The Skies of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  Honshu was also an excellent example of colonial self-sufficiency. Clearly it had been occupied by quite a few people and designed for many more: a whole floor of bedrooms had never been furnished. Then, all at once and in some hurry, considering details like drawers left pulled out in a workshop that had otherwise been meticulously kept, everyone had left. Twelve of them at least. To judge by strands of moldering material, even garments had been left behind, folded on the shelves, in drawers, or hanging in closets. The fact that all the utensils were still stored and hung about the capacious kitchen argued that, wherever the inhabitants had gone, they hadn’t needed to bring along household equipment. Storage canisters filled with desiccated remnants indicated that few, if any, staples had been taken. There were homely artifacts like rusted needles, pins, and scissors. There had been no human bones to suggest a sudden annihilation from attack or disease.

  Although all the other entrances to the interior of Honshu had been shut, the heavy doors to the beasthold had been propped open, suggesting that the ancients had released their livestock but had left the creatures access to a refuge.

  He turned page after page of the daily comings and goings from Landing, neatly recorded by the Tower duty officers. He saw again the reference to Kimmer’s defection with a much-needed operational sled.

  S.K. involved in the Tubberman launching. Observed on a northwestern course. Suspect that’s the last we’ll see of him and the sled. ZO.

  F’lessan had already tried to find any notes in Kimmer’s handwriting from his time as Stakeholder at Bitkim. There had been none from either him or Avril Bitra about their mining operations, though the Minercrafthall still excavated the occasional fine gemstones from the clay at their original site.

  He closed the final volume with a frustrated soft whoosh, and then glanced apologetically over his shoulder for disturbing the quiet. He noticed that the surface of Tai’s worktable was covered with bound volumes. Idly he wondered if she was having any more luck with her research than he was. Craning his neck he could read the spine on the book facing in his direction: Volume 35—YOKO 13.20–28/. The last four digits, which would be the relevant Turn, had been overwritten in red marker to read 2520. The correction had been made in the precise numerals only Master Esselin could produce.

  Stuffing the note with the replica of the initials back into his belt pocket, he rose with quiet agility, trying not to scrape the chair on the stone floor. Collecting the volumes he had been consulting, he returned them to the proper shelf. He stood for a moment, fists jammed into his belt, glaring at the rows of records that would not produce the answer to his puzzle. Was there a reason why he had to identify SK? Who would care? He did, for some obscure reason he didn’t understand. He made sure the books were properly aligned on the shelf. Master Esselin was very particular about how his precious volumes were returned.

  Hearing Tai get to her feet and push back her chair, F’lessan swiveled around to see her picking up the outsized book she had been studying. She hefted it up, pirouetting gracefully on tiptoe to return it to the special shelf in the case behind her.

  “I hope you had better luck,” he said with a rueful grin.

  Startled, she lost her grip on the awkward, heavy tome. One edge was wedged against the lower shelf. She struggled to get it up again and into its assigned place, but her hand slipped. Knowing how difficult Master Esselin could be about damage to any artifact in his custody, F’lessan leaped across to catch the volume, just managing to keep one corner from impacting on the stone floor.

  “Not a bad save, if I say so myself,” he said, grinning up at her. Why was she regarding him as if he were dangerous? Or shifty? “I’ve got it. Allow me?” With what he sincerely hoped was a cheerful smile, he took the volume from her nerveless fingers and shoved it safely into place.

  That was when he saw the raw scrapes on the back of her left hand.

  “That looks nasty. Seen a healer?” he asked. He reached out to examine the injury, at the same time fumbling in his belt pouch for numbweed.

  She tried to pull free of his grasp.

  “Tai, did I hurt you?” he asked, instantly releasing her fingers. He quickly displayed the distinctive green glass jar used for numbweed.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Don’t try that on me,” he said, mock stern. “I’ll get Golanth to make Zaranth tell on you.”

  She blinked rapidly in surprise. “It’s just a scrape.”

