Dragons Dawn

by Anne McCaffrey

  “We’ll do better next time, Admiral,” Drake Bonneau assured Paul with a cocky salute. Kenjo, entering behind him, regarded the tall war ace with amused condescension. “Today taught us that this Thread requires entirely different flight and strike techniques. We’ll refine that wedge maneuver so nothing gets through. Sled pilots must drill to maintain altitude patterns. Gunners must learn to control their blasts. It’s more than just holding the button down. We had some mighty close encounters. We lost some of the little dragonets, too. We can’t risk so many lives, much less the sleds.”

  “We can repair the sleds, Drake,” Joel Lilienkamp remarked dryly before Paul spoke, “but power packs won’t last forever. We can’t afford to expand them uselessly on drills. Despite our resupply system, which I bet I can improve, nine pilots had to glide-land at Maori. That’s clumsy management. That wedge formation, by the way, Drake, is economical on the packs. But it still takes days to recharge exhausted ones. How long will this stuff keep falling, Paul?” Joel looked up from his calculating pad.

  “We haven’t established that yet,” Paul said, his left thumb rubbing his knuckles. “Boris and Dieter are collating information from the pilot debriefing.”

  “Hellfire, that’s not going to tell us what we need to know, Paul,” Drake said, his weary tone a complaint. “Where does this stuff come from?”

  “Probe’s gone off,” Ezra Keroon said. “It’ll be a couple a more days before any reports come back.”

  Drake continued almost as if he had not heard. “I want to find out if the stuff mightn’t be more vulnerable in the stratosphere. Even if we only have ten pressurized sleds, would a high-altitude strike be more effective? Does this junk hit the atmosphere in clumps and then disperse? Can we develop a defense less clumsy than flame-thrower? We need to know more about this enemy.”

  “It doesn’t fight back,” Ongola remarked, rubbing his temples to ease the pounding sort of headache that battle had always given him.

  “True,” Paul replied with a grim smile as he turned to Kenjo. “I wonder if we would gain any useful data from an orbital reconnaissance flight? How much fuel in the Mariposa’s tanks?”

  “If I pilot it, enough for three, maybe four flights,” Kenjo replied, deliberately avoiding Drake’s eyes, “depending on how much maneuvering is required and how many orbits.”

  “You’re the man for it, Kenjo,” Drake said with a flourish of his hand and a rueful expression. “You can land on a breath of fuel.” Kenjo, smiling slightly, gave a short, quick bow from the waist. “Do we know when, or where, the stuff hits us again?”

  “We do,” Paul assured them in a flat tone. “If the data is correct and it was today, stakeholders are lucky. It strikes in two places: 1930 hours across Araby to the Sea of Azov,” – his expression reflected his continued regret at the loss of Araby’s original stake owners – “and 0330 from the sea across the tip of Delta. Both those areas are unoccupied.”

  “We can’t let that stuff go unchecked anywhere, Paul,” Ezra said in alarm.

  “I know, but if we’re going to have to mount crews every three days, we’ll all soon be exhausted.”

  “Not everything needs to be protected,” Drake said, unfolding his flight map. “Lots of marsh, scrub land.”

  “The Fall will still be attended,” Paul said in an inarguable tone of voice. “Look on it as a chance to refine maneuvers and train teams, Drake. It is undeniably best to get the stuff while it’s airborne. Thread didn’t eat through as much land today, but we can’t afford to lose wide corridors every time it hits us.”

  “Draft some more of those dragonets,” Joel suggested facetiously. “They’re as good on the ground as in the air.”

  Emily regarded him sadly as the others grinned. “Unfortunately they just aren’t big enough.”

  Paul turned around in his chair to give the governor a searching look. “That’s the best idea today, Emily.”

  Drake and Kenjo looked at each other, puzzled, but Ongola, Joel, and Ezra Keroon sat up, their expressions expectant. Jim Tillek grinned.

  There were five main islands off the southern coast of Big Island and several small prominences, the remains of volcanoes poking above the brilliant green-blue sea. The one Avril and Stev were eagerly approaching was no more than the crater of a sunken volcano. Its sides sloped into the sea, providing a narrow shore, except to the south where the lip of the crater was lowest. Avril was bouncing with impatience as Stev nosed the prow of the little boat up onto the north shore.

