Dragonsdawn (46 page)

“It won’t come to that,” he said, “but we will have a unique defense system, bioengineered to our needs. And useful in other ways. Desi tells me the dragonriders have been delivering supplies to the stakes as they make their way here to Fort. Meanwhile, you have your orders.”

Paul Benden rose and left quickly, Ongola right behind him.

“Damn it, Ongola, where the hell are they?” Paul exclaimed when they were alone.

“They check in every morning. Their progress is good. We can’t ask more of an immature species. I heard Bay tell you that she and Pol both worried that the dragons had been dangerously extended during the evacuation.”

Paul sighed. “Not that there is any other way for them to get here, with the transport situation.” He started down the winding iron stairs that went from the executive level to the underground laboratory complex. “Wind Blossom’s staff has to be reassigned. We don’t have time, personnel, or resources for further experimentation no matter what she says.”

“She’s going to want to appeal to Emily!” Ongola replied.

“Let’s devoutly hope that she can! Any news from Jim this morning?” Paul had reached the state of mind at which he was so saturated with bad news that he did not feel additional blows so keenly. The previous day’s news, that Jim Tillek’s convoy, sailing past Boca, had been caught in a sudden tropical storm that capsized nine craft, had seemed almost inconsequential.

“He reports no loss of life,” Ongola said reassuringly, “and all but two of the boats have been refloated and can be repaired. The dolphins are recovering cargo. There is some heavy stuff, though, that divers will have to locate. Fortunately, they were in shallow water, and the storm didn’t last long.” Ongola hesitated.

“Well, let me have it,” Paul said, pausing on a landing.

“There were no manifests, so there’s no way of checking that they’ve recovered everything.”

Paul regarded Ongola stolidly. “Does he have any idea how long that’s going to hold him up?” Ongola shook his head. “All the more reason, then, to reassign Wind Blossom’s personnel,” Paul said then. “When that’s done, I’ll have a word with Jim. It’s incredible that he’s got such an ill-assorted flotilla as far as he has! Through fog, Fall, and storm!”

Ongola agreed fervently.

While Carenath concentrated very carefully on chewing, Sean stood slightly to one side trying not to be anxious. Fire-dragonets flitted around the dragons, chirping what was obviously encouragement. Duke and some of the other bronzes had found pebbles that they masticated in demonstration.

The dragons and their riders had located the necessary phosphine-bearing rock on an upland plateau halfway between the Malay River and Sadrid. Over the past few days, the confidence of the riders had improved as time and again they were able to teleport to and from given landmarks. Otto Hegelman had suggested that each rider keep a log, noting down reference points for later identifications. The notion had been enthusiastically adopted, although it was immediately necessary for them to request writing materials at the Malay River Stake. They had been surprised to find only children there, with Phas Radamanth’s sixteen-year-old daughter in charge.

“Everyone’s out fighting Thread, you know,” she said, cocking her head at them in what Tarrie later said was pure insolence.

“Desi gave us supplies for you,” Sean replied, stifling his resentment of her implied criticism and the current menial status of dragonriders. He gestured for Jerry and Otto to bring the cargo net into the house. “Would you have any notebooks we could have?”

“What for?”

“We’re doing a coastline survey,” Otto said pompously.

The girl looked surprised, then her face relaxed into a less antagonistic expression. “I guess so. There’s all that sort of stuff in the schoolroom over there. Who has time for lessons these days?”

“You’re most kind,” Jerry said, giving her a quick bow and a broad grin as they withdrew.

The incident had reinforced the riders’ determination to accomplish their purpose during their westward journey.

“It isn’t as if you can chew for him, Sean,” Sorka said, holding out another piece to Faranth. “How much do they need to eat?”

“Who knows how much stoking it takes to start a dragon’s fires?” Tarrie sang out cheerfully. “I’d say this—” She hefted the stone in her hand. “—is comparable to the pebble-size I used to feed my gold dragonet. Isn’t it, Porth?”

The queen obediently lowered her head and took the offering.

“The dragonets chew at least a handful before they can flame,” Dave Catarel said, but he was watching Polenth dubiously as the bronze worked his jaws with the same solemn contemplative look the others had. “Look, Sorka, your fair’s setting the example.”

Duke let go a fine long plume of fire, while Blazer took to the air, scolding him.

Just then Porth let out a squawk, her mouth opened, and a green-stained rock fell to the ground, just missing Tarrie’s foot. Porth snapped her mouth shut and moaned.

