Dragonseye (9 page)

Bethany frowned. “The full chorus and accompaniment is what makes the songs so effective . . .”

Sheledon frowned. “We can certainly organize substantial groups for the main Holds. The dragonriders always come as guests anyway, so they’d all get a chance to hear . . .” Then he smiled down at his wife, settling an affectionate arm across her shoulders. “You sure did the boy soprano bit well. But I think we’d best get the juvenile voice for Year’s End. You’re hoarse today.”

“Halllooo down there,” and they all looked up to see Clisser, bending far out an upper window and waving at them. “Did the ballads work?” he yelled, hands to his mouth.

The musicians looked at each other, Sheledon counted the beat, and they roared back, “THEY LOVED US!”

Clisser made a broad okay gesture with both hands and then waved them to go to his office in the original section of the facility.

They reached it first, still elated with the success of their performance, an elation that began to disperse when they saw Clisser’s expression.

“What’s the matter?” Bethany asked, half rising from her chair.

“The computers went down and Jemmy thinks they’re totally banjaxed now,” Clisser said glumly, flopping into the chair at his desk, his body slack in despair.

“What happened? They were working perfectly,” Sheledon said, scowling. “What was Jemmy—”

Clisser held up one hand. “Not Jemmy . . .”

“One of those students hacking around . . .” Sheledon’s expression suggested dire punishments.

Clisser shook his head. “Lightning . . .”

“Lightning? But we had no storm warnings . . .”

“Fried all the solar panels, too, although, at least we can replace
those.
Corey lost her system, what was left of it, including the diagnostics she’s been trying so desperately to transcribe.”

Made speechless by such a catastrophe, Sheledon sat down heavily on the corner of the desk while Sydra leaned disconsolately against the wall.

“How much is gone?” Bethany asked, trying to absorb the disaster.

“All of it,” and Clisser flicked his fingers before he clasped them together across his chest, chin down.

“But . . . but, surely, it’s only a matter—” Sheledon began.

“The motherboards are charcoal and glue,” Clisser said dully. “Jemmy’s gone through every box of chips we had left, and there aren’t enough to rebuild even a few meg, and that wouldn’t operate the system. Even part of the system. It’s gone,” and he waved his hand helplessly again.

There was silence for long moments as those in the room coped with such a massive loss.

“How much did the students—” Bethany began, cutting her sentence off as Clisser waved, almost irritably, to silence her. “Surely they saved something.”

“Something, but nowhere near what we
need,
what was waiting to be copied, a mere fraction of what we need to know . . .”

“Look, Clisser,” Bethany said gently, “what have we really lost?”

He jerked his head up, glaring at her. “What have we really lost? Why, everything!”

Sheledon and Sydra were regarding Bethany as if she had run mad.

“The history we are already seeing as irrelevant to our lives
now?”
she asked softly. “Descriptions of archaic devices and procedures that have no relevance on Pern since we no longer operate an advanced technological society? Isn’t that what you were doing anyway, Clisser? Changing the direction of teaching in line to what is
needed
in this time, on this planet, and disregarding I don’t know how many gigabytes of stored information that
is
irrelevant! Now that we don’t have to worry about all that,” and her hand airily dismissed the loss, “we can forge ahead and not have to concern ourselves with translating
useless
trivia for posterity. So I ask you, what have we really lost?”

Silence extended until Sheledon uttered a sharp laugh. “You know, she may be right. We’ve been knocking ourselves out copying down stuff that won’t work here on Pern anyhow. Especially,” and his voice hardened, “since no one back on Earth cares enough to find out what’s happened to us.”

Sydra regarded her husband with a blink. “Not that old Tubberman homing tube business again?”

Sheledon went defensive. “Well, we know from—”

“The records,” Sydra said with a malicious grin, and Sheledon flushed, “that the message tube was sent
without
Admiral Benden’s authority. Without the name of a colony leader on it, no one on Earth would have paid it any heed. If it even got to Earth in the first place.”

“Someone could have come and had a look-see,” Sheledon said.

“Oh, come now, Shel,” Bethany said, as amused by his sudden switch, for he had always derided the Tubberman Tube Theory. “Pern isn’t rich enough for anyone to bother about.”

“So the precious records said, but I think that was to save face. They should have checked on us to see how we were faring . . . They got awfully proprietary about the Shavian colonies that were the basic reason for the Nathi Space War.”

“That was over three hundred years ago, Shel,” Bethany said in her patient teacher-tone.

“And it is totally irrelevant to now,” Sydra added. “Look, the loss of the computers is undeniably a blow to us. But not something we cannot overcome . . .”