  “That Nielsen twit couldn’t possibly be right,” she muttered, hopping on to the pebbly beach before he had shut off the power. “How could we have missed a whole beach full of diamonds?”

  “We had more promising sites. Remember, Avril?”

  Steve watched her scoop up a handful of the black stones and sift them through her fingers. She kept only the largest, which she thrust at him.

  “Here! Scan it!” As he inserted the palm-sized stone into the portable scanner, she looked about in angry agitation. “It makes sense. They can’t all be black diamonds. Can they?”

  “This one is!”

  She took back the stone and held it up to the sun for a moment. And this one?” She grabbed up a fist-sized rock and pushed it at him, but he was quick enough to see her slip the first stone into her pouch. “It’s lucky that Nielsen kid’s only our apprentice. All this is – ours – too!”

  “We’ll,” – Stev had not missed Avril’s quick alteration – “have to be careful not to glut the market.” He put the big stone into the scanner with eager and not quite steady fingers. “It is indeed black diamond. Around four hundred carats and relatively unflawed. Congratulations, my dear, you’ve struck it rich.”

  She grimaced at his mocking tone and snatched the diamond from him, clasping it against her almost protectively. “It can’t all be black diamond,” she muttered. “Can it?”

  “Why not? There’s nothing to keep diamonds from being hatched from a volcano, if you have the right ingredients and sufficient pressure at some point in time. I grant you, this might be the only beach composed of black diamond, or any diamond, in the universe, but that’s what” – Stev’s grin was pure malice – “you, have here.”

  She glanced at him, her eyes weary, and managed an easy smile. “What we have, Stev.” She leaned into him, her skin warm against his. “This is the most exciting moment of my life.” She wound her free hand about his neck and kissed him passionately, her body pressing against him until he felt the diamond gouging his ribs.

  “Not even diamonds must come between us, my love,” he murmured, taking it from her resisting fingers and dropping it behind them into the open sled.

  Stev was not unduly surprised the next morning when he found that both Avril and the fastest sled were gone from their Big Island mining camp. He made a second check in the rock hollow where he knew Avril secreted the more spectacular gemstones that had been found. It was empty.

  Stev grinned maliciously. She might have ignored the mayday from Landing, but he had not. He had followed what was happening on the southern continent, and kept an eye to the east whenever a cloud appeared. He had made contingency plans. He doubted that Avril had. He would have liked to see her expression when she found out that Landing was swarming with industrious people, the takeoff grid crammed with sleds and technicians. So he roared with amusement when one of their apprentices anxiously reported that she could not find Avril anywhere.

  Nabhi Nabol was not at all pleased.

  Kenjo achieved orbit with a minimum of fuel expenditure. He kept his mind on the task at hand, feeling the upward thrust of the versatile craft, and the glorious elation of release from gravity. He could wish that all his cares would fall away as easily. But he had not lost his touch with spacecraft. He slid appreciative fingers down the edge of the console.

  The last three days had been frantic, servicing the Mariposa’s dormant systems, checking any possible fatigue or perishing of essential parts. He had even a
llowed Theo Force to command his squadron when Thread fell over the mountains southeast of Karachi and brushed Longwood, on Ierne Island. It was more important for him to recommission the Mariposa. Ongola had spared some time to tune the comm unit circuits and help with the terminal checks. The little ship had been designed for inactivity in the vacuum of space, and although the more important circuits had been stored in vacuum containers, there was always the fear that some minor but critical connection had not been properly scrutinized. But finally all systems had proved go-green, and a trial blast of her engines had been reassuringly loud and steady – and Kenjo had objected when forced to rest the last twelve hours before takeoff.

  You may be a bloody good jockey, Kenjo, but there are better mechanics on Pern than you,” Paul Benden had told him in no uncertain terms. “You need rest now, to keep you alert in space where we can’t help you.”

