Under the Eye of God

by David Gerrold

  d’Vashti bowed again, a gracious and courtly movement. “I welcome your words, my Lady.”

  “How kind of you to say so.”

  The Realm of Opulence

  The Pavilion of Night appeared to float high above the distant red-baked sands.

  Towering panels of diamond-flecked obsidian outlined the hall. Tall windows opened out onto the distant desert floor so very far below. The lights of the rift-city glimmered softly on the horizon. The foreglow of the Eye of God had already begun to light up the edge of the world and the entire vista had taken on a peaceful desolate quality that only a Vampire’s eyes could truly appreciate.22

  Lady Zillabar took her time admiring the view and collecting her thoughts. She wanted to let the others stew for a long terrifying moment in their own anxiety, but at the moment, she didn’t have the patience. She still carried too much anger and frustration; she had to let it out now. Despite her temporary return to dreamtime, she knew that she still remained much too irritable. She would have to keep this meeting short.

  Abruptly, she turned to Khallanin, to d’Vashti, to Drydel, and to the Dragon Lord. “The TimeBinder on Burihatin appears to have died—or so my sources believe. Unfortunately, his death apparently did not occur in circumstances conducive to our goals. We have not yet found the headband. The officers who accepted the assignment of procuring the headband did not complete their mission satisfactorily—they have also died.” She looked to each of them in turn; her piercing gaze stabbed from one to the next. “I hope that you will have much better news for me . . . ?”

  The Dragon Lord did not react. He yawned deliberately. He knew the Lady would never threaten him. She didn’t have the power to hurt him. He examined one steel claw abstractedly. Beside him, Drydel waited silently. Nor did Lord Khallanin speak.

  Kernel d’Vashti kept both of his faces impassive, the inner as well as the outer. He would not demonstrate any weakness of any kind. He would not volunteer anything. He would wait passively and allow the Lady herself to control the course of the discussion; in that way, he would control her—by letting her have her way.

  Lady Zillabar moved to a glowing couch and settled herself gracefully onto its evanescence. Again, she became hard to look at, hard to see clearly. Lord Drydel moved behind the Lady, to stand as protector and consort. She glanced up at him with only casual affection, then she looked across the room at d’Vashti and said, by way of small talk, “I trust that you have taken the appropriate care of my vessel. As I recall . . . ?” She let her sentence trail off into ominous silence.

  d’Vashti returned her cold smile with an expression equally polite. He ignored the Lady’s sly implication. He had not specifically subverted the maintenance of her powerful war-cruiser; he had simply allowed the occurrence of a few small logistical delays, enough so as to ensure that the completion of several necessary modifications would not transpire in time for the Lady’s mission to Burihatin. A number of important replacement modules had mysteriously become unavailable. And the personnel who could have installed them in time had prior commitments elsewhere. d’Vashti had thought to neutralize some of the Lady’s grander ambitions, at least temporarily, by delaying her departure from Thoska-Roole and allowing him time to complete his own schemes. His plan had almost worked.

  Had d’Vashti’s subtle efforts not subverted the Lady’s intentions, the resources of her flagship would have given her efforts at Burihatin a significant advantage; instead the lack of those resources had seriously crippled her efforts. Under her original plan, she would have had the authority of her personal guard to enforce her wishes on the moons of the great ringed world, but her inability to provide transportation for them on her personal warship had brought her instead to a dependency on the sympathies of Burihatin’s local authority. d’Vashti believed that her possibilities for success had become problematic. She should not have gone.

  d’Vashti had expected her to recognize that. He’d expected her to cancel or postpone her trip. Instead, the Lady had secretly shifted her plans and secured other transportation—lesser transportation—and slipped away into the dark between the stars. She had opted for secrecy, and . . . as d’Vashti had expected, she’d failed.

  Now she had returned with vengeance in her mouth.

