Dragonsdawn

Chapter 18

“POL?”

IT TOOK a moment for the biologist to identify the anxious voice. “Mary?” His response was equally tentative, but he pulled at Bay’s sleeve to attract her attention away from the monitor she was frowning at. “Mary Tubberman?”

“Please don’t turn an old friend away unheard.”

“Mary,” Pol said kindly, “you weren’t shunned.” He shared the earpiece with Bay, who nodded in vigorous approval.

“I might as well have been.” The woman’s tone was bitter, then her voice broke on a tremulous note and both Ray and Pol could hear her weeping. “Look, Pol, something’s happened to Ted. Those creatures of his are loose. I’ve pulled down the Thread shutters, but they’re still prowling about and making awful noises.”

“Creatures? What creatures?” Pol locked glances with Bay. Beyond them, their dragonets roused from a doze and chirped in empathic anxiety.

“The beasts he’s been rearing.” Mary sounded as if she thought Pol knew what she was talking about and was being deliberately obtuse. “He—he stole some frozen in-vitros from veterinary and he used Kitti’s program on them to make them obey him, but they’re still . . . things. His masterpiece does nothing to stop them.” Again her bitterness was trenchant.

“What makes you think something has happened to Ted?” Pol asked, picking up on the words Bay mouthed to him as she gestured urgently.

“He would never let those animals loose, Pol! They might harm Petey!”

“Now, Mary, calm down. Stay in the house. We’ll come.”

“Ned’s not in Landing!” Her tone became accusatory. “I tried his number. He’d believe me!”

“It’s not a question of belief, Mary.” Bay pulled the mouthpiece around to speak directly into it. “And anyone can come assist you.”

“Sue and Chuck won’t answer.”

“Sue and Chuck moved north, Mary, after that first bad rock shower from Picchu.” Bay was patient with her. The woman had a right to sound paranoid, living in seclusion as she had for so long, with an unbalanced husband and so many earthshocks and volcanic rumblings.

“Pol and I are coming down, Mary,” Bay said firmly. “And we’ll bring help.” She replaced the handset.

“Who?” Pol demanded.

“Sean and Sorka. Dragons have an inhibiting effect on animals. And that way we don’t have to go through official channels.”

Pol looked at his wife with mild surprise. She had never criticized either Emily or Paul, obliquely or bluntly.

“I always felt someone should have investigated the report Drake and Ned Tubberman made. So did they. Sometimes priorities got lost in the shuffle around here.” She wrote a hasty note which she then attached to her gold dragonet’s right foot. “Find the redhead,” she said firmly, holding the triangular head to get Mariah’s full attention. “Find the redhead.” Bay walked with her to the window and opened it, pointing firmly in Sorka’s direction. She filled her mind with an image of Sorka, leaning against Faranth. Mariah chirped happily. “Now, off with you!” Then, as the dragonet obediently flew off, Bay ran a finger over the black grime that was once again settling on the windowsill she had swept earlier. “I’ll be glad to move north. I’m so eternally tired of black dust everywhere. Come on, Pol, we’d better get dressed warmly.”

“You volunteered to help Mary because it gives you a chance to ride a dragon again,” Pol said, chuckling.

“Pol Nietro, I have long been concerned about Mary Tubberman!”

Fifteen minutes later, two dragons came swooping over the rise to settle on the road in front of their house.

“They are so graceful,” Bay said, making certain her headscarf was tied, as much against the prevailing dust outside as in hopes of riding. As she left the house, Mariah circled down and settled to the plump shoulder with a chirrup of smug satisfaction. “You’re marvelous, Mariah, simply marvelous,” Bay murmured to her little queen as she marched right up between Faranth and Carenath. However, it was Sorka she addressed. “Thank you for coming, my dear. Mary Tubberman just contacted us. There’s trouble at Calusa. Creatures are loose, and Mary thinks something has happened to Ted. Will you take us there?”

“Officially, or unofficially?” Sean asked as Sorka glanced over at her mate.

“It’s all right to help Mary,” Bay said, looking for support from Pol, who had just come up to the dragons, his glance as admiring as ever. “And with who knows what sort of beast . . .”

