Chronicles of Pern (First Fall)

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Then we can keep more seamen working, because the wharf will shield the smaller ships,” Kaarvan said. “That keeps more people happy.”

  “You’re putting the Southern Cross in‑‑what did they used to call it?” Theo asked when he told her the plan.

  “Mothballs.”

  “What’re they?”

  “Basically cocoons. Moths came from cocoons. Flying insects that were attracted by flames.” Jim wasn’t really paying much attention to what he was saying, distracted by her proximity in the nighttime quiet of his cabin.

  “You’ll miss sailing, Jim.”

  He knew he would, but they both knew that his decision was sensible. He tired so easily these days, even doing what he loved most.

  “I will, but I’ll enjoy it even more when we get back to it.”

  “We?”

  “Well, Dart has no problem with becoming official escort ,to the Cross, does she?”

  “Noooo.” Theo smoothed his hair back from his ears. “You need a haircut.”

  “Possibly.” Her totally irrelevant observations only endeared her more to him. “Two, with Dart, can handle the Cross on the way to Big Island,” he went on, still resisting in his inner heart the necessity of mothballing his beloved ship.

  “A honeymoon?” And Theo giggled.

  He gave her a quick hug. “Then next year. . .”

  “There’ll be three of us, Jim. . .”

  He pushed himself up to look down at her. “You don’t mean. . .

  She laughed in great delight at his surprise. “Told you you weren’t beyond it, man. Thought I might be, but seems I got in under the wire.”

  At that point, he forgot what other plans he had intended to discuss with her and knew that his decision to harbor the Cross was for the best possible reason.

  It was a cloudy day, mist whisking in and out of the little bays to port as the Southern Cross made her way toward the wharf Kaarvan had just announced on the com unit was not far ahead now. The jib sail was barely full of wind, but a gentle current was helping the forward motion.

  Suddenly the pealing of a bell sounded through the mist. Abruptly every dolphin of the escort broke the surface in ecstatic leaps of unusual height, a couple walking on their tails in their joy. Even Jim could distinctly hear them shouting “Bell, bell, bell!”

  Theo looked at Jim in perplexed astonishment. “But you didn’t take the Monaco Bell! How. . .”

  “The Buenos Aires carried more than one bell in her hold, “ Jim said, putting an arm around her shoulders.

  “Damn,” Theo said, sniffing, and he saw tears sliding down her cheeks. “That was damned thoughtful of someone. Look how glad they are that there’s a bell for them here, too. Just listen to the noise they’re making.”

  Jim was beginning to know when the dolphins were “singing.” He knew too, that, somehow, they had come across the seas of Pern to. . . home!

  THE FORD OF

  RED HANRAHAN

  “Look, I know that, Paul,” Red Hanrahan said; irritably brushing his shaggy mop of silver‑shot red hair back from his forehead. “We waste less keeping it all central. And my having supplies doesn’t mean I won’t share ‘em whenever necessary.”

  It occurred to Paul Benden that most of the male residents of the vast Fort Hold were in need of haircuts‑‑except, of course, the young dragonriders, now over five hundred strong in their Weyr. They cropped theirs to a stubble: easier to wear under the hide helmets they’d adopted. But there couldn’t be that much of a shortage of scissors, could there?

  Then, annoyed at the increasing tendency of his mind to go wandering off on tangents, he jerked his attention back to what Red was saying.

  “But the fact remains that most of the horses are infected with thrush from having to stand on soggy wet bedding that we don’t have the resources to change, and they are acutely in need of regular exercise, which they can’t get here. The cave structure at the place I’ve found is sandy‑floored, much easier to keep clean, and big enough so I can have an indoor exercise area for those days when Thread keeps us immured.”

  “And. . .” Paul tried again, for he hadn’t been able to complete a sentence since Red had desperately launched into his rationale for moving out of the Fort Hold.

