Under the Eye of God (6 page)

Even in the best of times, the Lady regarded any dealings with the underclasses as a degrading task, and one better left to servants specifically trained for the duty. That she had had no choice but to manage the details of this filthy situation herself left her feeling soiled and uneasy—and the release she craved she couldn't have. Not yet, but soon. Her tongue flicked through her slightly parted lips, then delicately across the sharp surfaces of her teeth. Soon, she promised herself. Soon.

She sniffed in annoyance, then realized that she had lost her composure again; the damned disconnection! The realization only increased her annoyance. All her rituals and charms had lost their effectiveness. Zillabar knew what she really needed—nothing less than the full release of her own boiling rage, a wild plunge into madness, a screaming leap to glory, an all-consuming killing frenzy—yes! She planned to dance with death, submerging herself in the splendid ecstasies again, as soon as she returned to her private compound. When she had once again satiated herself, when she once again had the hot blood of the kill surging rich in her veins, only then could she recover the fullness of spirit that shone at the center of her soul.

Until then . . . well, she would perform her part in this cruel gavotte. She switched off the holomorphic field; the image vanished in a twinkle, leaving only an empty space in the room. Slowly, she brought her thoughts back to the present.

This business of the security codes ought to disturb her, but it didn't. It only amused. Obviously, somebody did not want her returning to Thoska-Roole undetected—somebody with power; that narrowed the list of suspects to only a few. She admired the cleverness of the ploy; a truly elegant way to force her to reveal her presence aboard any arriving vessel. Imperial ships wouldn't need the codes; licensed cruisers would have received them when filing their flight plans; but any private ship attempting passage would find the entrance barred. Yes—a nice maneuver, and one that would not go
unrewarded
when she identified the perpetrator. Already she had her suspicions. Someone wanted people speculating about her absence, measuring it against events on other worlds, eventually connecting it with the incident on Burihatin, thus bringing the corpse home to the table.

She'd have her revenge upon the perpetrator of this embarrassment. The game might even provide some pleasant diversion, but more likely not. The whole affair had already taken on a tiresome quality.

The Lady Zillabar had already survived more than her share of Imperial intrigues. In fact, as the author of more than a few of her own, the Lady considered herself one of the foremost experts at manipulation and conspiracy in the Cluster. She doubted that her anonymous opponent in this particular chess match had the same resources at his disposal as she had at hers.
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And if her larger plan succeeded, well then—no one would ever have as much power as she did; not
ever
again. . . .

Gito did not like Vampires.

That, in itself, did not constitute a crime.

Speaking one's dislike, however—that bordered on sedition.

But Gito came from a world where popular resentment lay close to the surface and people spoke their feelings aloud. They felt safe to do so; no Vampires ever came downside, no Vampire could survive the world of Tharn. The crushing gravity, the pounding pressure of the atmosphere, the whole toxic recipe of the acidic ecology, any one of those things would have killed a Vampire quickly. Taken all together, they became an uncrossable barrier.

The high-gravity dwarves who lived on Tharn had few illusions. Their freedom took its own toll in shortened lives, painful high-pressure ailments, and cracking bone diseases. Occasionally, the Moktar Dragons
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patrolled the larger and brighter settlements, but they did it more out of duty to their distant Vampire masters than out of any zeal for Regency authority.

The Dragons clearly felt oppressed and overpowered by the terrible conditions here at ground level; they could not stay long and concentrated more on each new breath than on the security of their surroundings. Their inspections occurred quickly, their manner became only a perfunctory and indifferent imitation of their bloodier purposes. They did not have the strength to kill here, nor to feed, nor to frenzy. Tharn did not love them, the planet did not assist them; it did not love the dwarves either, but its great bulk protected them.

Genetically tailored for this planet, the dwarves survived. Genetically tailored only for strength and endurance, the Moktar Dragons could not. If they stayed, they suffered and died slowly. If they left, they did so with the dwarves laughing at their discomfort. The dwarves turned out for every Imperial departure. They smirked and waved red silk handkerchiefs. They laughed and called out lively insults to the noble representatives of their Imperial masters, bidding them a swift journey home. Sometimes they held up banners: “Don't let the door bang you in the ass on your way out!” The Dragons pretended to ignore the catcalls and fled in shame.