“Dragons are useful,” Sorka replied with a grin, arriving at her own decision. She beckoned to Bay. “Give the lady your leg, Faranth. Here’s my hand.”

With Faranth’s assist, Bay was agile enough to settle herself quietly behind Sorka. She would never admit that she was pinched fore and aft between the ridge. Mariah gave her usual squeak of protest.

“Now, Mariah, Faranth’s perfectly safe,” Bay said, and looked over to see that Pol was settling behind Sean. The young dragonrider’s grin was very broad as he winked at Bay. Well, this time it really is an emergency, she told herself. A woman trapped in her home with small children and unidentifiable menaces prowling outside.

“Hang on tight now,” Sean said as always. He pumped his arm in the signal to launch.

Bay suppressed an exclamation as Faranth’s upward surge pushed her painfully against the stiff dorsal ridge. Her discomfort lasted only a moment, as the golden dragon leveled off and veered leisurely to her right. Bay caught her breath. She would never get accustomed to this; she didn’t want to. Riding a dragon was the most exciting thing that had happened to her since . . . since Mariah had first risen to mate.

Calusa was not a long trip by air, but the flight was tremendously exhilarating. The dragons hit one of the many air currents that were the result of Picchu’s activity, and Bay clutched at Sorka’s belt, stuffing her fingers to the knuckle in the belt loops. Flying on a dragon was so much more immediate an activity than going in the closed shed or skimmer. Really much more exhilarating. Bay turned her head so that Sorka’s tall, strong body shielded her from the worst of the airstream and the dust from Picchu that seemed to clog the air even at that altitude.

The journey gave Bay time to ponder what Mary had said about “beasts.” Red Hanrahan bad reported a late-night entry into the veterinary laboratory. A portable bio-scan had been missing without being logged out, but as the bio lab was always borrowing vet equipment, the absence was dismissed. Later someone had noticed that the order in which the frozen ova of a variety of Earth-type animals were stored had been disarranged. It could have happened during the earthquakes.

Ted Tubberman had been very busy in his discontent, Bay thought grimly. One of the strictest dictums of her profession as a microbiologist was a strict limitation of genetic manipulation. She had actually been surprised, if relieved, that Kitti Ping Yung, as the senior scientist on the Pern expedition, had permitted the bioengineering of the fire-dragonets. Had Kitti Ping any idea of what a marvelous gift she had bestowed on the people of Pern?

But for Ted Tubberman, disgruntled botanist, to tinker with ova—and he had not at all understood the techniques or the process—to make independent alterations was intolerable to her, both professionally and personally. Bay knew herself to be a tolerant person, friendly and considerate, but if Ted Tubberman was dead, she would be tremendously relieved. And she would not be the only one. Just thinking about the man produced symptoms of agitation and pure fury which made Bay lose her professional detachment, and that annoyed her even more. There she was on dragonback, a marvelous opportunity for peaceful reflection, with only the noise of the wind in her ears, with all Jordan spread below her, and she was wasting contemplative time on Ted Tubberman. Bay sighed. One had so few moments of total relaxation and privacy. How she envied young Sorka, Sean, and the others.

She was astonished to see Calusa in the next valley. It was a sturdy complex, built by the Tubbermans as headquarters for their stake acres. The galvanized roofs of the main buildings had grown to a dull dark gray from the repeated showers of volcanic ash that Picchu Peak deposited wherever the wind blew. But Bay had scarcely had time to notice that when Sorka’s cry of astonishment blew back to her.

“Jays, that building’s a shambles!” Sorka pointed to her right, and Faranth abruptly turned in response to an unspoken request. The dorsal ridge bit into the soft flesh of Bay’s crotch, and she gripped Sorka’s belt more tightly.

“Look!” Sorka was directing her gaze downward.

Seventy-five meters from the main house, there was a roofed compound with separate enclosures along an L passageway, forming two sides of a fenced-in area. One of the outside walls and several of the interior partitions were smashed, and a corner of the roofing had burst outward. Bay could not recall if there had been any more earthshocks reported in that area to cause such structural damage. No other building was damaged.

