Dragons Dawn

by Anne McCaffrey

  Cabot leaned over to touch her arm lightly. “First we have to prove that they were, Cherry.” He looked expectantly at Paul and Emily. “The charter says that a person is judged innocent until proven guilty.”

  “We watch ‘em,” Paul said. “We watch ‘em. Carter, compose that notice and see that it’s posted throughout Landing, and that every stakeholder is apprised of the fact. Cherry, will you impose the sentence on Tubberman?” He held out his arm to assist her to her feet?”

  “With the greatest of satisfaction. What a superb way to get rid of a bore,” she added under her breath as she marched forward. The unholy joy on her face brightened Joel Lilienkamp’s mood as he followed them, rubbing his hands together.

  The messenger was quite happy to bring a copy of the official notice to Bay and Wind Blossom, on duty in the large incubator chamber. The room was separated from the main laboratory and insulated against temperature changes and noise. The incubator itself stood on heavy shock absorbers, so that in the precarious early stages the embryos in their sacs could not be jarred by equipment moved around the main laboratory.

  Although eggs within a natural womb, or even in a proper shell, could handle a great deal of trauma, the initial ex utero fertilization and alteration had been too delicate to risk the most minute jolt. Development was not yet canalized, nor was the new genetic structure balanced, and any variation in the embryos’ environment would doubtless cause damage. Later, when the eggs were at the stage when naturally they would have been laid in a clutch, they would be transferred to the building where a warmed sand ‘flooring and artificial sun lamps imitated the natural conditions in which dragonet eggs hatched. That point was several weeks ahead.

  Special low-light viewing panels had been created, so no light filtered into the womblike darkness while observers had a clear view of the incubator’s precious contents. A portable magnifier had been devised which could be set at any position on the incubator’s four glass sides for very coarse and routine inspections. In the laboratories of First and Earth, each developing embryo would have been remotely monitored and recorded. But, in Pern’s relatively primitive conditions, about which Wind Blossom constantly complained, the necessity for the avoidance of any toxic substances at all meant that no sensors could be allowed close to the embryos in the culture chambers.

  Bay was jotting down Wind Blossom’s assessment when the messenger delivered the notice. The lad was quite willing to explain any part of the shunning, but Bay shooed him off on his rounds.

  “How extraordinary,” Bay said when she had finished reading it aloud to Blossom. “Really, Ted has been quite a nuisance lately. Did you hear those rumors he was spreading, Blossom? As if that wretched Bitra had anything but her own plans in mind when she stole the Mariposa. Going for help, indeed!” She squinted loyally into the incubator at its forty-two hopes for their future. “But to send off a homing capsule when we most specifically voted against such an action.”

  “I am relieved,” Wind Blossom said, sighing gently.

  “Yes, he was beginning to upset you,” Bay remarked kindly. “She tried to tell herself that the woman was still grieving for her grandmother. There were moments recently, though, when Bay wanted to remind Blossom that it was not just the Yung family who had suffered a grievous loss. She had not, because Blossom had been rather volatile lately and might interpret such a comment as an aspersion on her ability to proceed with her grandmother’s brilliant genetic-engineering program. As her mother’s primary assistant, she was technically in charge of the program on file in the biology Mark 42 computer. Bay, too, had scanned it to familiarize herself with the procedure. Kitti Ping had left copious notes on how to proceed, anticipating those possible minor alignments, balancing, or other compensations that might be needed. She had apparently anticipated everything but her own death.

  “You misunderstand me,” Blossom replied, inclining her head in a gesture reminiscent of her grandmother correcting an erring apprentice. “I am relieved that the homing capsule has been sent. Now there is no blame to us.”

  Bay was not certain that she had heard correctly. “What under the suns do you mean, Blossom?”

  Blossom gave Bay a long look, smiling faintly. “All our eggs are in one basket,” she said with an inscrutable smile and moved the inspection lens to a new position.

  When Pol and Phas Radamanth came to relieve them, Bay lingered. She and Pol did not have much time together anymore, and she did not look forward to another dull supper at the communal kitchen.

  “You got a copy, I see,” Pol said, indicating the shunning notice.

  “Extraordinary that.”