The Moktar Dragons felt dishonored and helpless. They could endure the atrocious physical abuse of the planet with honor; they could not say the same for the disgrace of the dwarves' ridicule. Amongst themselves, they howled and moaned. They suffered terribly, but not in silence, and especially not after they lifted themselves out of the appalling, god-cursed, deep gravity well of Tharn. After each retreat from the hell-planet, the Dragon-Lords complained vigorously to their masters, bemoaning the disrespectful behavior of the abominable little people and the shameful seditions they committed. They raged and roared and demanded satisfaction.

The Phaestoric Authority listened calmly, sympathized, and repeated their promises. Someday—not soon, but someday—a race of high-gravity Dragons would come back to Tharn, and then the laughter would cease forever. The dwarves would find that these darker, harder Dragons would not only survive the crushing pressure of Tharn, they would thrive on it. They would stay—and they would rule. The nasty little people would learn to fear again. The Dragons would feed well.

All this would surely happen, the Phaestor promised, but it could not happen soon. The process of creating a new species required time; time for design, time for experimentation, time for breeding, time for training and education. These matters did not succeed when rushed. This situation with the dwarves of Tharn had crucial implications; it needed an overwhelming demonstration of crushing, irresistible force, noting less. The Regency could not risk a failure here, not even the slightest hint of less than total control. No, they said. Not yet. We understand your rage, your fury. We deeply sympathize. But only when we feel the certainty of total success, will we act. For now, have patience.
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Thus, the Phaestoric promise remade, the Dragons retired; not quite mollified, never mollified—only the rape of Tharn would pay this debt—but they
understood
. Yes, the delays rankled badly, but they knew the Phaestor always kept their promises, especially promises of vengeance. Tharn would burn with unholy flames. The Dragons resumed their Imperial duties and dreamed of the terrors to come. No, they themselves would not return to Tharn, but their chimeric children would—and the children of the dwarves would die in seven days of blood and fire. And the new Dragons would grow fat.

But in the meantime, the dwarves still snickered.

Especially Gito.

He wore his Tharnish heritage like a badge, a cloak of rebelliousness that he wrapped zealously around himself. Its orange fury blazed for all to see. Gito had left his world for reasons he did not discuss. By doing so, he placed himself at the mercy of any Dragon who felt the need to revenge himself for insults suffered on Tharn. But also by doing so, he removed himself from the greater danger he left behind. The Dragons did not scare him. Not enough.

“Dragons?” he snorted, speaking to Robin, the Operations Manager of
The Lady MacBeth
, as they polished the pink brinewood paneling of the ship's salon.
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“You want to know about Dragons? I'll tell you about Dragons. Dragons have no brains. I saw this myself. On Tharn. A Dragon-Lord stepped in a lump of shit—he looked down and when he saw it do you know what he did? He panicked. He thought he had started to melt!”

Robin, an organic construct,
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allowed herself a smile. She appreciated the humor, but her personal training also allowed her to recognize the animal origins of the emotions behind the speech. Gito told stories like this constantly, always using either the Phaestor Vampires or the Moktar Dragons as the foils for his rough-edged humor. “Careful, my friend. The wrong ears would
not
appreciate that anecdote.”

“Hmp.” Gito snorted. “The wrong ears shouldn't travel aboard this ship.”

“The Captain had no choice in that decision—”

“Pfah! Front office politics. It excuses nothing. The whole ship reeks of Vampires and Dragons—pfah!” Gito spat. “Darkness take the lot of ‘em. I can't get their stink out of my nose.”

“My nose doesn't like it any more than yours, but—”

“Ought to shove the whole lot of ‘em out an airlock. Let ‘em walk. Do the whole Cluster a favor. We left the better cargo on Burihatin. More profitable. Industrial grade, three-month, pfingle eggs—
pfingle eggs
! We could have made twenty times the share that this charter offers. Assuming Captain Campbell can get the noble Zillabar to pay. She will pay, won't she?”