As the dragon once more changed direction, Bay grabbed at Sorka, felt the girl’s reassuring fingers on hers, and then they were down.

“I do like riding Faranth. She’s so very graceful and strong,” Bay said, tentatively patting the warm hide of the dragon’s neck.

“No, don’t dismount,” Sorka said. “Faranth says there’s something prowling in there. The dragonets will have a look. Whoops!”

The air was suddenly full of the chitterings and chatterings of angry dragonets. Bay’s Mariah shrieked in her ear.

“Now, now, it’s all right. Faranth won’t let anyone harm you.” Bay held up her arm for her gold, but Mariah joined the investigating fairs. Bay was astonished to realize that the dragon was growling, a sensation she could also feel through her body contacts. Faranth turned her impressive head toward the compound, the many facets of her eyes gleaming with edges of red and orange.

A pierceing yowl was clearly audible and then there was silence. The excited fairs swirled back over the two dragonriders’ heads, chittering and chattering with their news. Faranth looked up, her eyes wheeling as she absorbed the dragonets’ images.

“There’s some kind of very large spotted beast out there,” Sorka told Sean. “And something else that is even larger but silent.”

“We’ll need trank guns, then,” he said. “Sorka, have Faranth call up some reinforcements. Marco and Duluth, if possible; Dave, Kathy—we may need a medic. Peter’s Gilgath is sturdy, Nyassa won’t panic, and ask for Paul or Jerry. I think we should evacuate Mary and the two children until the beasts can be captured.”

Her ordeal ended, Mary Tubberman wept copiously on Bay’s shoulder. Her son, Peter, usually a cheerful seven-year-old, watched poker-faced and taut with anxiety. His two little sisters clung together on a lounger and would not respond to Pol’s efforts to comfort them, though he was generally very deft with children. Mary did not resist the suggestion that she move to a safer location.

“Dad’s dead, isn”t he?” Petey asked, stepping right up to Sean.

“He could be out trying to recapture the beasts,” kindhearted Bay suggested. The boy gave her a scornful look and went off down the corridor to his room.

The dragon reinforcements arrived with the trank guns. Sean was pleased to see them landing in the order they had been drilled in. Sean gave Paul, Jerry and Nyassa the trankers and sent them off on their dragons to see if they could find and disable the escaped animals.

Leaving Sorka to help the Tubbermans assemble their gear, Sean and the others, armed with the pistols, cautiously approached the wrecked compound. Inside the building, the reek of animal was heavy and mounds of recent dung littered the place. They found Ted Tubberman’s mauled and gnawed body pitifully sprawled outside his small laboratory.

“Fardles, nothing we have kills like that!” David Catarel exclaimed, backing out of the corridor.

Kathy knelt by the corpse, her face expressionless. “Whatever it was had fangs and sharp claws,” she remarked, slowly getting to her feet. “His back was broken.”

Marco grabbed up an old lab coat and some toweling from a rail and covered the corpse. Then he picked up the remains of a chair, made of one of the local pressed vegetable fibers that were used for interior furnishings. “This’ll burn. Let’s see if we can find enough to cremate him here. Save a lot of awkwardness.” He waved in the direction of the main house. Then he shuddered, clearly unwilling to move the mangled body.

“The man was insane,” Sean said, poking a rod into the dung pats in one enclosure. “Developing big predators. We’ve enough trouble with wherries and snakes!”

“I’ll go tell Mary,” Kathy murmured.

Sean caught her arm as she went by. “Tell her he died quickly.” She nodded and left.

“Hey!” Peter Semling picked up a covered clipboard from the littered floor of the laboratory. “Looks like notes,” he exclaimed, examining the thin sheets of film covered with notations in a cramped hand. “This is botanical stuff.” He shrugged, held it out to Kathy, and picked up another. “This is . . . biological? Humph.”

“Let’s collect any notes,” Sean said. “Anything that would tell us what kind of creature killed him.”

“Hey!” Peter said again. He flipped the cover back on a portable bio-scan, complete with monitor and keyboard. “This looks like the one that went missing from the vet lab a while back, along with some AI samples.”