“What did she do?” Dave asked.

“She says she bit her tongue,” Tarrie replied. She patted Porth’s shoulder sympathetically. “She did, too. Look!” The green ichor on the rock glistened in the sunlight. “Should I look, Sorka? She might have done herself damage.”

“What does Porth say?” Sorka asked with professional detachment. She could not recall ever having had to deal with self-inflicted dragonet bites.

“It hurts, and she’ll wait until it doesn’t before she chews any more rock.” Tarrie retrieved the offending piece and put it back in the pile they had gathered.

There was another draconic exclamation of pain, and Nora’s Tenneth followed Porth’s bad example. Sean and Sorka exchanged worried glances and continued to offer the firestone to their dragons.

Suddenly Polenth burped, and a tiny flame leapt beyond his nose. The startled bronze jumped backward.

“Hey, he did it!” Dave cried proudly. “Phew!” he added, waving the air from his face. “Stand upwind, folks. That stinks.”

“Watch it!” Sean leapt sideways as Carenath belched, surprising everyone with a respectable tongue of flame that just missed searing his rider. Overhead the fire-lizards flew in congratulatory circles, alternately chirping or expelling flame, their eyes whirling bright blue with approval.

“Upwind and to one side, riders!” Sean amended. “Try it again, Carenath!” Sean offered a larger chunk.

“Jays, that’s awful!” Tarrie said as the wind blew the overpowering stench of the fire-making stone straight into her face. Choking, she ducked around Porth to escape it.

“Where there’s fire, there’s smell,” Jerry quipped. “No, Manooth, turn your head that way!”

Just as the brown dragon obeyed, a blast of flame erupted from his mouth and seared into charcoal one of the scrawny bushes that dotted the plateau.

Jerry pounded his dragon’s shoulder in exultation. “You did it! Manooth! Master blaster!”

The others returned to stoking their dragons with renewed enthusiasm. An hour later, all the males had produced flame, but none of the females had; though the golds had chewed and chewed, one after the other they had regurgitated an awful gray pastelike substance.

“As I recall the program,” Sean said as the gold riders stood disconsolately about, “the queens aren’t mature until they’re nearly three. The males are . . . well . . .” Sean cast about for a diplomatic phrase.

“Functional now,” Tarrie finished for him, none too pleased.

“Even seven recruits are going to be well received at Fort,” Otto said, for once not trying to sound pompous.

Sorka was frowning, though, an expression unusual enough to her that Tarrie inquired as to its cause.

“I was just thinking. Kit Ping was such a traditionalist . . .” Sorka regarded her husband for a long moment, until he ducked his head, unable to maintain the eye contact. “All right, Sean, you know every symbol in that program. Did Kit Ping introduce a gender discrimination?”

“A what?” Tarrie asked. The other queen riders gathered close, while the young men took discreet backward steps.

“A gender inhibition . . . meaning the queens lay eggs, and the other colors fight!” Sorka was disgusted.

“It may just be that the queens aren’t mature enough yet,” Sean said, temporizing. “I haven’t been able to figure out some of Kit Ping’s equations. Maybe the flame production is a mature ability. I don’t know why the queens all barfed. We’ll have to ask Pol and Bay when we get to Fort. But I tell you what, there’s no reason you girls can’t use flamethrowers. With wands a bit longer, you wouldn’t singe your dragon by mistake.”

His suggestion did much to mollify the queen riders for the time being, but Sean hoped fervently that Pol and Bay could give a more acceptable verdict. Seventeen dragons made a more impressive display than seven. And he was determined to impress when the dragonriders flew into Fort Hold. The only burdens dragons should ever carry again were their riders and firestone!

“Actually, Paul,” Telgar said, glancing at Ozzie and Cobber, “those photophobes of Wind Blossom’s have proved to be extremely useful in subterranean explorations. Their instinct for hidden dangers—pitfalls, in fact, and blind tunnels—is infallible.” The geologist gave one of his humorless smiles. “I’d like to keep them now that Wind Blossom has abandoned them, so to speak.” Telgar turned to Pol and Bay.

“It’s a relief to know they’ve some use,” Pol said, sighing heavily. Both he and his wife had tried to reason with the indignant Wind Blossom when she had been requested to suspend the dragon program. Though she maintained that the emergency transfer from Landing to Fort had damaged many of the eggs in the clutch she had manipulated, Pol. and Bay had seen the autopsy reports and knew that claim to be spurious. They had been lucky to hatch six live creatures.

