Dragons Dawn

by Anne McCaffrey

  Paul Benden was heartened in an obscure way to see the governor as much like a nervous school child as himself. Pol and Bay nodded encouragement. Kitti Ping and Wind Blossom, who stood slightly behind her grandmother’s left side, waited patiently.

  “If the dragonets were only larger, Kitti,” Bay broke in, her manner unusually brusque, “intelligent enough to obey commands, they’d be an immense help to us. I was able to use mentasynth to enhance their own latent empathies, but that’s a relatively simple matter. To breed large enough dragonets – dragons – we need them big – ” Bay stretched her arms full length and flicked her fingers to indicate room size. “ – intelligent, obedient, strong enough to do the job needed: flame Thread out of the sky.” She ran out of words then, knowing very well how Kitti Ping Yung felt about bioengineering beyond simple adjustments to adapt creatures to new ecological parameters.

  Kitti Ping nodded again while her granddaughter regarded her with surprise. “Yes, size, strength, and considerable intelligence would be required,” she said in her softly audible voice. Hiding her hands in the cuffs of her long sleeves and folding them across her stomach, she bent her head and was silent for so long that her audience wondered if she had nodded off in the easy sleep of the aged. Then she spoke again. “And dedication, which is easy to instill in some creatures, impossible in others. The dragonets already possess the traits you wish to enhance and magnify.” She smiled, a gentle, faintly apologetic smile of great sadness and compassion. “I was the merest student, though a very willing and eager one, in the Great Beltrae Halls of Eridani. I was taught what would happen if I did this or that, enlarged or reduced, severed that synapse or modified the gene pattern. Most of the time what I was taught to do worked, but, alas,” she added, raising one hand warningly, “I never knew why sometimes the modification failed and the organism died. Or should have. The Beltrae would teach us the how but never the why.”

  Paul sighed deeply, despair threatening to overwhelm him.

  “But I can try,” she said. “And I will. For though my years are nearly accomplished, there are others to be considered.” She turned to smile gently upon Wind Blossom, who ducked her head with humility.

  Paul shook his head, not quite believing what she had just said.

  “You will?” Bay exclaimed, jumping to her feet. She stopped just short of rushing to Kitti’s raised chair.

  “Of course I will try!” Kitti raised one tiny hand in warning. “But I must caution you that success cannot be assumed. What we under take is dangerous to the species, could be dangerous for us, and cannot be guaranteed. It is good fortune of the highest degree that the little dragonets already possess so many of the qualities required in the genetically altered animal that suits the urgent need. Even then we may not be able to achieve the exact creature, or even be sure of a genetic progression. We have no sophisticated laboratory equipment or methods of analysis which could lighten our burden. We must let repetition, the work of many hands and eyes, replace precision and delicacy. The task is appropriate, but the means are barbaric.’’

  “But we have to try!” Paul Benden said, rising to his feet with clenched fists.

  * * * * *

  All medical staff not on duty in the infirmary or on ground crew duty, the veterinarians, and the apprentices, Sean and Sorka included, worked shifts as Kitti Ping’s project was given top priority. Anyone with training in biology, chemistry, or laboratory procedures of any kind – sometimes even those with nimble fingers who could be put to work preparing slides, or those convalescing from Threadfall injuries who could watch monitors – were drafted into service. Kitti, Wind Blossom, Bay, and Pol extracted a genetic code from the chromosomes of the fire-dragonets. Although the creatures were not of Earth, their biology proved not too dissimilar to work with.

  “We succeeded with the chiropteroids on Centauri,” Pol said, “and they had chains of silicons as their genetic material.”

  A great deal of schedule juggling was required in order to muster enough people to fight Fall over populated areas. The detailed sequence of Threadfall, established by the exhausted team of Boris Pahlevi and Dieter Clissmann, gave a structure to which even Kitti’s project had to bow. The resultant four-shift roster attempted to provide everyone with some time for themselves – both to relax and to care for their own stakes – though some of the specialists ignored such considerations and had to be ordered to sleep.