  “This is Southern, Tai, and you should know by now that even well-tended wounds can develop some peculiar infections.” He cocked his head at her, wondering if he should try a coaxing smile. He had the jar open and passed it under her nose. “Smell? Just reliable old numbweed. Fresh made this spring. My own private supply.” He used the tone that had been effective with his sons when they were tots. He held out his hand again, palm up, wriggling his fingers to overcome her reluctance. “Someone might grab that hand later when you’re dancing and that’d really hurt.” As if on cue, music from the square swelled into an audible finale.

  She relented and, almost meekly, extended her hand. He lifted his palm up to steady her fingers as he turned the numbweed jar over the scrape, waiting for a glob of the semiliquid stuff to ooze down.

  “It’s easier to let it take its own time,” he remarked idly, all too aware of her nervousness. The gouges weren’t deep, he noticed, but went from knuckles to wrist. She should have taken care of it immediately. It was, he judged from long experience with injuries, several hours old. Why had she ignored it?

  She gave a little gasp as the cool numbweed flowed. Expertly, F’lessan tilted her fingers and they both watched the salve slowly cover the scratches.

  “At Turnover one is more apt to require fellis for overindulgence than numbweed.” That wasn’t a particularly clever remark, F’lessan said to himself and gave his head a little shake. “There! That’ll prevent infection.”

  “I didn’t realize it was quite so bad. I was in a hurry, you see.” She gave the reading room a quick glance.

  “Trying to work without interruption.” He chuckled, hoping that wouldn’t offend her as much as his smile seemed to. “That’s why I’m here. No, wait a few moments longer to let the numbweed set,” he added when she started to move.

  He pulled out a chair, indicating that she should seat herself as he dragged another over for himself, switching it around so he could straddle it, resting his arms on the top. She propped her arm on the table, watching as the numbweed changed from clear to opaque on the scrape. Trying to appear more solicitous than overbearing, he let the silence lengthen, wondering what he could ask without giving additional offense. He didn’t usually have problems striking up conversations. He was beginning to wonder if he should have just left her alone in the reading room. Just then the significance of all those Yoko records made sense.

  “May I ask why you’re interested in the Ghosts?”

  She stared at him in such astonishment that her mouth, with its very well shaped lips, fell slightly open. He gestured.

  “Why else would anyone be looking over Turns of the end of the thirteenth month? When the Ghost Showers occur?”

  She looked everywhere but at him and then, suddenly, blurted out, “I often do some research for Master Wansor and he’d heard that the Ghosts—which we can’t see down here—but you’d know about them since you’re from Benden—” she stopped, swallowing as if she’d said something untoward.

  “Yes, I know that they are not visible here in the southern hemisphere, and yes, they do appear extremely bright and numerous right now. I did notice. In fact, many people have noticed,” he went on encouragingly, “but, having lived in Benden Weyr all my life, I remember that on other occasions, they have been as bright and as numerous. I have studied some astronomy, so would a Benden dragonrider not totally untutored in his local starscape be any help to you?”

  “Personal observations are always admissible,” she said rather primly. “Others have noted,” and she gave him t
he ghost of a smile, pointing to several of the volumes, “their brightness and numbers occur in cycles of seven Turns.”

  “That’s right, because I was three when I saw the pretty lights and asked about them, and this is the fifth time I’ve seen them so brightly in their hundreds. Here, I’ll help you put those heavy books away. Spare irritating your hand.”

  She seemed about to hesitate, but he stacked five volumes deftly on one arm and walked to the proper shelf. She hastily gathered up more.

  “Did you have any luck with your research?” she asked when they had finished racking.

  “Actually, no,” he said. “But there may not be a source.”

  “With all this?” She indicated the full ranks of shelving around them.

  “Aivas didn’t know everything,” he said, once again managing to startle her. “That’s not heretical, you realize, because he couldn’t have recorded anything after the Second Crossing.”

  “I know.”

  There was an odd note in that simple agreement that he didn’t dare query.

  “The answer to my puzzle probably doesn’t even exist,” he added.

  “What puzzle?” She inclined her body slightly in his direction.

