Under the Eye of God by David Gerrold

safest place to land in a radius of 500 kilometers.
    The lights of MesaPort blazed upward through the gloom, shining beacons in the gray and orange dust. Pseudo-white lasers carved the day into quadrants. And then they paused. Everything hesitated, waiting. . . .
    A glow appeared in the distance, a faint rumble of noise accompanied it. Those few attendants standing on the outer surfaces of the palace turned to look. Others, waiting at the edge of the landing field, powered up their service vehicles and lowered their goggles over their eyes.
    At last, Lady Zillabar’s lander came floating out of the distance, a luminous apparition of light and color. The sky-boat came down gracefully, all beams flashing and strobing in a brazen display of pride and victory. The craft glided past the minarets and spires of the palace, slowing, lowering, and finally coming easily to rest in the huge Imperial docking bay. 19
    Her secrecy destroyed, Lady Zillabar had no choice but to make the expected gaudy entrance. Had anyone downside noticed that the Lady had arrived at Thoska-Roole aboard the disreputable Lady MacBeth ? They all had noticed. The failure of Lady Zillabar’s attempt at discretion had spread a rippling confusion of rumors throughout the palace. Some expressed glee at the Lady’s discomfiture; others despaired, already fearing the wrath to follow her arrival. Would anyone mention the subject to the Lady—? Of course not. Fear more than courtesy ruled the court. Had the Lady lost face? Absolutely. To reestablish her authority, she would have to . . . take bold steps. Everyone knew it.
    The Regency Heralds began enthusiastically trumpeting the Ceremonial Flourishes the moment the Imperial lander touched down. The brassy fanfares rattled across the High Pavilion, echoing like a hellish brigade. The waiting dignitaries rustled impatiently.
    Opposite the stairs, the Great Balcony looked down upon the distant surface of the Iron Sea, a bleak and empty wasteland of rust and broken rock. The ghastly desolation confronted arriving travellers like a warning, staggering them with their first clear sight of the true nature of Thoska-Roole. Some thought it beautiful. Others recoiled, awestruck, shocked or horrified. The ancient red desert lay in rumpled bloody sheets, a nightmare vision under a flaming red sky. The view did not inspire sanguine thoughts—except occasionally to Vampires. The colors of Thoska-Roole often reminded them of sweet fresh blood.
    The crowd at the bottom of the stairs looked haggard. Few of them cared about the vista anymore. Some complained loudly to one another; others, more experienced at survival, kept their thoughts carefully to themselves.
    The Prefect of Thoska-Roole, an aged Phaestor named Zarr Khallanin, had summoned this gathering of Nobles to the palace fifteen hours ago. He had allowed them frequent rest and refreshment, but he would not allow anyone to leave until after the welcoming ceremonies to celebrate the Lady Zillabar’s arrival had fully concluded. Protocol demanded a five-star welcome for a Lady of her rank, and because Zillabar ruled the Zashti clan, she required the presence of every Noble Citizen at MesaPort, nothing less. So Zarr Khallanin calmly held his ground. He insisted that the gathered Nobles await the Lady’s landing—and they must continue waiting until dismissed by the Lady herself; but the Prefect also implied with subtle suggestions that the imposition of this demand came from the Lady’s House, and not his own.
    Beside Khallanin stood his protégé, a young starlord named Kernel Sleestak d’Vashti, a thin bloodless-looking Vampire. d’Vashti had brought his squadrons of Marauders to Thoska-Roole two years previously, looking for an industrial world where he could refit and rebuild. He had immediately offered his services to the administration of Zarr Khallanin. Thenceforth, he had secured for himself an appointment as one of