  Everyone over the age of twelve was brought in when Thread fell. The hope that Kenjo, in the Mariposa, could deflect Thread pods in the upper reaches of the atmosphere turned out to be ineffective. The predicted double Fall – over Cardiff in mid-Jordan and Bordeaux in Kahrain, and over Seminole and Ierne Island – was patchy, but the gaps perversely did not include occupied sites.

  More double Falls could be anticipated: on the thirty-first day after First Fall, Thread would sweep across Karachi camp and the tip of the Kahrain peninsula; three days later a single land corridor would range from Kahrain across Paradise River Stake, while a second Fall would pass harmlessly at sea well above the tip of Cibola Province. After another three days, a dangerous double would hit Boca Stake and the thick forests of lower Kahrain and Araby, stocks of the one real wood vitally needed to shore up mine pits at busy Karachi Camp and Drake’s Lake.

  Ezra spent hours in the booth that housed the link with the Yokohama’s mainframe, scanning the naval and military histories in find some means of combating the menace. He also sought, with much less optimism, obscure equations or devices that might be able to alter the orbit of the planet. Then the next Fall could, perhaps, be avoided. Meanwhile, however, the present pass had seeded Pern’s orbit with spirals of the encapsulated Thread, a danger that the colonists would have to face no matter what. He also did comparisons with data from Kitti’s program, delving into science files, using her security ID to access secret or “need to know” information. He was waiting, too, for the probe’s findings to be relayed back to him. And because everyone knew where to find Ezra, he often intercepted complaints and minor problems that would have added unnecessary burdens to the admiral and the governor.

  Kenjo was sent on three more missions, each time trying to find a more efficient way of destroying enough Thread in space to justify the expenditure of precious fuel. The gauges on the Mariposa dropped only slightly with each trip, and Kenjo was commended on his economy. Drake was openly envious of the space pilots skill.

  “Jays, man,” Drake would say. “You’re driving it on the fumes.”

  Kenjo would nod modestly and say nothing. He was, however, rather relieved that he had not managed to transfer all the fuel sacks to their hiding place at Honshu. All too soon, he would have to broach that supply to ensure continued trips into space. Only there did he feel totally aware and alive in every sense and nerve of his body.

  But each time he brought back useful information. Thread,

  it turned out, traveled in a pod that burned away when it hit the atmosphere of Pern, leaving an inner capsule. About 15,000 feet above the surface, the inner capsule opened into ribbons, some of which were not thick enough to survive in the upper reaches. But, as everyone at Landing well knew, plenty fell to the surface.

  Most of the sleds were unpressurized, so they had an effective ceiling of 10,000 feet. There was still only one way to clear the Thread from the skies: by flame-throwers.

  With Thread due to fall on the Big Island Stake on Day 40, Paul Benden ordered Avril Bitra and Stev Kimmer to return to Landing. When Stev asked what Landing needed in the way of the ores mined at Big Island, Joel Lilienkamp was more than happy to supply a list. So when they arrived at Landing with four sleds crammed canopy high with metal ingots, no one mentioned their long delinquency.

  “I don’t see Avril,” Ongola commented as the sleds were being unloaded at the metals supply sheds.

  Stev looked at him, slightly surprised. “She flew back weeks ago. He peered back at the landing grid and saw the sun glint off the Mariposa’s hull. “Hasn�
��t she reported in?” Ongola shook his head slowly. “Well, now, fancy that!” Stev’s gaze lingered thoughtfully on the Mariposa just long enough for Ongola to notice. “Maybe Thread got her!”

  “Maybe her, but not the sled,” Ongola replied, knowing that Avril Bitra was too adept at preserving her skin to be scored. “We’ll keep an eye out for her.”

  Threadfall charts were displayed everywhere and constantly updated; previous Falls were deleted and future ones limited to the next three, so that people could plan a week ahead. Avril could not have stopped ten minutes in Landing without learning of the dangers of Thread. Ongola reminded himself that he must remove that guidance chip from the Mariposa as soon as Kenjo landed. He knew exactly how the space pilot had extended the fuel; he did not want anyone else, especially Avril Bitra, to discover how. Admiral Benden had been right about Kenjo. Ongola did not want to be right about Bitra!