  “I’ve checked with Sean. We won’t be a burden on him and the Weyr. Thread has never‑‑yet‑‑” Red gave a rueful smile, which made him look slightly less haggard. “‑‑come right over the place I’ve found. And,” he added, waggling a finger as Paul opened his mouth, “Cobber and Ozzie have thoroughly explored the tunnel system shown on the echo survey with Wind Blossom’s little photosensitive uglies, so the dangerous tunnels are blocked off. We’ve got a small hydroelectric system using one of the nearby streams, and Boris Pahlevi has plotted out the most efficient way to use the rock cutters and the borers. Cecilia Rado’s given us plans to enlarge and improve the main chamber and give us a lot of apartments in the facade. We’ll use the cut stone for housing along the base of the cliff, just as you’ve done here, so we’ll have workshops as well as separate quarters”‑‑and Red emphasized that aspect by enunciating each syllable‑‑”to accommodate the families coming with us. That’s the biggest incentive in moving out, Paul.” He gave a convulsive shudder. “I know we’ve all had to cram in together for mutual support and safety. But enough is enough. Especially in my profession. I’m losing the best breeding years of my mares’ lives. And, now that we’ve got the dried seaweed to add protein and fiber, we can get by with just the one feed‑maker.”

  Paul held up both hands. “Let me get a word in edge‑wise, will you, Red?” He grinned. “I have no objections to you moving out.”

  “You don’t?” Red was genuinely surprised. “But I thought. . . .”

  Paul Benden indulged in a rare laugh, which made the big vet realize how much Paul had altered in the past nine years. Unsurprising, when one thought how many burdens he had assumed since Emily Boll’s death from fever three years earlier. Paul rose and went to the wall in his office that was covered with survey maps taken by the probes as the colony ships had moved into their parking orbit. The areas explored by various teams showed the symbols of metals and minerals discovered; red marked the cave sites with rough sketches of the tunnel systems made from the probe echo system. Three enlargements depicted the immense, sprawling Fort Hold; the old crater, Fort Weyr, which the dragonriders inhabited; and the newest human habitation at Boll, founded the summer before.

  “I won’t let anyone make an ill‑advised move, Red, just to get away from here, but decentralization is essential.” Red knew that Benden feared another of the lightning‑swift fevers that had decimated the Hold three years before. “We must begin to establish autonomous and self‑sufficient units. That’s part of the Charter I’m determined we must implement. On the other hand, with Threadfall a constant menace, I must limit new settlements to those that won’t overtax the dragons during a Fall. We can’t even consider expanding unless they can give aerial protection. I won’t risk any more precious lives‑‑not after the most recent plague.”

  Paul’s expression turned grim. There were few family groups in the Fort Hold that had not suffered losses in the debilitating fever that had hit the already distressed colonists. The old, the very young, and pregnant women had been the most vulnerable, and before the frantic medical team could develop a vaccine, the disease had run its course, leaving nearly four thousand dead. Nevertheless, the living had been immunized against a resurgence. Though all possible vectors‑‑food, ventilation, allergies, inadvertent toxic substances from the hydroponics unit‑‑had been examined, the trigger for its onset remained a mystery.

  The fever had caused another problem: a large number of orphaned children between eight and twelve years. These had to be fostered, and although there had been no shortage of volunteers, a certain amount of reshuffling had had to occur to find psychologically suitable matches of adult and child.

  “Those who leave here must go to proper
ly surveyed and explored. . . premises.” Paul gave a mirthless laugh, and Red grinned wryly back at him: “premises” seemed an overstatement to describe the primitive cave dwellings. “Pierre and his crowd were lucky to find such a network at‑‑” Paul dropped his eyelids briefly, still finding it hard to make casual mention of his longtime colleague. “Boll.”

  “We’re lucky Tarvi and Sallah explored so much of the region when they did,” Red added ingenuously, giving Paul time to recover from the tension that had suddenly contracted the muscles in his face. “You also don’t need to lose too many of the valuable skills from a central facility. Fort should remain the primary teaching headquarters.” Red was referring to the warren of caves adjacent to the main Fort, where the medics had originally set up isolation wards for the fever victims. Three years on, the wards had become classrooms, workshops, and dormitories, some‑what relieving the crowding in the Hold.

