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

Occasionally, the Moktar Dragons 8 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. 9
    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