“But all that information!” cried Clisser, tears coming to his eyes.

“Clisser dear,” and Bethany leaned across to him, patting his hand gently, “we still have the best computers ever invented,” she tapped her forehead, “and they’re crammed full of information: more than we really need to operate.”

“But . . . but now we’ll never find out how to preserve vital information—like early warning of the return of the Red Star.”

“We’ll think of something,” she said in such a confident tone that it penetrated Clisser’s distress. And briefly he looked a trifle brighter.

Then he slumped down in even deeper despair. “But we’ve failed the trust placed in us to keep the data available . . .”

“Nonsense!” Sheledon said vehemently, crashing one fist down on the desktop. “We’ve kept them going past their design optimum. I’ve read enough in the old manuals to appreciate that. Every year for the past fifty has been a miracle. And we haven’t, as Bethany says, lost all. A gimmick from the past has failed, like so many of them have. And we’re now going to have to bypass the easy access to data they provided and sweat through books! Books! Books that we have in quantity.”

Clisser blinked. He shook his head as if mentally rejecting a thought.

“We have been planning to ignore much of the old data,” Bethany said gently. “What was most important to us,” and her hand indicated the Pern of the present, “has been copied . . . well, most of it,” she amended when Clisser opened his mouth. “If we haven’t needed it up to now, we never will.”

“But we’ve lost the sum total of human—” Clisser began.

“Ha!” Sydra said.
“Ancient
history, man. We’ve survived on Pern and it is
Pern
that’s important. As Bethany said, if we haven’t needed it up till now, we never will. So calm down.”

Clisser scrubbed at his skull with both hands. “But how will I tell Paulin?”

“Didn’t the lightning affect Fort, too?” Sheledon asked, and answered himself: “I thought I saw a work-force on the solar heights.”

Clisser threw both hands up in the air. “I told him we were checking the damage . . .

“Which is total?” Sheledon asked.

“Total!” and Clisser dropped his head once again to his chest in resignation to the inevitable.

“It’s not as if you caused the storm, or anything, Cliss,” Bethany said.

He gave her a burning look.

“Was the system being run at the time?” Sheledon asked.

“Of course not,” Clisser said emphatically, scowling at Sheledon. “You know the rule. All electronics are turned off in any storm.”

“And they were?”

“Of course they were.”

Bethany exchanged a look with Sheledon as if they did not credit that assurance. They both knew that Jemmy would work until he fell asleep over the keyboard.

“I tell you,” and Clisser went on, “everything powered went down. It’s just luck that the generators have all those surge protectors, but even those didn’t save the computers. The surge came in on the data bus, not the power lines.”

“The computers were dying anyway. They are now dead, really truly dead,” Sheledon said firmly. “Rest in peace. I’ll go tell Paulin if he’s who you’re worried about.”

“I am not,” and Clisser banged his fist on the table, “worried about Paulin. And it’s my duty to tell him.”

“Then also tell him that our new teaching techniques are in place and that we’ve lost nothing that future generations will need to know,” Sydra said.

“But . . . but . . . how do we know what they might need to know?” Clisser asked, clearly still despairing with that rhetorical question. “We don’t know the half of what we
should
know.”

Bethany rose and took the two steps to the beverage counter.

“It’s not working, either,” Clisser said in a sharp disgusted tone, flicking one hand at it, insult on injury.

“I shall miss the convenience,” she said.

“We all shall miss convenience,” Clisser said and exhaled sharply, once again combing his hair back from his forehead with impatient fingers.

“So,” said Sydra with a shrug of her shoulders, “we use the gas ring instead. It heats water just as hot, if not as quickly. Now, let’s all go get a reviving cup, shall we?” She took Clisser by the hand, to tug him out of his chair. “You look as if you need reviving.”

“You’re all high on last night’s success,” he said accusingly, but he got to his feet.

“As well we are,” said Sheledon. “The better to console you, old friend.”

“Clisser,” Bethany began in her soft, persuasive voice, “we have known from our reading of the Second Crossing that the artificial intelligence, the Aivas, turned itself off. We know why. Because it wisely knew that people were beginning to think it was infallible: that it contained all the answers to all of mankind’s problems. Not just its history. Mankind had begun to consider it not only an oracle, but to depend on it far more than was wise. For us. So it went down.

“We have let ourselves be guided too long by what we could read and extract from the data left to us on computer. We have been too dependent. It is high time we stood squarely on our own two feet . . .” She paused, twisting her mouth wryly, to underscore her own uneven stance. “. . . and made our own decisions. Especially when what the computers tell us has less and less relevance to our current problems.”