  “So,” Paul said with more vigor, “who’s going with you? Those grandchildren of yours?” He managed a small smile: Red and Mairi had more of their second generation underfoot than their first. Sorka seemed to have a baby most every year, despite arduous riding in the queens’ wing. Red and Mairi fostered the five of them, leaving the dragonriders with less to worry about while coping with the insidious Fall and training the young dragons. Michael, nine years old and the eldest, spent every moment he could up at the Weyr, often illegally borrowing a mount from his grandfather’s remuda to make the uphill trip. His red hair matched his temperament and tenacity.

  “No,” Red replied, slightly rueful but more relieved. Mairi had enough on her hands, supervising their own fosterlings, as well as looking after their son Brian’s four, to allow his wife, Jair, to continue her mechanical‑engineer training under Fulmar Stone. “Not when our going to the new place meant Michael would have too far to go to visit whenever he can sneak away.” Red chuckled. The boy was dragon‑mad, and his father wouldn’t let him stand as a candidate until he reached his twelfth birthday. “There’s supervision for them now at the Weyr if Sorka’s busy. And schooling.”

  The Weyr, now housing five hundred and twenty dragons after nine years of enthusiastic breeding by the eleven queens of the first two hatchings and, more lately, Faranth’s first daughter, had asked for additional personnel to help with the domestic tasks the riders had little time to manage. Some of the older fosterlings had moved up the mountain, along with enough families and single adults to perform necessary tasks.

  Though it was not common knowledge, the Weyr supplied its needs by judicious hunting in the southern continent. Sorka often sent Michael back to Fort with a sack of fresh fruit and a haunch or two of beef tied to the back of his saddle.

  “We’ve singles, fosterlings, and enough mature couples with full training.” Red handed over his list. He’d carefully screened those picked to accompany him and Mairi for compatibility, as well as for useful skills. “I’d like your permission to draft more of the trainees when they’ve passed their tests. I would, of course, in the future be willing to take in any who show a knack for animal husbandry or agriculture.”

  “You and Mairi have been splendid in sharing the caring.” Indeed, Mairi would have taken in as many fosterlings as she could, but common sense dictated a limit to the time she could spare for each grieving pre adolescent. “So you are taking the entire regiment?”

  Red grinned at the nickname his expanded family had been given. “Mairi’s always had a touch with young folk, and she’d feel she was abandoning them just when they’ve got over their bereavement. I can certainly use them all.”

  Paul ran one finger down the list, which had been written on a thin width of gray paper that had already been recycled several times. The precious remaining plas sheets were now used only for special documents. Some personal computers were still in use, thanks to the production of generators from the junked shuttles and other spares, but people had lost the habit of using them as short‑term record processors.

  Red’s list included four veterinary students, but there were more than enough experienced practitioners and apprentices in the Hold to leave it amply staffed. Red himself would complete their training and quality them. Mar Dook’s second son, Kes, had been well trained in agronomy by his father, and he was bringing his young family; young Akis Andriadus had just qualified as a general practitioner, and his wife, Kolya Logorides, had studied gynaecology and midwifery, so that would provide the new Hold with the medical support it would need, though Mairi could certainly manage most minor medical emergencies. Ilsa Langsam had just qualified as a primary teacher: she would have more than enough pupils. Max and Emily Schultz were two of the oldest fostered, plus two Wangs and two Brennans; in the fosterings, siblings had been kept together wherever possible, so there were also three very young Coatls and two Cervanteses. Among the fosterlings, there seemed to be at least one representative from every ethnic group, and Paul wondered if Red had done that on purpose. But all the general skills that would be needed seemed covered in those choices: metalworking and engineering, as well as teaching, agronomy, and medical.

  “Hundred and forty‑one all totaled, huh?” Paul said. “And a good cross section. What are you springing loose from Joel, since you’ve the foresight to bring one of his kids?”

  “Turn the sheet over,” Red said, amused. The “foresight” of attaching young Buck was not moving his father an inch in terms of what he’d allocate a new settlement.

  “Stingy, ain’t he?” Paul said with a snort.

  “Cautious with community property and ever aware of the charge of nepotism.”