  “Where do you want me to work now I’m back, Ongola?” Stev asked with a wry grin.

  “Find out where Fulmar Stone needs you most, Kimmer. Glad to see you in one piece.”

  Avril had stayed around Landing that night just long enough to know that she did not wish to be conscripted into any of the several teams who could use her special skills. The only skill she preferred to employ – space navigation – was thwarted. So, before dawn broke on Landing and before anyone noticed the existence of a spare sled, she lifted it again, loaded with useful supplies, both food and materiel.

  She touched down on the rocky height above the ravaged Milan Stake, where she had a clear view of Landing and, more importantly a good view of the busy, illuminated grid where the Mariposa would touch down. She spent the early morning hours using the metal sheets she had filched to arrange an umbrella over the sled’s siliplex canopy. She preferred to take every precaution against the deadly airborne stuff. By midmorning she had camouflaged her eyrie and tuned the sled’s scope on her objective. She was rewarded by a provocative view of Kenjo’s return.

  By listening carefully to all the channels available on the sled’s comm unit, she managed to discover the facts of his mission and its limited success.

  Over the next several days, she began to feel secure in her hideout because of the old volcanoes, most air traffic took corridors well to either side of her. During the morning the shadow of the biggest peak lurked over the retreat, like a broad digit pointing directly at her. It was enough to make her flesh creep. She had no real appreciation of views, although the fact that she could look up the Jordan to the bay, or down toward Bordeaux meant that she was unlikely to be surprised. She began to relax and wait. Considering the reward, she had trouble practicing patience.

  Have you any progress to report, Kitti?” Paul Benden asked the tiny geneticist.

  He had never found that close surveillance improved performance, but he needed some morsel of encouragement to lighten the depression of his people. The psychologists reported a lowering of moral as the second month of Threadfall ground on. The initial enthusiasm and resolution was being eroded by fierce work schedules and few distractions. Landing’s facilities, once generous, were crowded with technicians drafted into the laboratories and stakeholders’ families returned to the dubious safety of the first settlement.

  No one was idle. Mairi Hanrahan had made a game for the five– and six-year-olds with good motor control to assemble control panels by the colors of the chips. Even the most awkward ones could help gather fruits and vegetables from the undamaged lands, or compete with one another in collecting the unusual-colored seaweeds from the beaches after high tides or storms. The seven-and eight-year-olds were permitted to help fish with handlines under the watchful eyes of experienced fishermen. But even the youngest toddlers were beginning to react to mounting tensions.

  There was considerable talk about allowing more holders to return to their stakes and fly out from their homes to meet Thread. But that would mean splitting up the supply depots and disarranging the work schedules of the more valuable technicians. Paul and Emily finally had to remain adamant on the centralization.

  That night Kitti regarded Paul and Emily with a wise and compassionate smile. As she sat erect on the stool by the massive microbiological unit, its minute laser units pushed back from the manipulation chamber, she did not appear fatigued; only her bloodshot eyes showed the strain of her labors. A program was running with whispering clicks, flashing incomprehensible displays on its several monitors. Kitti paused briefly to regard a graph on one screen and a set of equations on another before she returned her gaze to the anxious men.

  “There is no way, Admiral, to accelerate gestation, not if you wish a healthy, viable specimen. Not even the Beltrae managed to hasten that process. As I mentioned in my last reports, we pinpointed the cause of our original failures and made the necessary corrections. Time-consuming, I realize, but well worth the effort. The twenty-two bioengineered prototypes we now have are proceeding well into the first semester. We all” – her delicate hand made a graceful sweeping gesture that included all the technicians working in the huge laboratory block – “are immensely cheered by such a high rate of success.” She turned her head slightly to watch the flicker of a reading. “We constantly monitor the specimens. They show the same responses as the little tunnel snakes whose development we understand well. Let us earnestly hope that all proceeds without incident. We have been infinitely fortunate so far. Patience is required of you now.”

  “Patience,” Paul echoed ruefully. “Patience is in very short supply.”