“You said it, Bethany,” Sheledon said, nodding approval, his mouth in a wry twist.

Clisser smoothed back his hair again and smiled ruefully. “It would have been better if this could all have happened just a little,” and he made a space between thumb and forefinger, “later. When we found what we need for the dragonriders.”

“You mean, a fail-proof system to prove the Red Star’s on a drop course?” Sheledon asked, and then shrugged.

“The best minds on the continent are working on that problem.”

“We’ll find a solution,” Bethany said, again with her oddly calm resolution. “Mankind generally does, you know.”

“That’s why we have dragons,” Sydra said. “I could really murder for a cup of klah.”

CHAPTER V

Weyrling Barracks and Bitra Hold

A
N INSISTENT, INCREASINGLY
urgent sense of hunger nagged Debera out of so deep a sleep she was totally disoriented. The bed was too soft, she was alone in it, and neither the sounds nor smells around her were familiar.

I really am most terribly hungry and I know that you were very tired but my stomach is empty, empty, empty...

“Morath!”
Debera shot bolt upright and cracked her poll on the underside of the dragonet’s head because Morath had been leaning over her bed.
“Ouch!
Oh, dearest, I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Standing up in the bed, Debera wrapped apologetic arms about Morath, stroking her cheeks and ear knobs, reassuring her with murmurs of regret and promises to never hurt her again.

The little dragon refocused her eyes, whirling lightly but with only the faintest tinge of the red of pain and alarm, which dissipated quickly with such ardent reassurances.

Your head is much harder than it looks,
she said, giving hers a little shake.

Debera rubbed underneath Morath’s jaw, where the contact had been made.

“I’m so sorry, dearest,” and then she heard a giggle behind her and swiveling around, half in anger, half in reflexive defense, she saw that she was not alone in the weyrling barracks. The blonde girl from Ista—Sarra, that was her name—was sitting on the edge of her bed, folding clothes into the chest. Her dragonet was still curled up in a tight mound from which a slight snore could be heard.

“Oops, no offense intended . . .” Sarra said, smiling with such good nature that Debera immediately relaxed. “You should have seen the looks on your faces. Morath’s eyes nearly crossed when you cracked her.”

Debera rubbed the top of her head, grimacing, as she descended from the bed.

“I was so deeply asleep . . . I couldn’t think where I was at first . . .”

“Morath’s been as good as she could be,” Sarra said. “T’dam said to dress for dirty work. We’re supposed to bathe and oil them after their first nap of the day.”

That was when Debera remembered the pile of things she had not properly sorted the previous night.

Does dressing take long?
Morath asked plaintively.

“No, it doesn’t, love,” and, turning her back in case Sarra might be embarrassed, Debera hauled off the nightdress and threw on the garments on the top of the pile—not new, certainly, but suitable for rough work.

The socks were new, knitted of a sturdy cotton, and she was especially grateful for them since the pair she had had on yesterday had already been worn several days. She stamped her feet into her own boots and stood.

“I’m ready, dear,” she said to the little green, who stepped down off the raised platform and promptly fell on her nose.

Sarra jumped the intervening bed to help right Morath, struggling so hard to keep from laughing that she nearly choked. Once Debera saw that Morath had taken no hurt, she grinned back at the Istan.

“Are they always this . . . ?”

Sarra nodded. “So T’dam told us. You’ll find a pail of meat just outside the door . . . We get a break this first morning,” and she wrinkled her nose in a grimace, “but after today, it’s up at the crack of dawn and carve up our darlings’ breakfasts.”

There was a long snorting snore from Sarra’s green, and Sarra whirled, waiting to see if the dragonet was waking up. But the snore trembled into a tiny soprano “Ooooooh” and the snoring resumed its rhythm.

“Did she do that all night long?” Debera asked.

I am SO hungry
 . . .

Debera was all apologies, and so was Sarra, who sprinted ahead to fling open both leaves of the door. She made a flourishing bow for their exit. Morath immediately crowded against Debera, pushing her to the right, her young nose detecting the enticing smell in the two covered pails on the rack outside the barracks.

Debera lifted the pail down while Morath impatiently nudged off the cover and seemed to inhale the gobbets. Debera allowed her to fill her mouth and then started shielding the pail with her body.

“You will chew what you eat, Morath, you hear me? You could choke to death and then where would I be?”

Morath gave her such a look of pained astonishment and reproach that Debera couldn’t remain stern.