Meticulously they gathered up every scrap of material, even taking an engraved plate with the cryptic message Eureka, Mycorrhiza! which had been nailed to the splashboard of the sink unit. Dave carried out several sacks to be brought back to Landing. Then Sean and Peter collected enough flammable materials to make a pyre that could be lit once Mary and the children had gone.

“Sean!” David Catarel called. He was hunkered down by a wide green swath that was the only living thing in the raddled and ash-littered plot, though its color was dimmed by the pervasive black ash. “How many Falls has this area had?” he asked, glancing about. He ran his hand over the grass, a tough hybrid that agro had developed for residence landscaping before Thread had fallen.

“Enough to clear this!” Sean knelt beside him and pulled up a hefty tuft. The dirt around the roots contained a variety of soil denizens, including several furry-looking grubs.

“Never seen that sort before,” David remarked, catching three deftly as they dropped. He felt in his jacket pocket, extracted a wad of fabric, and carefully wrapped the grubs. “Ned Tubberman was yakking about a new kind of grass surviving Fall down here. I’ll just take these back to the agro lab.”

Just then, Sorka, Pol, Bay, and Peter, each loaded with bundles, came out of the main house. Sean and Dave began to load the eight dragons.

“We can make another run for you, Mary,” Sorka suggested tactfully when the woman joined them with two stuffed bedsacks.

“I don’t have much besides clothes,” Mary said, her glance flicking to the compound. “Kathy said it was quick?” Her anxious eyes begged confirmation.

“Kathy’s the medic,” Sean assured her smoothly. “Up you go now. David and Polenth will take you. Mount up. You kids ever ridden a dragon before?”

Sean made a game of it for them and passed quickly over the awkwardness of the moment. He saw them all off before he and Pol ignited the funeral pyre. Then they took off in yet another shower of the volcanic dust which would eventually bury Landing.

“I can’t break Ted’s personal code!” Pol exclaimed in exasperation, throwing the stylus down to a worktop littered with clipboards and piles of flimsies. “Wretched, foolish man!”

“Ezra loves codes, Pol,” Bay suggested.

“Judging by the DNA/RNA, he was experimenting with felines, but I cannot imagine why. There’re already enough running wild here at Landing. Unless—” Pol broke off and pinched his lower lip nervously, grimacing as his thoughts followed uneasy paths. “We know—” He paused to bang the table in emphasis. “—that felines do not take mentasynth well. He knew that, too. Why would he repeat mistakes?”

“What about that other batch of notes?” Bay asked, gesturing to the clipboard lying precariously on the edge.

“Unfortunately, all I can read of them are quotations from Kitti’s dragon program.”

“Oh!” Bay cocked her jaw sideways for a moment. “He had to play creator as well as anarchist!”

“Why else would he refer to the Eridani genetic equations?” Pol slapped the worktop with his hand, frustrated and anxious, his expression rebellious. “And what did he hope to achieve?”

“I think we can be grateful that he hadn’t tried to manipulate the fire-dragonets, though I suspect he was practicing on the ova he appropriated from the vet frozen storage.”

Pol rubbed the heels of his hands into his tired eyes. “We can be grateful for small mercies there. Especially when you consider what Blossom has done. I shouldn’t have said that, my dear. Forget it.”

Bay permitted herself a scornful sniff. “At least Blossom has the good sense to keep those wretched photophobes of hers chained. I cannot think why she persists with them. She’s the only one they like.” Bay gave a shudder of revulsion. “They positively fawn on her.”

Pol snorted. “That’s why,” he said absently, riffling through the notes on the undecipherable clipboard. “What I don’t understand is why he chose the large felines?”

“Well, why don’t we ask Petey? He helped his father in the compound, didn’t he?”

“You are the essence of rationality, my dear,” Pol said. Pushing himself out of the chair, he went over and laid an affectionate kiss on her cheek, ruffling her hair. She was admonishing him when he punched the commcode for Mary Tubberman’s quarters. Both he and Bay had been visiting her daily to help her settle back into the community. “Mary, is Peter available?”

When Peter answered, his tone was not particularly encouraging. “Yeah?”