“Gito, please—?” Robin desperately wanted to find a way to end his stream of invective. “Let's just finish preparing the salon. The sooner we clear customs, the sooner our guests will debark.”

“—and then we'll have to decontaminate the entire ship. I know it. We'll probably have to open her up to space just to boil out the pheromones.”

At that moment, Ota, the First Officer of
The Lady MacBeth
, stepped up into the softly-lit lounge from the passage below. It frowned as it caught the last reckless echo of Gito's anger. They didn't dare risk any more trouble.

“Gito, Robin,” Ota interrupted quietly. “May I gently suggest that you save these thoughts for a later time. Thoughts spoken in candor might annoy our passengers—or their retinue. I don't think you want them accidentally overhearing.”

Chastened, Robin nodded and lowered her eyes. She understood too well. Even if she hadn't voiced the anger, she still shared the crime by listening to it. If caught, the penalty for sedition would apply equally to both of them: death by prolonged torture.
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Gito hung his head and growled something unintelligible, perhaps a half-hearted promise to watch himself in the future. He hadn't meant to endanger Robin. He
liked
Robin.

Tall and burly, Ota looked deceptively gentle. Its genetic stew contained genes modelled on those of the lesser panda. It had the features and coloring of a giant raccoon-like bear with some of the sharper features of a fox. Most humans tended to regard Ota as a female, viewing the huge soft-looking bioform as a kind of living embodiment of the fabled Earth-Mother. Ota neither accepted nor rejected such perceptions, regarding them as occurrences beyond the scope of its own nature.

Ota moved through the salon with surprising grace; its sharp eyes glanced quickly around the room. “It looks good,” Ota acknowledged. “Please finish quickly. The Moktar will take their stations soon.” Ota stepped out through the aft door and exited.

“Moktar!” Gito shuddered in distaste.

Robin shook her head. “That resolution didn't last long.”

Gito grunted, the closest he ever came to apologizing. And then he added, “Someday the Angel of Death will arrive, and Ota will ask him if he wants some tea.”

“And why not?” Robin wiped vigorously at a brinewood panel. The soft pink wood shone with pearlescent beauty. “Remember, Gito, what you once said? Most LIX class bioforms don't care about much except their next meal.”

“Hmp. You could say the same thing about Dragons and Vampires.”

Ota came back, glanced around, sniffed the air, frowned and allowed itself to feel annoyed and uneasy. No further effort could make a difference here. Lacking any suitable alternative, it resigned itself to the situation and pronounced the salon appropriately disinfected for a Vampire's delicate sensibilities. Gito grunted and excused himself to the engine room. Robin smoothed her white tunic and began putting away the last of the cleaning items. She looked to Ota, “I assume the Dragons will inspect it now?”

“Don't they always?”

Abruptly, the forward door of the salon slid open and the room darkened like a shadow. The Moktar Dragons entered, six of them, gleaming like the cold night. Ota and Robin stepped quickly out of their way. The Dragons didn't simply enter—they
invaded
the room, a brutal squad of hardened flesh. The Dragons moved in glistening synchrony; they flowed like liquid terror.

Huge and menacing and much too large for a vessel of this size, the Dragons overpowered the space; each one three meters tall and massing 300 kilos of self-contained brooding savagery. They reeked of power and smoldering madness.

Deliberately constructed on the model of the ancient velociraptor, they had the sleek forms of armored nightmares, with bulging musculature cut so deep and hard they looked like polished stone. They carried their tails high for balance. Their rank hot breaths turned the air around them brackish; but even in their cruel demeanor, each one also had a sinewy beauty. All black and silver, all ablaze with coiled power, they loomed
magnificently
—like burnished demons. Ebony skins shone like silken liquid; corded arms and brutal thighs reflected metal highlights. They all glittered.

Like well-oiled machinery, the Dragons took up their positions. They glanced around the suddenly too-small room with undisguised contempt.
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