  A flight plan had been calculated to allow Kenjo to be in the position where Boris and Dieter had predicted the next batch of Thread would enter Pern’s atmosphere. Their program indicated that Thread fell in approximately seventy-two-hour bursts, give or take an hour or two. Kenjo’s mission was to measure the accuracy of their program, to determine the composition of Thread prior to entry, and, if possible, to trace its trajectory backward. Also, last but scarcely least, he was to destroy it before it entered the atmosphere. The next Fall was due to hit Kahrain Province, just above the deserted Oslo Landing, continue on to fall over Paradise River Stake, and end in the Araby Plains.

  Kenjo was a hundred miles below the empty spaceships, but that was too far away for them to register on his scope. Nevertheless he strained to see them, magnifying the viewscope to its limit. Then he shrugged. The ships were past history. He was going to make a new contribution, an unparalleled one. Kenjo Fusaiyuko would discover the source of Thread, eradicate it once and for all, and be a planetary hero. Then no one would condemn him for “conserving” so much fuel for his private use. He could relieve his sense of honor and his scouring bouts of conscience.

  Building his extra-light aircraft had been most rewarding. He had found the design on tape in the Yokohama’s library, in the history-of-airflight section. It was not the most fuel efficient, even when he had redesigned the engine, but what he had saved from each shuttle drop had made that saucy plane possible. Flying it over his isolated Honshu Stake in the Western Barrier Range had given him satisfaction far beyond his imagining, even if it had given rise to rumors of a large and hitherto unknown, flying creature. His wife, patient and calm had ventured no opinion on his avocation, aiding him in its construction. A mechanical engineer, she managed the small hydroelectric plant that served their plateau home and three small stakes in the next valley. She had given him four children, three of them sons, was a good mother, and even managed to help him cultivate the fruit trees that he raised as a credit crop.

  She was safe from Thread, for they had cut their home right into the mountain, using wood only on the interior. She had been quite willing to help him carve a hangar for his aircraft with the stone-cutters he had borrowed from Drake Bonneau. But she did not know that he had a second, well-concealed cave in which to store his hoard of liquid fuel. He had not yet managed to transfer all of it to Honshu from the cave at Landing.

  Yes, no one would object to what Kenjo had done when he brought them the information they sought. And he would see to it that it took three or four missions to do so. He had missed the tranquillity and the challenge of deep space. How pitiful his little atmospheric craft was in comparison to the beautiful, powerful Mariposa. How clumsy the sled he had flown as a squadron leader. He had finally returned to his true medium – space!

  The ship’s alarms went off, and moments later the pinging began. He was in the midst of a shower of small ovoids. With a cry once uttered by long-dead Japanese warriors, Kenjo fired his starboard repulsors and grinned when the screen blossomed with tiny stars of destruction.

  Avril Bitra was livid. She could not believe the change in Landing especially as she had counted on it being nearly deserted. When Stev had talked her into taking apprentices so that no one would question exactly what it was they were doing on Big Island, Landing’s population had been down to a mere two hundred.

  But the Landing she found was crawling with people. There were lights everywhere, and people bustling about despite the late hour. Worst of all, the landing strip was crowded with sleds, large, small, and medium, and technicians swarmed about – and the Mariposa was not there! What under the suns had happened?

  She had settled her sled to one edge of the strip, near where she had last seen the little space gig. She fumed impotently again over that disappointment. She had a fortune with which to depart this wretched mudball. She had even managed to shake off any companions. She had no qualms about leaving Stev Kimmer. He had been useful, as well as amusing – until just lately, until he had assessed those black diamonds. Yes, she had been right to leave immediately before he thought to dismantle the sleds or do something drastic so that she would be forced to take him with her. Where in all the hells of seventeen worlds was the Mariposa? Who was using up the fuel she needed to get her to the colony ships? She struggled to control her rage. She had to think!

  Belatedly she remembered the mayday. She wished now that she had listened in. Well, it could not have been that serious, not with Landing a hive of industry. Still, that could work in her favor. With so many people around, no one would notice another worker poking about.