  Ah, she’s curious. That’s good. “Initials.” He reached into his belt and found the slip of paper. “S.K.” He smoothed it out to show her. She frowned slightly, puzzled but not totally reserved. “I believe the initials are Stev Kimmer’s,” he said.

  She blinked. “Who?”

  “A real villain—”

  “Oh! The man who absconded with a functional sled after the Tubberman launch?”

  “You know your history.”

  She flushed, ducking her head. “I was very fortunate to be accepted to the Landing School.”

  “You were? I hope you were a better student than I was.”

  “But you were already a rider,” she said, startled into looking directly at him. Her eyes were an unusual shade of green.

  He grinned. “That didn’t necessarily mean I was a good student. If you’re still studying,” and he gestured at the shelving, “then you learned good habits. Did you stay on here when you finished schooling?”

  She glanced away from him, and he couldn’t imagine what he had said to alarm her.

  “Yes,” she said at last. “I was fortunate. You see,” she explained hesitantly, “my father brought us all here. From Keroon. He was a Smithcraft journeyman and helped—here.”

  “Oh?” F’lessan drawled the exclamation out encouragingly when she faltered.

  “My brothers were his apprentices, and my mother took my sister and me to the school, in case we were lucky enough to be accepted. My sister didn’t like school.”

  “Not everyone does,” F’lessan said with a self-deprecating chuckle. Her quick glance gave him the impression that she had taken to learning as a fire-lizard to the air. “So …?” he prompted.

  “Then, during the last Turn when everyone at Admin was so busy, Master Samvel sent me here to work. My father was anxious to find a good place to hold and they went off.”

  And, F’lessan thought from the sorrow in the set of her shoulders and dejected attitude, she had never heard from them again.

  “Did anyone look for them?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said quickly, glancing up. “T’gellan sent out a full wing.” She looked away again.

  “No trace at all?” he asked gently.

  “None. Everyone was very kind. I was apprenticed to Master Wansor—I read for him. He liked my voice.”

  “I don’t wonder at that,” F’lessan said. He had already noticed how expressive her voice could be.

  “That’s how I came to be at the Monaco Bay Hatching and Impressed Zaranth.”

  “Reading to Master Wansor?”

  “No,” she said in an amused tone. “He liked to have someone telling him what was going on. So we were seated to one side of the Hatching Ground.”

  F’lessan chuckled. “Yes, I remember. Master Wansor had to push you at Zaranth. You didn’t know what to do: respond to the hatchling or tell Master Wansor what was happening.”

  The smile that lit her face and her green eyes was evocative of the sense of incredulity and wonder that overwhelmed anyone lucky enough to Impress a dragon. His smile answered hers and both were silent for a long moment in fond reminiscences of their Impressions.

  “You’re still keeping up with your studies?” F’lessan asked, indicating the old tome she’d been studying.

  “Why not?” she asked, with a wry grin. “It’s as good an occupation for a dragonrider as any.”

  After a pause, she asked, “Have you tried the Charter?”

  He blinked. “The Charter?”

  She waved toward the special case where the original Charter of the Pern Colony was housed.

  “Kimmer was an original colonist, wasn’t he?” she said. “He’d’ve had to sign his name somewhere, even as a contractor, wouldn’t he?”

  F’lessan got to his feet so fast he had to catch the chair from falling. His movement startled her.

  “Now, why didn’t I think of that?” he exclaimed with exaggerated self-castigation. He strode to the airtight case that held what was considered the most valuable, and venerable, document on the planet.

  Fort Hold had ceremoniously returned the Charter to Landing. Indeed, no one had known what had been stored in the thick container that had been gathering dust with other Hold treasures until Aivas had told them what to look for. Aivas was certainly the only intelligence that had known the combination of the digital lock. Inside its airtight case, the Charter had been revealed to be pristine. Upon close examination, Masterwoodsmith Benelek remarked that the plastic-coated pages could not have been damaged by anything short of being chopped into little pieces by very sharp blades. Now the Charter was enshrined behind some of Master Morilton’s clear thick panes, mounted on a mechanism—also an Aivas design—that turned its pages to the one required.