  “More than time,” Phas said, glancing up from Blossom’s notations. “Let’s hope he wasn’t as incompetent a launcher as he was a botanist.”

  Bay stared in astonishment at the xenobiologist and Phas had the grace to look embarrassed.

  “No one approves of Tubberman’s actions, my dear,” Pol assured her.

  “Yes, but if they come . . .” Bay’s gesture took in the incubator and the laboratory, and all that the colonists had managed to do with their new world.

  “If it’s any consolation,” Phas said, “Joel Lilienkamp has not opened a book on an ETA.”

  “Oh!” Then she asked, “And what’s happened to Ted Tubberman?”

  “He was escorted back to his stake and told to remain there.”

  Pol could look quite fierce, she thought, when he wanted to. “What about Mary? And his young children?” she asked.

  Pol shrugged. “She can stay or come. She’s not shunned. Ned Tubberman was looking pretty upset, but he never was very close to his father, and Fulmar Stone thinks he’s a very promising mechanic. He shrugged again and then gave his wife an encouraging smile.

  Bay had no sooner turned to go than the ground under them shook. She instinctively lunged toward the incubator, and found Phas and Pol beside her. Even without the magnifier they could see that the amniotic fluid in the sacs was not rippling in response to the earth quake. The shock absorbers had proved adequate.

  “That’s all we need!” Pol cried, outraged. He stomped to the comm unit and dialed the met tower, slamming down the handset.

  “Engaged! Bay, reassure them.” He gestured toward the first bunch of technicians heading anxiously to the door of the chamber. He dialed again and got through just as Kwan Marceau pushed his way into the room. “Are there going to be more shocks, Jake?” Pol asked. “Why weren’t we warned?”

  “It was a small one,” Jake Chernoff replied soothingly. “Patrice de Broglie called it in but I am obliged to warn infirmary first in case surgery is in progress, and then your line was busy.” That explanation placated Pol. “Patrice says there’s a bit of tectonic plate action to he east, and there may be more jolts in the next few weeks. The incubator’s on shocks anyway, isn’t it? You don’t have anything to worry about.”

  “Nothing to worry about?” Pol demanded. He jammed the handset back onto its stand.

  There was a discreet knock on the door to the admiral’s office, and when Paul answered with a noncommittal “Come in,” Jim Tillek opened it. Emily smiled with relief the master of Monaco Bay was always welcome. Paul leaned back in his swivel chair, ready for a break from the depressing inventory of airworthy sleds and serviceable flame-throwers.

  “Hi, there,” Jim said. “Just up to get my skimmer serviced.”

  “Since when have you needed assistance in that job?” Paul asked.

  “Since all my spare parts at Monaco got reabsorbed by Joel Lilienkamp.” Jim’s drawl was cheerful.

  “And pigs fly,” Paul retorted.

  “Oh, is that the next project?” Jim asked with a comic grin. He dropped into the nearest seat and laced his fingers together. “By the way, Maximilian and Teresa reported on the dolphin search Patrice requested. There are significant lava flows from the Illyrian volcano. It’s only a small one, so don’t be surprised if our easterlies bring in some black dust. It’s not dead Thread. Jus
t honest-to-Vulcan volcano dust. I wanted you to know before another rumor started.”

  “Thanks,” Paul said dryly.

  “Logical explanations are always welcome,” Emily added.

  “I also dropped in to see our favorite patient.” Jim pushed himself deeper into the chair and met Paul’s eyes squarely. “He’s raring to go and threatens to move into the second story of the met tower and run communications from there. Sabra threatens to divorce him if he does anything before he gets medical clearance. Myself, I told him he doesn’t need to worry, as young Jake Chernoff’s been doing a proper job of it. The boy won’t even hazard a guess about the weather until he’s run the satellite report twice and looked out the window.”

  Paul and Emily both smiled at his jocular account.

  “Ongola needs to be back at work,” Emily agreed.

  “He’s sure he’ll never use his arm again. He’d do better being so busy he doesn’t think such negative thoughts.” Jim cocked his head at Paul.

  “According to the doctors,” Emily said with a grateful smile, “Ongola will use that arm – even if he refuses to believe it – but the amount of mobility is still in question.”