“Once they get to trust you, they’re quite harmless,” Telgar went on. “Cara adores the latest hatchling, and it won’t let her out of its sight unless she leaves the Hold.” Again he displayed his mirthless smile. “Keeps watch at her door by night.”

“We can’t have uncontrolled breeding of those creatures,” Paul said quickly.

“We’ll see to that, Admiral,” Ozzie said solemnly, “but they’re right useful little buggers.”

“Strong, too. Carry more’n they weigh themselves out of the mines,” Cobber added.

“All right, all right. Just limit the breeding.”

“Eat anything,” Ozzie added for good measure. “Anything. So they keep a place clean.”

Paul continued to nod agreement. “I just want any further propagation cleared with Pol and Bay for the biology department.”

“We’re delighted, I assure you,” Bay said. “I didn’t approve of them, but I also cannot approve summary termination of any living creature which can be useful.”

Telgar rose abruptly, and Bay, wondering if her words had reminded him of Sallah’s death, mentally chastised herself for not thinking before she spoke. Ozzie and Cobber sprang to their feet, as well.

“Now that you’ve finally finished mapping the Fort Hold complex,” Paul said, deftly filling the awkward moment, “what are your plans, Telgar?”

A flash of enthusiasm briefly lightened the geologist’s face. “The probe reports indicated ore deposits in the Western Range that should be assayed as an alternative to power-costly haulage from Karachi Camp. Best to have resources close to hand.” Telgar inclined his head in an abrupt farewell and then strode from the room, Ozzie and Cobber mumbling something suitable as they followed him.

“How that man has changed!” Bay said softly, her round face sad.

Paul observed a respectful silence. “I think we all have, Bay. Now is anything to be done about Wind Blossom’s intransigence?”

“Nothing until she has an interview with Emily herself,” Pol said, his expression neutral. Of necessity, the two scientists had been informed of the governor’s true condition, which, twelve days after the accident, remained virtually unchanged.

“I don’t know why she won’t accept your decision, Paul,” Bay said, showing some agitation.

“Tom Patrick says Wind Blossom chooses to distrust the male half of this leadership.” Paul grinned. Actually he did find the situation ludicrous, but since Wind Blossom had immured herself in her quarters until she “had a fair hearing,” he had grasped the opportunity to transfer personnel to more productive employment. Most of them had been grateful. “You will, of course, continue to monitor the new dragon hatchlings.”

“Of course. What’s the latest word from Sean and the others?” Pol asked, a trifle anxious. He and Bay had discussed their continued absence, beginning to wonder if it was deliberate. They both knew that Sean resented the dragonriders’ messenger status. But what else could he expect? Everyone had to do what he could. Pol and Bay themselves were not exactly inspired by Kwan Marceau’s project to monitor the grubs from the grass plot at Calusa, but that was where they could perform a useful service.

“They should be here soon.” Paul’s voice and expression were neutral. “When does Kwan anticipate a northern trial on those worms of his?”

“More grub than worm,” Pol said didactically. “Sufficient have been propagated for a ground test.”

“That’s good news indeed,” Paul said heartily, rising to his feet. “Remember, tomorrow won’t be a good day for any kind of test!”

Pol and Bay exchanged looks. “Is it true, Admiral,” Pol asked, “that you’re not going to fly the full Fall across the mountains?”

“That’s right, Pol. We have neither the personnel, the power, nor the sleds to do more than protect the immediate area. So, if those grubs are of any assistance, we will all be grateful to you.”

When they had left, Paul sank back down in his chair, swiveling to look out the window at the starlit night. The northern climate was colder than that of the south, but the crisp air made the now-familiar star patterns crystal clear. Sometimes he could almost imagine that he was back in space again. He sighed heavily and picked up the terminal. He had to find some vestige of hope in that depressing inventory Joel had submitted.

If they were extremely careful to use sleds and skimmers on only the most critical errands, they might just last out Pern’s current pass through the Oort cloud matter. But when it came around again, what would they do? Paul winced as he remembered the arrogance of Ted Tubberman in preempting the dispatch of the homing device. Had the man known how to activate it properly? Ironic, that! Would it be received? Acted upon? With the help of the technological society they had foresworn, his descendants could survive. Did he want them to? Had they any other choice? With adequate technology, the problem of Thread could possibly be solved. So far, ingenuity and natural resources had failed miserably.