“Those large cats your father was breeding? Did they have spots or stripes?” Pol asked in a conversational tone.

“Spots.” Peter was surprised by the unexpected question.

“Ah, the cheetah. Is that what he called them?”

“Yeah, cheetahs.”

“Why cheetahs, Peter? I know they’re fast, but they wouldn’t be any good hunting wherries,”

“They were great going after the big tunnel snakes.” Peter’s voice became animated. “And they’d come to heel and do everything Dad told them—” he broke off.

“I expect they did, Petey. Several ancient cultures on Earth bred them to hunt all manner of game. Speediest things on four legs!”

“Did they turn on him?” Peter asked after a moment’s silence.

“I don’t know, Petey. Are you coming to the bonfire tonight?” Pol asked brightly, feeling that he could not leave the conversation on such .a sour note. “You promised me a rematch. Can’t have you winning every chess game.” He received a promise for that evening and disconnected. “From what Petey said, it would appear that Ted used mentasynth on cheetahs to enhance their obedience. He used them to hunt tunnel snakes.”

“They turned on him?”

“That seems likely. Only why? I wish we knew how many ova he took from vet. I wish we could decipher these notes and discover if he only used mentasynth or if he implemented any part of Kitti’s program. Be that as it may—” Pol exhaled in frustration. “We have an unknown number of predatory animals loose in Calusa. Loose in Calusa!” Pol let out a derisory snort for his inadvertent rhyming. “I wonder if Phas Radamanth has had any luck deciphering the notes on those grubs. They could be useful”

Patrice de Broglie burst into Emilie’s office. “Garben’s getting set to blow. We’ve got to evacuate. Now!”

“What!” Emily rose to her feet, the flimsies she was studying slipping out of her hands to scatter on the floor.

“I’ve just been to the peaks. There’s a change in the sulfur-to-chlorine ratio. It’s Garben that’s going to blow.” He slapped his hand to his forehead in a self-accusatory blow. “Right before my eyes, and I didn’t see it.”

Alerted by Emily’s cry, Paul came through from the adjoining office. “Garben?”

“You’ve got to evacuate immediately,” Patrice cried, his expression contorted. “There’ve even been significant increases in mercury and radon from the damned crater. And we thought it was leaking from Picchu.”

“But it’s Picchu that’s smoking!” Stunned, Paul struggled to keep his cool. He reached for the comm unit just as Emily did. She grabbed it first, and he jerked his fingers back and let her contact Ongola.

“That Garben is as sly a mountain as the man we named it for. Volcanology still isn’t a precise science,” Patrice said, rolling his eyes in frustration as he paced up and down the small office. “I’ve sent a skimmer up with the correlation spectrometer to check on the content of the fumarole emissions that just started in the Garben crater,” Patrice went on. “I brought down samples of the latest ash. But that rising sulfur-to-chlorine ratio means the magma is rising.”

“Ongola,” Emily said. “Sound the klaxon. Volcano alert. Recall all sleds and skimmers immediately. Yes, I know there’s Threadfall today, but we’ve got to evacuate Landing now, not later. How long do we have, Patrice?”

He shrugged in exasperation. “I cannot give you the precise moment of catastrophe, my friends, nor which way it will spew, but the wind is a strong nor’easterly. Already the ash increases. Had you not noticed?”

Startled, governor and admiral glanced out the window and saw that the sky was gray with ash that obscured the sunlight, and that Picchu’s smoking yellow plume was broader than usual. A similar halo was beginning to grow about Garben’s peak.

“One can even become accustomed to living beneath a volcano,” Paul remarked with dry humor.

Patrice shrugged again and managed a grin. “But let’s not, my friends. Even if the pyroclastic flow is minimal, Landing will soon be covered with ash at the rate it’s now falling. As soon as we’ve decided possible lava flow paths, I’ll inform you, so you can clear the most vulnerable areas first.”

“How fortunate we already have an evacuation plan,” Emily remarked, selecting a file and bringing it up on the terminal. “There!” She ran the sequence to all printers, on emergency priority. “That’s going to all department heads. Evacuation is officially under way, gentlemen. What a nuisance to have to do it at speed. Something is bound to be forgotten no matter how carefully you plan ahead.”