  Paul continued reading, then looked up in surprise. “An airlock door? What’re you going to use that for?” he demanded.

  “Well, it isn’t being used for anything else, and it’ll make an impressive entrance: also impregnable,” Red said. “I took the dimensions last time I was down in the storage cellars. Ivan and Peter Chernoff dissected the frame panel, too, which fits in the opening as if meant to be there. Seated it in some of that hull‑patching compound Joel couldn’t find another use for. Peter even rescued the floor and ceiling bar holders. A spin of the airlock wheel, and we can drive home the lock bars top and bottom so that nothing can get past that door once it’s closed. Cos Melvinah called it a neat bit of psychological reinforcement.”

  Paul nodded in appreciation. “Good job of recycling materials, too. I will miss you, Red,” he said, then paused.

  “But you won’t miss having to arbitrate the disputes in the beast hold,” Red finished for him with a grin.

  There were constant quarrels over who had what space in the low caverns that housed the colonists’ animals, and who got what fodder. Red had been waging a clever and diplomatic war with the Gallianis and the Logorides, the other major breeders. During the frequent breakdowns of the overworked grass incubators, the Hanrahan family had fed their animals their own bread rations and scrounged the shoreline‑some distance from the safety of the Hold‑‑for the seaweed that could be dried and shredded into a fodder the horses would eat.

  “They can’t complain when your exodus leaves them with a lot more space.”

  “No, but they’ll agitate to try and bring up more of the stock they had to leave behind,” Red said with some acerbity.

  Paul shook his head. “No transport. There’s no one will get Jim Tillek to bring his precious Cross out of that watery cavern he’s stored it in. And, with Per and Kaarvan gone fishing most weeks. . .” Paul shrugged. “I see you’re requisitioning the use of five sled‑wagons? How long will you need them?”

  With almost no power packs left to run the air sleds, many had been stripped to hulls and fitted with wheels as ground vehicles. The smaller ones were useful for hauling stone from excavations within the Hold. The bigger ones were too wide for more than the well‑traveled road down to the sea, but they were capacious and had even survived‑‑better than the goods they’d been carrying‑‑unexpected long drops down mountainsides.

  “Who
else is moving out, Paul?” Red asked. Rumors were rampant, but so far his party was the only one he knew of that was actually asking for a final clearance.

  “Zi Ongola’d like to try that western peninsula.” Paul went to the map and tapped the marker on the tip of the landmass.

  “Good on him. No wonder I couldn’t get any more of the Duffs to come with me. We’ll bring the wagons back as soon as we’ve finished using them. And I’ll loan out the oxen teams I’ve trained, if that’ll help Zi.”

  “It certainly would, and I know he’ll thank you when I pass the information on.”

  “He’s got the longer haul.”

  “He’s also got to find a passable way through the High Ranges,” Paul said with a sigh. “The cave system’s satisfactory where he wishes to settle. The way there is not. We might be able to bore a tunnel, if necessary. Plenty of hydroelectric sites.”

  Red knew that Paul would miss Zi Ongola, who had been his second officer and close friend since the two had served together in the Cygnus Campaign. Red was a little surprised that Zi would leave, but he’d be a good leader, and pressures in the Fort had to be reduced. Many dissident voices were quieted only because the admiral was universally admired and the justice of his regime respected as fair and equable.

  Most of the problems afflicting the Hold were due to the cramped conditions. The “good” years when the colony was starting up had allowed people freedom and scope, which they treasured all the more now that it had been denied them by the terrible fall of Thread. During the first few years when Fort Hold had protected them, gratitude for that haven had overcome the discomforts and inconveniences, but as the birthrate soared and the stony corridors resounded with the cries of fretful babies, tempers had begun to rise.

  The establishment of South Boll had been the first major attempt to relieve the congestion, and so far it was successful‑‑for those who had resettled at the new holding under Pierre de Courcis’s leadership. But exploring appropriate premises was time‑consuming, and with Thread continuing to fall, any outbound journeys had to be carefully timed and safe layover shelters built along the way. Then some caves were found to be either waterless or too small to shelter enough people to be worth development.