  “The capital letters would be similar, wouldn’t they? Printed or written,” F’lessan muttered. “Your research skills are better honed than mine.” He shot her an appreciative grin. “Let’s get to the end … Ah, contractor, contractor,” he said under his breath as the pages shifted in sequence to the final ones containing signatures, many of them mere illegible scrawls. There were three sections: the first, of the Charterers; the second, longer, included the names of all the Contractors; while the third listed all minor children over five years of age who had come with their parents on this momentous venture.

  “There,” Tai said, her right index finger tapping the glass so that he could find the bold handwritten Stev Kimmer, Eng.

  With careful fingers, F’lessan smoothed his note on the glass, just above the bold, and legible, name.

  “Couldn’t be anyone else,” Tai said. She ran her finger down the listings. “No other S.K.”

  “You’re right, you’re right. He’s here. It’s him.” With his characteristic exuberance, F’lessan grabbed her by the waist and spun her about, forgetting the reserve she had shown any of his overtures of friendliness. “Oops!” He dropped her, staring in mute apology.

  She staggered a little off balance and instantly he steadied her.

  “Thank you very much for finding it so quickly. I was looking so hard I couldn’t see,” he said, giving her a quick bow.

  She had a very nice smile, he thought, as the corners of her wide mouth curved up, showing her teeth, white and even, accented by a tanned complexion that was as much heredity as exposure to southern sun.

  “Why was it so important to you?”

  “Do you really want to know?” he asked with the ingenuousness that could still surprise people.

  Her smile deepened, causing two dimples to appear in her cheeks. He didn’t know any girls with dimples.

  “If a dragonrider finds it more important than”—she tilted her head toward the noise of very loud dance music—“Turnover eating and dancing, it must be important.”
>
  He chuckled. “You’re a dragonrider and you’re here.”

  “But you’re F’lessan and a bronze rider.”

  “And you are Tai and a green rider,” he countered.

  The dimples disappeared and she looked away from him.

  You are a bronze rider and you are F’lessan and she’s shy, Golanth said. Zaranth says she wants to make something of herself for After. She never wants to be beholden to anyone else ever.

  Like all dragonriders, F’lessan said with considerable irony.

  Not even to other dragonriders, Golanth added, slightly offended by Tai’s utter independence.

  “We were getting along quite well when you found Stev Kimmer’s signature for me,” F’lessan said gently.

  Be very careful, his dragon said softly.

  “I think the numbweed is dry enough now,” he added. “I know I’m hungry and thirsty and, while I would prefer to go back to Honshu, I have to put in an appearance out there.” He nodded in the direction of the music.

  “Is that where Stev Kimmer went? To Honshu? Why would that be his destination?”

  “Ah,” and F’lessan held up a finger, “that’s part of the puzzle I’ve got. I did find his initials on surfaces in the Hold, and yet the records Ita Fusaiyuki kept until a few months after Kenjo’s death make no mention of him.”

  “She died there?”

  F’lessan shook his head as she absently followed his slow drift out of the Archives room.

  “I don’t know that. Aivas has records of messages sent to her, urging her to come first to Landing to cross north. So she was still alive during the Second Crossing. Or someone at Honshu was.”

  “I promised I’d lock up,” Tai said, pausing in the entrance hall to enable the alarm.

  F’lessan nodded approval. All archival material, whether here or at a Hall or Hold, was provided with safeguards against natural—or unnatural—accidents.

  Outside, both stopped on the wide top step. The quick transition from twilight to full tropical night had occurred as they talked. Below them, spread out in festive splendor, were the lights, sights, and sounds of Turnover. More enticing were the luscious aromas of the fine feast awaiting the revelers. As one they inhaled the odors and then, again simultaneously, turned slightly to see the round blue lanterns of massed dragon eyes on the heights, the blue denoting the dragons’ own enjoyment of the happy scene. The music came to a raucous finale and the sound of laughter and excited chatter drifted back to them.