  “He’ll get it back,” Jim said blandly. “Hey, is there any truth to the rumor that Stev Kimmer was involved with Tubberman?”

  Paul pulled a face, and Emily shot him a glance. “I told you that was doing the rounds,” she said.

  Jim leaned forward, his expression eager. “Any truth to the one that he skitted out with one of the big pressurized sleds which has been seen near the Great Western Barrier where Kenjo staked his claim? Kimmer’s a lot more dangerous than Ted Tubberman ever was.”

  Paul ran his thumb over his artificial fingers and stopped when he saw that Jim Tillek had noticed the nervous habit. “He is indeed. As the comm unit on that stolen sled was in working order when he lifted it, he will also know that he is wanted back here for questioning.

  Jim nodded in solemn approval. “Has Ezra made any sense out of the reports of those probes Sallah . . .” He blinked, his eyes suspiciously wet.

  “No,” Paul said, clearing his throat. “He’s still trying to translate them. The printout is unclear.”

  “Well, now,” Jim said, “I’ve got a few hours to spare while my sled’s serviced. I looked at hundreds of EEC survey team reports before I found a planet I liked the look of. Can I help?”

  “A fresh eye might be useful,” Paul said. “Ezra’s been at it non stop.”

  “Did I hear correctly,” Jim asked gently, “that the Mariposa plunged directly into the eccentric?”

  Paul nodded. “She made no informative comment.” Avril’s cryptic penultimate phrase, “It’s not the . . .” still rang with some message that Paul felt he must unravel. “Look, Jim, do stop in and see if you can help Ezra. We need some good news. Morale is still low after the murders, and having to shun Ted Tubberman and explain how he got his hands on that homing capsule have not improved the administration’s image.”

  “Clever trick, though,” Jim said, chuckling as he rose. “Keeps you from having to breach stake autonomy, and keeps that fool where he can’t do more damage. I’ll just amble over to Ezra’s pod.” He left the room with a backhanded wave at Emily and Paul.

  Immeasurably cheered by his visit, they went back to the onerous tasks of scheduling crews for the upcoming Threadfalls and mustering teams to collect edible greenery for silage from places as yet untouched by the ravening organism.

  * * * * *

  “Look, Jim, I just can’t find any other logical explanation for the destruction of the probes and these. “ Ezra Keroon waved a handful of probe pics, so blurred that no detail could be seen. “One, maybe two probes could malfunction. But I’ve sent off seven! And Sallah – ” Ezra paused a moment, his face expressing the sorrow he still felt at her loss. “Sallah told us that there had been no damage report for the probe garage. Then we have the Mariposa. It did not hit the surface. Something hit it just about the same time one of the probes went bang!”

  “So you prefer to believe that something down on the surface prevents inspection?” Jim Tillek asked wryly. He leaned back in his seat, easing shoulder muscles taut from hours of bending and peering through magnifiers. “I can’t credit that explanation, Ez. C’mon man. How can anything on that planet be functioning? The surface has been frozen. It can’t have thawed appreciably in the time it’s been swinging in to Rukbat.”

  “One does not have such regular formations on any unpopulated surface. I don’t say they can’t be natural. They just don’t look natural. And I certainly won’t make any guesses about what sort of creatures made them. Then look at the thermal level here, here, and here.” Ezra jabbed a finger at the pics he had been studying. “It’s higher than I’d anticipate on a near-frozen surface. That much we got from the one probe that sent data back.”

  “Volcanic action under the crust could account for that.”

  “But regular convex, not concave, formations along the equator?”

  Jim was incredulous. “You want to believe that plutonic planet could be the source of this attack?”

  “I like that better than substantiating the Hoyle-Wickraman-singh theory, I really do, Jim.”

  “If Avril hadn’t taken the gig, we could find out what that nebulosity is. Then we’d know for sure! Hoyle-Wickraman-singh or little frozen blue critters.” Jim’s tone was facetious.

  “We’ve the shuttles,” Ezra said tentatively, tapping his pencil.

  “No fuel, and there isn’t a pilot among those left that I’d be willing to trust to do such a difficult retrieval. You’d have to match its orbit speed. I saw the dents on the Mariposa’s hull myself where the defense shields failed. Also, we didn’t bring down any heavy worksuits that would protect a man out in a meteor storm. And if your theory is correct, he’ll get shot down.”