  She shivered, suddenly aware of the chill in the night air of the plateau. She was accustomed to the tropical climate of Big Island. Cursing inventively under her breath, she rooted through the sled’s storage compartments and found a reasonably clean coverall. She also girded on the mechanic’s belt she found beneath the coverall. It was probably Stev’s – he was always well equipped. She smirked. Not always prepared, however.

  Before she left to hunt for the Mariposa, she would have to hide the sled. In the darkness, she tried to locate at least one of the dense shrubs that grew at the edge of the strip, but she could not find any. Instead she stumbled into a small hole that proved large enough to conceal her sacks of treasure. She retrieved them from the sled, dropped them into the hole, piled loose stone and dirt over them and then shone her handbeam over the spot to see if they were well hidden. After a few minor adjustments, she was satisfied.

  With brazen strides she walked down the grid to the lights and activity.

  Glancing out of the ground-floor window of the met tower where Drake Bonneau was conducting a training session, Sallah Telgar-Andiyar thought she had to be mistaken: the woman only looked like Avril Bitra. She was wearing a tool belt and strode purposefully toward a stripped-down sled. Yet no one else Sallah knew had that same arrogant walk, that provocative swing of the hip. Then the woman stopped and began to work on the sled. Sallah shook her head. Avril was at Big Island; she had not even responded to the mayday, or to the more recent recall to Landing for pilot duty. No one had seen her, or really cared to, but Stev Kimmer’s genius with circuits would have been invaluable. Ongola was trying to get Paul Benden to order the return of Big Island miners.

  “Don’t keep your fingers on the release button.” Drake’s voice penetrated her moment of inattention.

  Poor fellow, Sallah thought. He was trying to teach all the eager youngsters how to fight Thread. If half of what Tarvi had told her about the deadly menace was true, it was devilish to combat.

  “Always sweep from bow to stern. Thread falls in a sou’westerly direction, so if you come under the leading edge, you char a larger portion.” Drake was running out of space on the operational board, which he had covered with his diagrams and flight patterns. Sallah had yet to fight the stuff, so she had paid attention – until the moment when she had thought she recognized Avril.

  The day had had the quality of a reunion for the shuttle pilots. All the old crowd, with the exception of Nabhi Nabol and Kenjo, had answered the summons. Sallah knew where Kenjo
was; she was a trifle envious of him, and was glad of Nabol’s absence. He would certainly have sneered to be in the company of all the young ones who had earned their flying tickets since Landing. Why, she had known some of them as adolescents.

  Settling in at Karachi had eaten more time than she realized. And it had brought so many changes, such as the dragonets perched on young shoulders or curled up on hide-trousered legs. Her own three – a gold and two bronzes – had, just like her older children, picked up some basic manners. They were perched on the top shelves of the big ready room. Two were mentas, and she wondered if they understood what was going on before their watchful rainbow eyes.

  Drake’s imperative warning interrupted her musing. “Don‘t deviate from your assigned altitude. We’re trying to rig cruising devices that will warn you hair-trigger pilots when you’re out of line. We’ve got to maintain flight levels to avoid collisions. We’ve got more people to fly than sleds to fly in. You, “ he said, jabbing his finger at his audience “can be replaced. The sled cannot, and we’re going to need every one we can keep in the air.

  “Now, a sweep from bow to stern in a one-second blast chars as much Thread for the range of these throwers. Catch the end of the stuff and fire runs back up most of it. Don’t waste the HNO3.” His rapid-fire use of the chemical designation made it sound more like “agenothree,” Sallah thought, losing concentration once again. Damn, she must pay attention, but she was so used to listening for sounds, not words. And silences. The silence all children made when they were being naughty or trying out forbidden things. And hers were inventive. She felt her lips widen in a proudly maternal smile, then disciplined her expression as Drake’s eyes fastened on her face.

  She already missed her three older children dreadfully. Ram Da, Sallah’s sturdy, reliable seven-year-old son, had promised to look out for Dena and Ben. Sallah had brought three-month-old Cara with her – the baby was safely installed with Mairi Hanrahan’s lot – so she was not totally deprived. But Tarvi was back at Karachi, extruding metal sheets on a round-the-clock basis, slaving as hard as the people he drove to their limits.