  Kitti raised her hands in a gesture of impotence. “Day by day, the embryos grow. Wind Blossom and Bay continue to refine the program. In two days we shall start a second group. We shall continue to refine the manipulations. Always seeking to improve. We do not stand still. We move forward.

  “Our task is great and full of responsibility. One does not irresponsibly change the nature and purpose of any creature. As it was said, the person of intellect is careful in the differentiation of things, so that each finds its place. Before completion, deliberation and caution are the prerequisites of success.”

  Kitti then smiled a courtly dismissal of the two leaders and turned her complete attention to the rapidly shifting monitors. Paul and Emily executed equally courteous bows to her slender back and left the room.

  “Well,” Paul began, shrugging off his frustration, “that’s that.”

  “What city wasn’t built in a day, Paul?” Emily asked whimsically.

  “Rome.” Paul grinned at Emily’s astonishment at his prompt reply. “Old Earth, first century, I think. Good land fighters and road builders.”

  “Militarists.”

  “Yes,” Paul said. “Hmm . . . They also had a way of keeping people content. They called it circus. I wonder . . .”

  On the forty-second day after First Fall, with Thread crossing uninhabited parts of Araby and Cathay and falling harmlessly in the Northern Sea above Delta, missing Dorado’s western prong, Admiral Benden and Governor Boll decreed a day of rest and leisure for all. Governor Boll asked department heads to schedule work loads to allow everyone to participate in the afternoon feast and evening dancing. Even the most distant stakeholders were invited to come for whatever time they could spare. Admiral Boll asked for two squadrons of volunteers to fly Thread at 0930 over the eastern corridor and another two to be ready in the early evening to check the western one.

  The platform on Bonfire Square was gay with multicolored bunting, and a new planetary flag was hoisted on the pole to flap in the breeze. Tables, benches, and chairs were placed around the square leaving its center clear for dancers. Vats of quikal were to be broached, and Hegelman would produce ale – no one wished to think that it might be the last made for a long while. Joel Lilienkamp released generous supplies without grudge. “Thank the kids that gathered them! Child labor can be efficient,” he said with a grin. The Monaco Bay fishermen brought in shining loads of fish and the more succulent seaweeds to be baked in the big, long-unused pits, twenty farm
stakes donated as many steers to turn on spits; Pierre de Goorci had worked all the previous night, baking cakes and making extravagant sweets. “Better to fatten humans than Thread!” He was always happiest when overseeing a large effort.

  “It’s good to hear music and singing and laughter,” Paul murmured to Ongola as they wandered from one group to another.

  “I think it would be a good custom to establish,” Ongola replied. “Something to look forward to. Reunites old friends, improves bonds, gives everyone a chance to air and compare.” He nodded to the group that included his wife, Sabra, Sallah Telgar-Andiyar, and Barr Hamil-Jessup, chatting and laughing together, each with a sleepy child on her lap. “We need to gather more often.”

  Paul nodded, then glanced at his wrist chrono and, swearing softly under his breath, went off to lead the volunteers against the western Fall.

  Ongola was not feeling exactly top of the mark the next morning when he arrived for his watch at the met tower. In fact, he had called in first at the infirmary, where the pharmacist had given him a hangover tablet and assured him that he was one of many. But her comment about disturbing casualties during that Threadfall had only made his headache worse.

  The report that awaited him at the met tower was a shock and a surprise. One sled had been totaled and its crew of three killed; a second sled had been badly crumpled, the starboard gunner killed, and pilot and port gunner badly injured in the midair head-on collision. Someone had not been obeying the altitude restrictions. Ongola groaned involuntarily as he read the casualty list: Becky Nielson, mining apprentice just back from Big Island – she had been safer after all with Avril; Bart Nilwan, a very promising young mechanic; and Ben Jepson. Ongola rubbed his eyes to clear the blur. Bob Jepson was the other dead pilot. Two in the same family. Those twins! Farting around in break-ass fashion instead of following orders! Stinkin’ air! What could he say to their parents? A minor Fall with a party to come back to, and they died!