Dragonseye (6 page)

Clisser knew when he wasn’t needed, and left the room, smiling to himself. Now, if Bethany was right and this term’s students could perform the research satisfactorily, he could make good on his blithe promise to the Council. He did hope that the computers would last long enough for a comprehensive search. They had got so erratic lately that their performance was suspect at most times. Some material was definitely scrambled and lost among files. And no one knew how to solve the problem of replacement parts. Of course, the PCs were so old and decrepit, it was truly a wonder that they had lasted as long as they had. Was there any point these days in holding a course on computer electronics?

Which thought reminded him that he had interviews with two sets of parents who were insisting that their offspring be put in the computer course since that was the most prestigious of those offered. And the one involving the least work since there were so few computers left. Where would they practice the skills they learned? Clisser wondered. Furthermore, neither of the two students concerned had the aptitude to work with mechanical objects. They just
thought
it was what they wanted. There were always a few cases like that in an academic year. And one set of holder parents who did
not
like their daughter associating with “lesser breeds without the law” . . . as Sheledon put it.

As if there was room, or facilities, for more than one teachers’ school. Or the private tutors some holders felt should be supplied them because of their positions. Ha! As it was, the peripatetic teachers were going all year long, trying to cover the basics with children in the far-flung settlements. Well, maybe one day they could site a second campus—was that the word?—on the eastern coast. Of course, with Threadfall coming, he’d have to revise all the schedules as well as instruct his travelers on how to avoid getting killed by the stuff. He had seen footage—when the projector still worked—of actual Threadfall. He shuddered. Accustomed as he had been all his life to the prospect of the menace, he still didn’t
like
the inevitability. The reality was nearly
on them.

The Weyrleaders could waffle on about how well-prepared hold and Weyr were, with dragon strength at max, and groundcrews and equipment organized, but did anyone really
know
what it would be like? He swore under his breath as he made his way to the rooms that still needed to be completed to receive occupants in five days. He’d work on the syllabus during his lunch break.

A sudden thought struck him so that he halted, foot poised briefly above the next step. What they really needed was a totally new approach to education on Pern!

What was the point of teaching students subjects now rendered useless here on Pern? Like computer programming and electronic maintenance? What good did it do the Pernese boys and girls to know old geographic and political subdivisions of Terra? Useless information. They’d never go there! Such matters did not impinge on their daily lives. What was
needed
was a complete revision of learning priorities, suitable to those who were firmly and irrevocably based on this planet. Why did anyone
now
need to know the underlying causes of the Nathi Space War? No one here was going to go into space—even the dragons were limited to distance that they could travel before they were in oxygen debt. Why not study the spatial maps of Pern and forget those of Earth and its colonies? Study the Charter and its provisions as applicable to the Pernese citizenry, rather than prehistoric governments and societies. Well, some of the more relevant facts could be covered in the course to show how the current governmental system, such as it was, had been developed. But there was so much trivia—no wonder his teachers couldn’t get through the lessons. Small wonder the students got bored. So little of what they were presently required to learn had any relevance to the life they lived and the planet they inhabited. History should really begin with Landing on Pern . . . well, some nodding acquaintance with the emergence of Homo sapiens, but why deal with the aliens that Earth’s exploratory branch had discovered when there was little chance of them arriving in the Rukbat system?

And further, Clisser decided, taken up with the notion, we should encourage specialized training—raising agriculture and veterinary care to the prestige of computer sciences. Breeding to Pernese conditions and coping with Pernese parasites was far more important than knowing what had once bothered animals back on Earth. Teach the miners and metalworkers where the spatial maps showed deposits of ores and what they were good for; teach not the history of art—especially since many of the slides of Masterpieces had now deteriorated to muddy blurs—but how to use Pernese pigments, materials, design, and tailoring; teach the Great Currents, oceanography, fish-conservation, seamanship, naval engineering, and meteorology to those who fished the waters . . . As to that, why not separate the various disciplines so that each student would learn what he needed to know, not a lot of basically useless facts, figures, and theories?

For instance, get Kalvi to take in . . . what was the old term—ah, apprentices—take in apprentices to learn fabrication and metalwork? And there’d have to be a discipline for mining, as well as metalworking. One for weaving, farming, fishing. And one for teaching, too. Of course, education in itself was designed to teach you how to solve the problems that cropped up in daily living, but for specialties, you could really slim down to the essential skills required by each. As it was, that sort of apprentice system was almost in place anyhow . . . with parents either instructing their kids in the family’s profession or getting a knowledgeable neighbor to do it. Kalvi had both sons now in supervisory capacities in his Telgar Works. And there should be provisions to save other kids, like Jemmy, and see that they were able to develop a potential not in keeping with their native hold’s main business. Administer a basic aptitude test to every child at six, and the more specific one at eleven or twelve, and be able to identify special abilities and place him or her where he or she could learn best from the people qualified to maximize the innate potential.

