Under the Eye of God by David Gerrold Read Free Book Online

projected an ethereal, almost supernatural presence. Her appearance did not displease her. She wore a gown of peach and maroon, outlined with a delicate blue fluorescence, and a cape of ebony silk. Her snow-white hair fell in dazzling cascades to her shoulders. Her eyes glowed amber, barely revealing the scarlet coals within. Her skin had the crisp waxy shine of one who has risen again from the dead. Yes, she would strike sparks in the hearts of men. The thought thrilled her coldly. 6
    Lady Zillabar worked diligently to keep herself cloaked in the somber unearthliness of the Phaestor. She regarded it as a solemn, almost holy, responsibility to accurately represent the superior nature, the dignity, and the allure of her species in her every thought, deed, and expression; so it annoyed her grievously not to have all of the underlings around her acting in concert, unconditionally supporting her higher commitment. Obviously, they did not understand what the Phaestoric mystics saw in their visions. The cattle operated on the emotional level of unaugmented chimpanzees, thinking with their hormones and interpreting the processes of others through the same narrow filters. They might as well choose to operate their lives under the influence of hallucinatory drugs—much the same process, but at least far more controllable. The recognition of the human hormonal dilemma truly rankled the Lady’s sense of balance—on those occasions when she allowed herself to consider it at all, or worse, when the clumsy actions of some underling demonstrated the ugly fact again in her presence.
    What a pity, she thought, that she could not apply some of her celebrated culinary skills to this situation. She allowed herself a delicious shudder of distaste. Then again, considering the inferior quality of the materials at hand, the resultant meal might not provide as much pleasure in the consumption as it did simply in the planning.
    These mordant thoughts did not arise casually in Zillabar. The Lady would have preferred to have made this tedious journey lying in a state of pleasant dormancy, lapsed into a delicious scarlet reverie; but unfortunately, she could not entirely trust the Captain of this vessel to protect either her life or her interests while she lay asleep in impenetrable dreamtime; so she stayed awake and brooded. She knew the deprivation of soul-flight made her irritable. Ultimately, the imposition more than exasperated her—it unhinged her thinking. The Phaestor needed their access to the blood-vision to stay centered. Without it, well—Zillabar recognized the keening derangement even as it occurred and she despised herself for it. That she could not allow herself to express her wild despondency openly in front of all these malodorous underbeings only infuriated her further.
    Usually, the Lady prided herself on her exquisite manners and grace—but not now, not here, and certainly not when dealing with unkempt and untrained creatures like these. . . .
    Yes, they bothered her. She didn’t mind admitting it. The cattle simply didn’t know their place anymore. More and more these days, she smelled a dangerous blend of ferment and disdain in the populace—she saw it in their smirking expressions, their careless attitudes, their irresponsible behavior, even in the slovenly way they went through the motions of respect. She heard it in their whispers as she passed; they didn’t know how acutely she could hear; she heard it in the pounding of their hearts and the rushing of the blood through their veins. She smelled the resentment in their bodies; it saturated their sweat; it gave them a gamy metallic aftertaste. As an immortal, she recognized the signs; she’d seen it many times before. This surface lack of manners betrayed a deeper sickness, a festering boil of restless, unfocused hostility that would soon need lancing. Perhaps she should turn the Dragons loose again; for a while, anyway. Let them run