  She knew of his efforts on her behalf—and she hated him for those efforts. But, he wondered, did she hate him enough?

  d’Vashti put on his sincerest outer manner, the one he always used for dissembling. “You may rest easy, Lazy Zillabar. The previous state of affairs no longer maintains. We have punished the parties responsible. Those who failed to live up to the standards you require will no longer have the honor of working in your Stardock. As long as I have the privilege of this responsibility, you will never again have to suffer the indignity of seeking an alternate conveyance for your desires.” Behind the Lady, Drydel frowned at this double-edged reference. d’Vashti noted the other’s displeasure only in passing. “Your vessel now stands ready to carry you to the far reaches of the Cluster—and beyond—if you so choose.”

  “And . . . what punishment did you apply to those who failed?” The Lady asked with only the faintest show of interest.

  “They fed the Dragons,” d’Vashti replied. “A task they executed with no small enthusiasm.”

  “Yes. I can imagine.”

  The Dragon Lord belched loudly. Neither the Lady Zillabar, nor Lord Drydel, nor Kernel d’Vashti acknowledged his comment. Lord Khallanin looked as if he had fallen asleep; d’Vashti would have bet otherwise.

  The Lady’s gaze remained fixed on the rival of her consort. She understood the subtext of these events even better than the participants. Idly, almost casually, she let the nails of her right hand trace a delicate course up and down the line of her exposed cleavage. Precisely as she intended, the action drew d’Vashti’s instant attention. She smiled inwardly. She could control this man. That made him worthy only of her contempt. She stroked herself meaningfully; she would arouse him to the point of lustful irresponsibility . . . and then she would rebuke him; a rebuke of deliberate sexual fury and rejection that would inflict the most painful sting.

  d’Vashti’s eyes followed the movements of her fingertips. But he did not react as the Lady intended. He had prepared for this meeting by dosing himself with an especially powerful restricting agent. Let the Lady wonder at her inability to arouse him and it just might increase his mystery to her, and eventually his attraction as well.

  Abruptly tiring of this ebb and flow of subtext, Lord Khallanin looked up and waved a slender finger at someone unseen. A servant-wasp appeared instantly from behind a screen, wheeling a silver cart before it. On the cart stood slender wine glasses and a decanter of frothy pink liquid. “Would you care for some refreshment, m’Lady?”

  Zillabar ignored the invitation, her gaze still focused on d’Vashti. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously—she understood immediately. d’Vashti had made himself immune to her sexual pheromones. By so doing, he displayed not only his intention of independence, but he implied a greater insult as well—that he might not choose to mate with her, even if given the opportunity. The Lady considered his subtle taunts as a very dangerous game. And yet—d’Vashti clearly understood that she found danger stimulating.

  Drydel had recognized it too. He placed one hand gently on the Lady’s shoulder. She acknowledged the gesture by glancing backward at him; then she allowed her diamond-tipped claws to slice delicately across the back of his hand. The gesture had a twofold meaning; she demonstrated ownership of his affections at the same time as she rebuked his impulsiveness. To Drydel’s credit, he left his hand on the Lady’s shoulder, even though delicate beads of blood appeared where her nails had drawn their edges.

  Watching, d’Vashti wondered if this time, perhaps, her nails contained a poisonous essence. One day soon, he knew, she would tire of Drydel—but Drydel wouldn’t know it until after the stricture had closed his throat for the last time.

  They waited in silence, each s
tudying the others, while the servant-wasp poured the wine into the goblets. The creature wheeled the cart around for each to select a glass. The Dragon Lord waved her away, but the four Vampires each helped themselves.

  “A toast, perhaps?” d’Vashti invited the Lady.

  “Give me something to toast.” she demanded icily.

  Here, d’Vashti made a mistake. He should have let the matter drop. Instead, he allowed the merest fragment of his ambition to show; he said, “The service of Lord Khallanin’s people, perhaps? Surely their performance has brought you satisfaction and pleasure?”

  “The performance of your Lord’s servants . . . ?” The Lady pretended to consider the thought. “The servants’ performance always reflects that of the master, Kernel d’Vashti. Don’t you agree?” The faintest edge of metal appeared in her voice.

  d’Vashti nodded. “As always, your words ring true.”