Even in medicine, a new curriculum should be established, based on what was now available on Pern, rather than what the First Settlers had had. Mind you, Corey was constantly regretting the lack of this or that medicine, or equipment and procedures that would save lives but was no longer available. Clisser snorted: too much time was spent bitching about “what had been” and “if only we still had” instead of making the best of what was available in the here and now. What was that old saying?

Ours not to wonder what were fair in life

But finding what may be, make it fair up to our means?

Well, he couldn’t remember who had said it or to what it applied. But the meaning definitely applied! Pern had great riches which were being ignored in the regret of the “what had been.” Even Corey had to admit that the indigenous pharmacopoeia was proving to be sufficient for most common ailments, and even better in some cases now that the last of the carefully hoarded Earth chemicals were depleted.

Basic concepts of math, history, responsibility, duty could indeed be translated into music, easier to transmit and memorize. Why, anyone who could strum an instrument could give initial instruction in holds; teach kids to read, write, and do some figuring; and then let them apply themselves to the nitty-gritty of their life’s occupation. And music had always been important here!

He put his foot down on the step, pleased with this moment’s revelation. A whole new way of looking at the education and training of the young, and entirely suitable to the planet and its needs. He must really sit down and think it all through . . . when he found the time.

His laugh mocked his grandiose ideas, and yet they’d had to revise and reform so many old concepts here on Pern: Why not the method in which education was administered? Was that the word he wanted: administered? Like a medicine? He sighed. He did wish that learning was not considered an unavoidable dose. Certainly someone like Jemmy proved that learning was enjoyable. But then, insatiable appetites like his for knowledge, for its own sake, were rare.

Clisser trotted up the last of that flight in considerably better humor. He’d find the time, by all that’s still holy, he would.

CHAPTER III

Late Fall at Telgar Weyr

Z
ULAYA BEAMED
at Paulin. “Yes, she rather outdid herself, didn’t she?” She turned to regard her queen fondly as the golden dragon hovered proprietarily over the fifty-one eggs which would, by all the signs, hatch sometime this day.

All morning dragons had conveyed in guests and candidates.

“Aren’t the Weyrs overproducing a trifle?” Paulin asked. Benden and Ista Weyrs had also had Hatchings in the past month. He had lost two very promising holder lads to the Weyrs: a felt loss, as riders would no longer be as free as they were during an Interval to journey easily between hold and Weyr, and to learn and practice other professions.

“Frequent clutches are one of the surefire signs that there will be a Pass,” Zulaya said, obviously looking forward to the days when the dragons of Pern started the work for which they were engineered. “Have you heard that song the College sent out?”

“Hmmm, yes, I have,” and Paulin grinned. “In fact, I can’t get it out of my mind.”

“Clisser says they have several more to play for us tonight.”

“Just music?” Paulin asked, scowling. “It’s a device we asked them for . . . something permanent so that no one can deny the imminence of a Pass.”

Zulaya patted his hand encouragingly. “You can ask what progress he’s made on that project.”

K’vin, coming up behind them, casually laid a hand on his Weyrwoman’s shoulder, acting as proprietary of her as her dragon was of her clutch. Amused, Paulin coughed into his hand and hurriedly excused himself.

“He’s worried about that fail-safe,” Zulaya said, almost amused by K’vin’s show of jealousy but not about to remark on it.

“You’re looking very beautiful in that new dress,” he said, eyeing it.

“Do I? Why, thank you, Key,” she said, twisting her hips to make the skirt whirl. “Which reminds me . . .” and she held out a fold of the rich crimson-patterned brocade that she had had made for this Hatching. “Fredig suggested tapestries, hanging in every Weyr and hold, depicting the return of the Red Star—with the formulae in the borders. Make an interesting design, certainly.”

“Colors fade and fabrics certainly deteriorate . . .”

“We’ve some that graced houses in Landing. That Earth-Moon scene . . .”

“Which was made, as I’ve been told, out of synthetic yams which are more durable than what we have now—cotton, linen, and wool. And even they are looking worn and losing color.”

“I’ll have them washed . . .”

“You’ll have them thread-worn . . . oops,” and K’vin grinned at the pun.

“. . . which is not what is wanted, but there’s no reason, Key, not to have a hundred different reminders.”

“Something set in stone . . .” the Weyrleader said in a more sober tone.

“Even stones move . . .”

“Only prior to a Pass. Only
how
to perpetuate the critical information?”

“I think everyone’s worrying too much. I mean, here we are,” and Zulaya gestured broadly to include the Hatching Ground and the Weyr around them. “Why else have dragons? And Weyrs set apart to preserve them, if not for a very, very good reason. They’re the planet’s only sure defense.”