“Chew,” she said, popping a handful of pieces into Morath’s open mouth. “Chew!” she repeated, and Morath obediently exercised her jaws before spreading them wide again for another batch. Debera had not tended the orphaned young animals of her hold without learning some of the tricks.

Whoever had decided on the quantity, Debera thought, knew the precise size of a dragonet’s belly. Morath’s demands had slowed considerably as Debera reached the bottom of the pail, and the dragonet sighed before she swallowed the last.

“I see she’s had breakfast,” said T’dam, appearing from behind so suddenly that Morath squawked in surprise and Debera struggled to get to her feet. T’dam’s hand on her shoulder pushed her back down.

“We’re not formal in the Weyr, Debera,” he said kindly. “Now, lead her over to the lake there,” and he gestured to the right, where Debera recognized the large mounds as sleeping dragonets. “Then, when she wakes up from this feed she’ll be just where you can bathe and oil her.” T’dam grinned. “Before you can feed her again, though . . .” and then he motioned to his left. “Are you squeamish?” he asked.

Debera took a good look in the direction he pointed and saw six skinned carcasses, swaying from butchering tripods. Weyrlings were busy with knives, carving flesh off the bones or at the table, chopping raw meat into dragonet morsels.

“Me?” Debera gave a cynical snort. “Not likely.”

“Good,” T’dam said approvingly. “Some of your peers are. Come now, Morath,” he added in a totally altered tone, loving and kind and wheedling, “you’ll need a little rest, and the sands by the lake are warm in the sun . . .”

Morath lifted her head, her eyes glistening bluey-green as she regarded the Weyrlingmaster.

He is a nice man,
she said, and began to waddle toward the lake: her swaying belly bulged lumpily with her meal.

“When you’ve settled her, Debera, be sure to get your own breakfast in the kitchen. Good thing you’re not squeamish,” he said, turning away, but his chuckle drifted back to Debera’s ears.

It’s awfully far to the lake, isn’t it, Debera?
Morath said, puffing.

“Not really,” Debera said. “Anyway, it’s much too rocky underfoot right here to make a comfortable bed for your nap.”

Morath looked down her long nose, her left fore knocking a stone out of her path. And sighed. She kept going, Debera encouraging her with every slow step, until they reached the sandier ground surrounding the lake. It had recently been raked, the marks visible between the paw and tail prints of the dragonets. Debera urged Morath farther onto the sand, to an empty spot between two browns who were tightly curled, with wings to shield their eyes from the autumn sun pouring down on them.

With a great sigh, Morath dropped her hindquarters to the sand with an I’m-not-going-a-step-farther attitude and sank slowly over to her right side. She curled her tail about her, curved her head around under her left wing and, with a sweet babyish croon rumbling in her throat, fell asleep.

Once again Debera could barely bring herself to leave the dragonet, lost in the wonder of having been acceptable to such a marvelously lovable creature.

She’d been lonely and lacking in love for so long—ever since her mother had died and her oldest full brother had left the family hold. Now she had Morath, all her very own, and those long years of isolation faded into a trivial moment.

She’s perfectly safe here, Debera decided finally and forced herself to leave Morath and make her way across that quadrant of the Bowl to the kitchen caverns. Enticing smells of fresh bread and other viands made her quicken her steps. She hoped she’d have enough restraint not to bolt her food like her dragonet.

The kitchen cavern at Telgar Weyr was actually a series of caves, each with an entrance, varying in size, width, and height. As Debera paused at the entrance of the nearest and smallest one, she saw that hearths or ovens were ranged against the outside wall, each with a separate chimney protruding up the cliff face. Inside, the many long tables where last night’s guests had been entertained were reduced to the number needed by the regular population of the Weyr. But the interior was busy as men and women went about the food preparation tasks.

“Breakfast’s over there,” a woman said, smiling at Debera and pointing. “Porridge’s still hot and the klah’s fresh made. Help yourself.”

Debera looked to her left to the farthest hearth, which had tables and chairs set invitingly near it.

“There’ll be fresh baked bread soon, too, and I’ll bring some over,” the woman added, and proceeded on her own business.

Debera had only just served herself a heaping of porridge—not a lump in it nor a fleck of burn—and a cup of klah when two boys, looking bewildered and not at all sure of how to proceed, wandered in.

“The bowls are there, the cups there,” Debera said, pointing. “And use that hunk of towel to hold the pot while you spoon out the cereal. It’s hot.”