  “Only if he gets too close to the planet,” Ezra went on cautiously. “But he wouldn’t have to, to get a sample of the trail. If the trail is nothing but ice, dirt, and rock, the usual cometary junk, we’d know then that the real menace is the planet, not the trail. Right?”

  Jim eyed him thoughtfully. “It’d be dangerous either way. And there’s no fuel to do it anyhow!” Jim opened his arms in a gesture of exasperation.

  “There is fuel.”

  “There is?” Jim sat bolt upright, eyes wide with surprise.

  Ezra gave him a wry smile. “Known only to a chosen few.”

  “Well!” Jim made his eyebrows twitch, but he grinned to show that he took no offense at having been excluded. “How much?”

  “With a thrifty pilot, enough for our purpose. Or maybe, if we could find Kenjo’s main cache, more.”

  “More?” Jim gawked. “Kenjo’s cache? He scrounged fuel?”

  “Always was a clever driver. Saved it from his drops, Ongola said.”

  Jim continued to stare at Ezra, amazed at Kenjo’s sheer impudence. “So that’s why Kimmer’s nosing about the Western Barrier Range. He’s out trying to find Kenjo’s cache. For his own purposes or ours?”

  “Not enough to get anyone’s hopes up, mind you,” Ezra continued, holding up a warning hand. “Maybe it’s not too bad a thing that Tubberman sent off the homer. Because if it is the planet, we need help, and I’m not too proud to ask for it.” Ezra grimaced. “Not that Kimmer said anything to anyone when he made off with the big sled and enough concentrated food and power packs to stay lost for years.

  Joel Lilienkamp was livid that anyone would steal from his Store. We don’t even know how Stev found out about Kenjo’s hoard. Except that he knew how much fuel the Mariposa had in her tanks eight years ago. So he must have figured out someone had saved fuel back when Kenjo made those reconnaissance flights.” Then, as Jim opened his mouth, he added, “Don’t worry about Kimmer taking off even if he finds fuel. Ongola and Kenjo disabled the shuttles some time back. Kimmer doesn’t know where we stash the fuel sacks here. Neither, do I.”

  “I’m honored – b
y your confidence and the cares you have so carefully laid on my bowed shoulders.”

  “You walked in here three days ago and volunteered your services,” Ezra reminded him.

  “Three days? Feels like three years. I wonder if my skimmer’s been serviced.” He rose and stretched again until the bones in his spine and joints readjusted with audible clicks. “So, shall we take this mess – ” He gestured to the mass of photos and flimsies neatly arranged on the work surface. “ – to the guys who have to figure out what we do with it?”

  Paul and Emily listened, saying nothing, until both men had finished expressing their conflicting viewpoints.

  “But when the planet is past us in the next eight or nine years the Threadfall will stop,” Paul said, jumping to a conclusion.

  “Depends on whose theory you favor,” Jim said, grinning with good-natured malice. “Or how advanced Ezra’s aliens are. Right now, if you buy his theory, they’re keeping us at arm’s length while the Thread softens us up.”

  Paul Benden brushed away that notion. “I don’t credit that, Ezra. Thread was ineffective on the previous try. But the Pluto planet could be defending itself. I could live with that much of your theory based on the evidence.”

  Emily looked squarely at Jim. “How long will this gunge fall if it’s from your cometary tail?”

  “Twenty, thirty years. If I knew the length of that tail, I could give a closer estimate.

  “I wonder if that’s what Avril meant,” Paul said slowly, “by ‘it’s not the . . .’ Did she mean that it wasn’t the planet we had to fear, but the tail it brought from the Oort cloud?”

  “If she hadn’t taken the Mariposa, we’d have a chance of knowing.” Emily’s voice had a sharp edge.

  “We still do,” Ezra said. “There’s enough fuel to send a shuttle up. Not as economical a vehicle as the Mariposa but adequate.”

  “Are you sure?” Paul’s expression was taut as he reached for a calc pad on which he worked several equations. He leaned back, his face pensive, then passed the pad over to Emily and Jim. “It might just be possible.” He caught and held Emily’s gaze. “We have to know. We have to know the worst we can expect before we can plan ahead.