A sound, subliminal, more than a real noise, alerted them. It issued from Meranath, who reared to her hindquarters, spreading her broad wings, her eyes glowing brightly green and beginning to whirl with excitement.

“Ah, it starts,” Zulaya said, smiling in anticipation. “Oh, I love Hatchings!”

Hand in hand the two Weyrleaders raced to the entrance and called out the news, scarcely needed, for the Telgar dragons were already reacting to the queen’s maternal croon with their deep masculine humming.

The Weyr Bowl became active with dragons a-wing in excitement, flipping here and there on seemingly unavoidable collision courses: with the Weyrlingmaster herding the candidates forward; with parents and friends of the lucky boys and girls rushing across the hot sands to take their places in the amphitheater: hustling to get the best seating for the Impression about to happen.

K’vin sent Zulaya back to keep Meranath company as he urged people inside, checking the nervous white-clad candidates who had been halted in a clump near the entrance until the spectators were all seated.

“You’ve long enough to wait on the hot sands as it is,” T’dam, the Weyrlingmaster, told them. “Singe your feet, you could, out there . . .”

All this time the humming was rising in volume: Meranath joined by all the other dragons in a chorus of tones that Sheledon—and others—had tried to imitate without quite succeeding. Meranath’s throat was swollen with her sound, which continued unabated and seemingly without her needing to draw breath. Soon, as the volume increased, her chest and belly would begin to vibrate, too, with the intensity of her humming. K’vin was aware of the usual response in himself, a jumble of emotions; a joy that threatened to burst his heart through his chest, pride, hope, fear, yearning—oddly enough, hunger was part of it—and a sadness that, on some occasions, could make him weep. Zulaya always wept at Hatchings—at least, until Impressions began. Then she was jubilant, picking up on her queen’s acceptance of her clutch’s partnering.

In Fort Hold’s storage there were file boxes full of early psychological profiles about the effect of Hatching on riders, dragons, and the new weyrlings. The bonding that occurred was of such complexity and depth that no other union could be compared to it: almost overwhelming in the initial moment of recognition, and certainly the most intense emotion the young candidates had ever experienced. Some youngsters had no trouble at all adapting to the intense and intrusive link: some suffered feelings of inadequacy and doubt. Every Weyr had its own compendium of information about what to do in such-and-such a situation. And every weyrling was assiduously trained and supported through the early months of the relationship until the Weyrleaders and Weyrlingmaster deemed he/she was stable enough to take responsibility for her/himself and her/his dragon.

But then, a rider was the dragon, and the dragon the rider, in a partnership that was so unwavering, its cessation resulted in suicide for the dragon who lost his mate. The unfortunate rider was as apt to take his life as not. If he lived, he was only half a man, totally bereft by his loss. Female riders were less apt to suicide: they at least had the option of sublimating their loss by having children.

When the little fire-lizards, who had supplied the genetic material to bioengineer the larger dragons, had still been available, a former male rider found some solace in such companionship. Only three fire-lizard clutches had been found in Ista in the last five decades; though it was thought more might be found in the Southern Continent, that quest had so far been futile. The vets had decided that some sort of odd disease had infected the creatures on northern warm beaches, reducing their numbers and/or their clutches. Whatever the reason, no one had fire-lizard companions anymore.

As soon as most of the guests had crossed the hot sands, T’dam allowed the candidates to make a loose circle around the eggs. There was no golden egg in this clutch—a circumstance that had both relieved and worried the Weyrleaders. They had five junior queens, which was quite enough for Telgar’s low-flight wing. In fact, there was no dearth of queens in any of the Weyrs, but there was safety in having enough breeders.

Five girls stood on the Hatching Ground. There should have been six, but the girl’s family had refused to give her up on Search since they claimed a union had been arranged and they could not go back on that pledge. As K’vin thought that a good third or even half of this clutch might be greens, he hoped there’d be enough suitable candidates to Impress all the green hatchings. Green dragons were valuable to a Weyr for their speed and agility, even if they didn’t have the stamina of the larger dragons. Still, they were perhaps the most problematic when it came to Threadfighting. Greens with male riders tended to be more volatile, apt to ignore their Weyrleaders’ orders in the excitement of a Fall—in short, they tended to unnecessarily show off their bravery to the rest of the Weyr. Female riders, on the other hand, while more stable, tended to get pregnant frequently, unless they were very careful, since the greens were usually very sexually active. Even spontaneous abortions due to the extreme cold of
between
required sensible convalescence, so female green riders were all too often off the duty roster for periods of time. “Taking a short dragon-ride” was now a euphemism for ending an unwanted pregnancy. Still, K’vin had fallen on the side of preferring females when Search provided them.