They sent her tentative smiles—they must just be old enough for Impression, she thought, feeling just a trifle older and wiser. They managed, but not without slopping gobs of porridge into the fire and jumping back from the hiss and smell, to get enough in the bowls and to pour klah into their cups.

“C’mon, sit here, I won’t bite,” she said, tapping her table. They were certainly not a bit sullen or grouchy, like her younger half brothers.

“You’ve a green, haven’t you?” the first one said. He had a crop of black curls that had recently been trimmed very close to his skull.

“ ‘Course she has a green, stooopid,” the other lad said, elbowing the ribs of the first. “I’m M’rak, and Caneth’s my bronze,” he added with a justifiable smirk of pride.

“My bronze is Tiabeth,” the black-haired boy said, equally as proud of his dragon, but added modestly, “I’m S’mon. What’s yours named?”

“Morath,” and Debera found herself grinning broadly. Did all new riders feel as besotted as this?

The boys settled into chairs and began to eat, almost as eagerly as dragonets. Deliberately, Debera slowed the rhythm of her spoon. This porridge was really too good to gulp down: not a husk nor a piece of grit in it. Obviously Telgar tithed of its best to the Weyr, even with such a staple as oats for porridge. She sighed, grateful for more than Impressing Morath yesterday.

The boys suddenly stopped, spoons half lifted to their mouths, and warned, Debera turned quickly. Bearing down on their table was the unmistakable bulk of Tisha, the headwoman of the cavern. Her broad face was wreathed with a smile as generous as she was.

“How are you today? Settling in all right? Need anything from stores? Parents will pack your Gather best and you really need your weeding worst,” she said, her rich contralto voice bubbling with good humor. “Breakfast all right? Bread’s just out of the oven and you can have all you want.” She had halted by Debera’s chair, and her hands, shapely with long strong fingers, patted Debera’s shoulders lightly, as if imparting a special message to her along with that pressure. “You lack something, come tell me, or mention it to T’dam. You weyrlings shouldn’t worry about anything other than caring for your dragonets. That’s hard work enough, I’m telling you, so don’t be shy, now.” She gave Debera a little extra pat before she removed her hands.

“I didn’t think to bring with me the gown you lent me last night,” Debera said, wondering if that’s what the subtle message was.

“Heavens above, child,” Tisha said, big eyes even wider in her round face, “why, that dress was made for you, even if we didn’t know you’d be coming.” Her deep chuckle made her large breasts and belly bounce.

“But it’s far too good a dress—” Debera began in protest.

Tisha patted Debera’s shoulder again. “And fits you to perfection. I love making new clothes. My passion, really, and you’ll see: I’m always working on something.” Pat, pat. “But if I’d no one in mind when I cut and sewed it last year, I couldn’t have worked better for you if I’d tried. The dress is yours. We all like to have something pretty to wear on Seventh Day. Do you sew?” she asked, eyeing Debera hopefully.

“No, I’m afraid not,” Debera answered, lowering her eyes, for she remembered her mother with work in her hands in the evenings, embroidering or sewing fine seams in Gather clothes. Gisa barely managed to mend rips, and certainly neither of her daughters was learning how to mend or make garments.

“Well, I don’t know what holder women are doing with their young these days. Why, I had a needle in my hand by the time I was three . . .” Tisha went on.

The boys’ eyes were glazing over at the turn of the conversation.

“And you’ll learn to sew harnesses, my fine young friends,” she said, wagging a finger at them. “And boots and jackets, too, if you’ve a mind to design your own flying wear.”

“Huh?” was M’rak’s astonished reaction. “Sewing’s fer women.”

“Not in the Weyr it isn’t,” Tisha said firmly. “As you’ll see soon enough. It’s all part of being a dragonrider. You’ll learn. Ah, now, here’s the bread, butter, and a pot of jam.”

Sure enough, another ample woman, grinning with the pleasure of what she was about to bestow on them, deposited the laden tray on the table.

“That should help, thank you, Allie,” Tisha said as Debera added a murmur of appreciation and S’mon remembered his manners, too. M’rak made no such delay in grabbing up a piece of the steaming bread and cramming it into his mouth.

“Wow! Great!”

“Well, just be sure you don’t lose it, preparing your dragonet’s next meal,” Tisha said, and moved off before the astonished bronze rider had absorbed her remark.

“What’d she mean by that?” he asked the others.

Debera grinned. “Hold bred?”

“Naw, m’family’s weavers,” M’rak said. “From Keroon Hold.”

“We have to cut up what our dragonets eat, though, don’t we?” S’mon said in a slightly anxious voice. “From the . . . the bodies they got hung up?”