  “Yes, thank you,” she said. “I would apply the word ‘adequate’ here, as an appropriate descriptor of the performance of your master and his servants.”

  d’Vashti realized his error too late. He had given the Lady an opportunity to rebuke himself and his Lord—and in front of a wasp! Why not just announce it to the entire world? He bridled at her delicately phrased assault, but he held his silence and waited stiffly for her to continue.

  The Lady Zillabar placed her wine glass on a table, the wine still untouched. “Have you located the TimeBinder of Thoska-Roole yet?” she demanded of Lord Khallanin.

  The Prefect sipped from his goblet, appearing unconcerned. He had ignored the Lady’s insult. What else could he do? He met her angry glare with equanimity. “The work proceeds. The task carries many complications.”

  “Your answer lacks certainty,” the Lady replied.

  d’Vashti put aside his own wine, untasted. He spoke up aggressively. “We have several historians in custody. Before many more days pass, we shall have the TimeBinder as well.”

  “Oh?” The Lady raised her eyebrow skeptically. “And from where does all this confidence arise?” She exchanged a laughing glance with Lord Drydel. Drydel’s eyes flashed with merriment as well as a suggestion of unashamed lust. But targeted at whom? Did Zillabar see it too? d’Vashti wondered again at Drydel’s occupations.

  Annoyed, he pushed the thought aside and turned his attention back to the Lady’s question. “We have implemented an absolute security net. I believe you encountered it on your final approach. The forces of our most powerful ally—” Here, d’Vashti nodded gracefully to the Dragon Lord. The Lord of All Things Black and Beautiful merely grunted in response. d’Vashti continued, “—have done an excellent job of establishing and maintaining a global containment. Nothing goes up or down that they do not control it. In addition, we have authorized a generous bounty. I doubt that you shall have to wait much longer, my Lady.”

  “I should not have to wait at all,” she said, furiously standing. d’Vashti expected her to confront him, but instead she advanced directly on the highest law of the land, the Prefect of Thoska-Roole. “I expected that you would have captured the eye-damned TimeBinder by now, Lord Khallanin. You’ve had more than long enough. How do you waste my resources?”

  Suddenly, d’Vashti understood the elegance of the Lady’s mind. She knew that d’Vashti’s maneuvers had brought them all to this point, but instead of attacking d’Vashti directly, she would destroy his protector and leave the real architect naked, humiliated, and powerless to do more. d’Vashti realized with horror that if she dared to assault the Prefect directly, then she must have progressed much farther in her own ambitions than he had believed possible. d’Vashti had privately regarded the Lady’s goals as unrealistic and unreachable. Now he wondered just what else she had accomplished on Burihatin.

  Lord Khallanin refused to accept the Lady’s anger as his own. He spoke calmly and with quiet resolve. “The wilderness of Thoska-Roole covers most of the planet. We could have scoured every square meter, but I felt a more intelligent use of our resources would please you more.”

  “You may still have to scour every square meter. We cannot proceed without the TimeBinder’s headband. You have wasted valuable days.”

  Inwardly, d’Vashti stiffened. Her impoliteness had a distinct taste of menace; but Lord Khallanin continued to ignore her bad manners. “The days have not ended yet,” he said with cold strength. The Lady sniffed distastefully.

  d’Vashti knew he couldn’t let this argument cascade. He had to do something to deflect the Lady’s wrath. He stepped forward briskly and offered an additional thought. “If we began the kind of search and seizure operations that you suggest, my Lady, we might trigger a renewed rebellion on this world. May I remind you that we have only too recently pacified this population.”

  “We—?” The Lady Zillabar regarded this last remark with deliberate contempt. “I don’t remember seeing your Marauder squadrons engaged in the battle to secure the peace on Thoska-Roole. Indeed, if I remember correctly, during the days of the hardest fighting, you had not yet even announced your intention to base your squadrons here. If I remember correctly, we pacified this world, not you. Please tell me, Kernel d’Vashti; do I misremember?”

  d’Vashti smiled generously. “My Lady, I thought you had a larger vision than just a single world. When I spoke the word ‘we’, I intended it to include all of the members of the Palethetic aristocracy, regardless of origin—or species.” He said this last with a nod toward the Dragon-Lord. “We have greater goals in mind than the simple ownership of real estate. But my real point remains. The population of this world still carries strong resentment against us. If we push them to hard, they will not bother with the distinctions of class; they will make us all targets.