The draconic humming—what Clisser called a prebirth lullaby—was reaching an almost unendurable level, climaxing when the first egg cracked open. The spectators were exhibiting the usual excitability, jumping about, weeping, singing along with the dragons. They’d calm down, too, once the Hatching had begun.

And it did. Three shells burst outward simultaneously, fragments raining down on nearby eggs and causing them to crack, as well. K’vin counted nine dragons, six of them wetly green, and revised his “third” of greens closer to “half.”

The hatchlings were so dangerous at this stage, ravenous from their encapsulation, and some of the nearer candidates hastily avoided the bumbling progress of the newborn. Two greens seemed headed for Weyrbred Jule, but the blonde from Ista, already noted in the Weyr for her quick wits, stepped beside one and Impression was made for both. Three of the other greens made for lads who had demonstrated homosexual preferences in their holds. The remaining green, after lunging out of her shell, stood, weaving her head back and forth, crying piteously.

T’dam called out to the remaining girls to converge on her. The brunette girl from Ista made for her and instantly the little green covered the intervening distance, squeaking with relief.

K’vin swallowed against the emotional lump in his throat: that instant of recognition always brought back the moment he had experienced the shock of Impression with Charanth. And the glory of that incredibly loving mind linking with his: the knowledge that they were indissolubly one, heart, mind, and soul.

We are, are we not?
Charanth said, his tone rough with the memory of that rapture. Despite the fact that Charanth, like the rest of the Weyr ‘s dragons, was perched up along the ceiling, K’vin could “hear” the dragon’s sigh.

Zulaya grinned up at K’vin, aware of what was taking place within him, tears flowing down her face as the high emotional level of the Hatching affected her.

Absently K’vin thought that the glowing bulk of Meranath behind Zulaya made a great background for her beautiful new gown . . . red against gold.

Then another dozen or so eggs split wide open and the raucous screeching of starving little dragonets reverberated back and forth on the Ground. There was a piercing quality to these screams like lost souls. As each hatchling met its rider, the scream broke off and a mellow croon began. That quickly segued into a piteous “hungry” appeal which was almost more devastating than the earliest screech the weyrlings made. K’vin’s stomach invariably went into empathetic hunger cramps.

The noise of a Hatching, K’vin thought, was unique. Fortunately, because human eardrums were not designed to deal with such decibels and cacophony, it didn’t last too long. He always felt slightly deafened—certainly ear sore—by the end of a Hatching.

He was suddenly aware of another sort of babble and fuss going on just outside the Hatching Ground. K’vin tried to see what was happening, but noting T’dam striding over to investigate, he turned his attention back to the pairing of the last few Hatchings, two browns and the last green. Two lads were homing on the green, desperate expressions on their faces. Abruptly the green turned from them and resolutely charged across the sands to the girl who had just entered. K’vin gave a double take. There were only five girls, weren’t there? Not that he wasn’t glad to see another. And she was the one the green wanted, for the hatchling pushed aside the boy who tried to divert her.

Then three men strode into the Ground, furious expressions on their faces, with T’dam trying to intercept their angry progress toward the lately impressed green pair.

“
Debera!
” yelled the first man, reaching out and snatching her away from the green dragonet.

That was his first mistake, K’vin thought, running across sands to avert catastrophe. Damn it all. Why did this marvelous moment have to be interrupted so abruptly? Hatchings should be sacrosanct.

Before K’vin could get there, the green reacted to the man’s attempt to separate her from her chosen one. She reared, despite being not altogether sure of her balance on wobbly hindquarters. Extending her short forearms with claws unsheathed, she lunged at the man.

K’vin had one look at the shock on his face, the fear on the girl’s, before the dragon had the man down and was trying to open her jaws wide enough to fit around his head.

T’dam, being nearer, plunged to the rescue. The girl, Debera, was also trying to detach her dragonet from her father, for that’s what she was calling him.

“Father! Father! Leave him alone, Morath. He can’t touch me now, I’m a dragonrider. Morath, do you hear me?”

Except that K’vin was very anxious that Morath might have already injured the man, he was close to laughing at this Debera’s tone of authority. The girl had instinctively adopted the right attitude with her newly hatched charge. No wonder she’d been Searched . . . and at some hold evidently not too far away.

K’vin assisted Debera while T’dam pulled the fallen man out of the dragon’s reach. Then his companions hauled him even farther away while Morath continued to squeal, and writhed to resume her attack.

He would hurt you. He would own you. You are mine and I am yours and no one comes between us,
Morath was saying so ferociously that every rider heard her.

Zulaya joined the group and, bending to check the father’s injuries, called for the medics who were dealing with the minor lacerations that generally occurred at this time. Fortunately, Morath had no fangs yet, and although there were raw weals on the man’s face and his chest had been badly scratched by unsheathed claws—despite their newness—he had been somewhat protected by the leather jerkin he wore.