. They descended for their landing. -- Azima covered her eyes and held the children close to her as she watched a desert brown helicopter land on the beach. The only sound anybody could hear was the rushing whine of helicopter blades, which sent a gust of air rushing in every direction around them. Sand was whipped into Azima's eyes, and her hair tangled in front of her face so that she could not see. She could feel the thick cloth of her simple woolen villagers dress slapping at her shins. "Are Azima place?" she heard over the slowing helicopter motor. It was a broken dialect of Arabic, understandable but painfully foreign to her. "Yes" she answered pitifully. Her lips were gritty with sand, and she discreetly tried to spit them clear. With one hand, she cleared the sand-stung tears from her eyes and looked up. A shaking Socotran jumped out of the helicopter and squatted on the ground nearby. His face was distant and strained, the expression of a man trying to regain his bearings. An Asian woman sat in the front of the craft, and two more stood outside. The first of the two was a man with a smooth face below a clunky helmet and aviator goggles. The second was a butch looking female. She appeared military to the heart, wearing a thick brown-green uniform unbuttoned only near the top to reveal a small hint of sweat-soaked undershirt. Her hair was cut short, and she had shoulders that made her bust look out of place in the barrel of her torso. All three of the Chinese had tanned olive complexions, and sweat pooled on their exposed skin. She realized suddenly what she must look like. With a borrowed local's dress covered in sand, her ink-black hair tangled in knots around her head, and squinting eyes made watery by the wind, she must look a mess. "I am Azi..." she began to add, but the two priests cut her off. They came in front of her, and her words caught in her throat when she realized what was happening. In the hands of the two priests were sticks of driftwood; their makeshift cudgels. "It is not just." the dry one challenged, "For [i]you[/i] to land so near that you threaten the sanctity of this place. Do you not understand that this is the veil of the Holy Tabot?" -- Zhou looked up from the woman in the simple dress, she must have been Azima: there were no other women around. But her dress and demeanor surprised her, when she was sent off in search of a queen, she expected the regalia as such. The sort of misplaced regalia of the Empresses of dynastic China had come to mind with long golden dragon robes and the ancient veiled hats. But what stood on the beach was by many accounts a figure that resembled a simple commoner with frayed filthy hair and a loose shoddy simply dress. She felt a terrible tinge of distress that this was not the right woman. But she might be a courtier of some kind, and the real queen was hidden away from the sun in one of the huts. Though when she made her introduction Zhou didn't need for her to finish to realize with mixed emotion that she was not a simple peasant girl. It was only conflicted by who was in her company. Stepping between her and Azima the wet priests that she had left to die at sea crossed onto the sand between them, their swords thrown away in favor of driftwood clubs. Her confusion melted away at the burning touch of anger and annoyance that came to fill her chest so much, it began to tickle the back of her tongue. She fought to restrain any drama as she addressed them, “Bullshit, I'm just here to get Azima.” she snarled, withholding her spite with shaky chains. Her Ahmaric was forced and stressed. Her shoulders tensed as she leaned back, arms crossed. The two soldiers looked up at her confused, their arms raising as if expecting a brawl, or orders. -- "By the sacred name of the House of David and Solomon, I demand that you stop this." Azima commanded. The possibility of a fight had been a surprise, but she would not let it go further. She brushed the hair from her eyes and picked her son off the ground, holding him so he was at face level with the priests. They did not fail to get the message. When the priests parted away from her, she saw that the Socotran had stood up, and he had balled his fists in preparation for a brawl. "Holy men." she continued. He voice was gentler now. "Do you want to go to China with us and be safe?" "Oh Queen." the wet priest replied. "You know that we cannot do this. We have to stay here and save the tabot." She smiled. "I will respect your wishes, but I must go with the heir. I wish you luck." "God bless you." the priests replied in unison. "God bless you as well." she replied. She held Tewodros in one arm and held Olivier's hand with the other. Confident in herself, she approached the Chinese in a slow walk that had all the grace of a glide. "We are ready to go." she said, "Wherever it is that you are bidden to take us, though we hope it is to Beijing. Chairman Hou is expecting us, you see." -- Sen Zhou nodded, smiling. Her hands moved to her hip as the Empress drew near. "I'm zhoong xiao Zhou," she introducing herself, "These are my men." Looking up past Azima to the anxious priests who glowered in their wet robes at the Chinese aircraft she let off a sly, victorious sneer. "Our flight plan however won't take us to Beijing." she continued, turning back to Azima and the children with her as she helped them onto the helicopter, "We have a boat to catch to Pemba. Then you can leave for Beijing."