  “We would win again, of course, but none of us eagerly seeks that task, do we? It would require a great expenditure of resources and none of us would gain anything worthwhile in return. Indeed, even after our victory, we would still have less than before—and a repair bill large enough to stifle economic growth for a decade. This planet hasn’t yet recovered from the last war. Your people still carry the scars. Or do you forget how many of your own died before you and your Moktar allies finally achieved a tenuous measure of control here? With all due respect, you need the authority that I and my squadrons have brought with us.”

  “I remember the events of the rebellion well. Better than you, d’Vashti. You don’t need to remind me.” The Lady focused her chilly gaze on him. “Every war carries a price. We ourselves—the Phaestor—represent the price paid in the great war against the Predators.”

  “I appreciate the history lesson, my Lady,” d’Vashti replied, adding a florid, expansive gesture that expressed courtesy, respect, and sarcasm, all at the same time. He met her eyes directly. “But if I and my commanders must go to war on your behalf—or anyone’s—we want to fight in a war of advancement, not retreat.”

  The arrogance of d’Vashti’s presumption startled Zillabar. How dare he rebuke her! Inwardly, she seethed. She had not expected her opponent to have such a stiff backbone. Perhaps, in her absence, he had gained more influence among the Phaestor lords than she had previously considered possible. She would have to find out who d’Vashti had invited to his bed recently. Outwardly, she remained unmoved. “Do you have anything else to say?” she asked dispassionately.

  d’Vashti looked to his mentor for support. Khallanin looked back at him, studying him oddly—as if he had never seen him before. d’Vashti realized that Khallanin had no intention of lending him support in this discussion. He would let d’Vashti stand alone to bear the hellfire of the Lady’s wrath. d’Vashti put aside his surprise and bowed respectfully to the Lady Zillabar. He knew how to dance with the Dragon. He would dance again now.

  “I do not speak for my Lord, only for myself,” d’Vashti began, “but I know that all of us entrusted with the responsibilities of your service have pursued our tasks as aggressively as you have come to expect. We have done all that you have asked of us and more.
We continue to scour this planet, even as you and I speak. We ask for no gratitude from you, nor do we expect it. Our service alone carries its own rewards.”

  “Yes,” the Lady agreed. “That much, you have correct. I will give you no thanks. And I will wait to see the quality of your service.” She stressed the word your. “And now, you may go.” She dismissed him with a curt wave. “I will speak alone with your master.”

  d’Vashti bowed. Zillabar ignored his bow of compliance. She had already turned her attention back to Lord Drydel. They bent their heads together and laughed softly over some private joke while Lord Khallanin waited stiff and silent.

  d’Vashti straightened quickly and exited, betraying no sign of anger. He’d miscalculated, but so had the Lady. She had clearly recognized the threat that he presented to her ambitions. She’d seen through his maneuvers—and neutralized them. He’d failed here, how badly he didn’t know. Perhaps Lord Khallanin might even have to invite him to sacrifice his life before the Lady. He doubted that matters would go that far, but he also knew now that Khallanin would offer him little protection.

  But on the other hand . . . he’d also learned something equally important. The Lady’s failure on Burihatin told him that she too had weaknesses. He intended to find them and exploit them. He would consult his spies as soon as he considered it safe to make contact.

  d’Vashti hurried away, his mind racing furiously. His footsteps echoed up and down the corridor, ringing like metallic taunts.

  Predators

  The avalanche of time sweeps everything before it. Every individual instant hurtles into oblivion, drowning out the obliteration of the instant immediately preceding it, and then it too disappears under the onslaught of the next and the next and the next. When the avalanche has shuddered past for a long enough time, the perception of the past evolves. Distant events grow beyond mere history and take on the weight of legend.