Trained by repeated drills, the population of Landing reacted promptly to the klaxon alert by going to their department heads for orders. A brief flurry of panic was suppressed, and the exercise went into high gear.

The sky continued to darken as thick gray clouds of ash rolled up, covering the peaks of the now active volcanoes that had once appeared so benign. White plumes rose from Garben’s awakened fumaroles and from crevasses down its eastern side. Morning became twilight as the air pollution spread. Handlamps and breathing masks were issued.

In charge of the actual evacuation, Joel Lilienkamp supervised from one of the fast sleds, keeping the canopy open so that he could bawl orders and encouragement to the various details and make on-the-spot decisions. The laboratories and warehouses nearest the simmering volcano were being cleared first, along with the infirmary, with the exception of emergency first aid and burn control. The donks trundled everywhere, depositing their burdens at the grid or carrying them on down to temporary shelter in the Catherine Caves.

Patrice’s group had already calculated areas of high and low pyroclastic hazard. Warnings had been sent as far east as Cardiff, west to Bordeaux, and south to Cambridge. Already favored with a heavy fall of ash, Monaco was also in range of moderate pyroclastic missile danger. Every boat, ship, and barge was mobilized in the bay, to be loaded and sent off to stand beyond the first Kahrain peninsula.

The last sacs of fuel were emptied into the tanks of the two remaining shuttles. Most of the dragonriders were put to herding the livestock toward the harbor. For the first time, no one assembled to fight Thread at Maori Lake—a more deadly fall threatened.

No one had time to cheer as Drake Bonneau lifted the old Swallow, with its cargo of children and equipment, just as daylight receded from the plateau. The technicians moved immediately to the Parrakeet. Ongola and Jake, monitoring in the tower, took advantage of the respite to eat’ the hot food that had been sent up to them. The communications equipment had been placed on trolleys and could be quickly shifted if the tower was threatened.

“Swallow looks good,” Ezra called in from the interface chamber where he was monitoring the flight. He had spent much of that day erecting a shield of heatproof material around the chamber, not quite ready to accept Patrice’s hurried assurance that the room’s location did not intersect any channels of previous lava flows. Unfortunately the interface with the orbiting Yokohama could not be disconnected, relying as it did on a fixed beacon to the receiver on the Yoko. Since the setting on the Yoko could no longer be altered to a new direction, there was no point in taking the interface and reassembling it.

That night, the air was choking with sulfur fumes and full of gritty particles, and Patrice warned that the buildup was reaching the critical point. White plumes from both Picchu and Garben, ominously rooted in a muted glow from peak and crater, were visible even against the dark sky, casting an eerie light over the settlement.

Drake Bonneau reported that he was safely down after a difficult flight. “Damn crate nearly shook apart, but nothing was damaged. None of the kids so much as bruised, but I don’t think any of them will develop a yen for flying. Hard landing, too, plowed a furrow when we overshot the mark. We’ll need the rest of the day to clear the site for the Parrakeet. Tell Fulmar to check the gyros and the stabilizing monitors. I’ll swear we had tunnel snakes in the Swallow’s.”

There was a constant stream of vehicles down to the harbor, as the bigger ships and barges were loaded with protesting animals prodded into stalls erected on deck. Crates of chickens, ducks, and geese were strapped wherever they could be attached, to be off-loaded at the Kahrain cove, safely out of the danger zone. With any luck, most of the livestock would be evacuated. Skimming over the harbor, Jim Tillek managed to be everywhere, encouraging and berating his crews.

By nightfall, Sean called a halt for dragonriders ferrying people and packages to the Kahrain cove. “I’m not risking tired dragons and riders,” he told Lilienkamp with some heat. “Too risky, and the dragons are just too young to be under this sort of stress.”

“Time, man, we don’t have time for niceties!” Joel replied angrily.

“You handle the exodus, Joel, I’ll handle my dragons. The riders will work until they drop, but it’s bloody stupid to push young dragons! Not while I can prevent it.”

Joel gave him an angry, frustrated glare. The dragons had been immensely useful, but he also knew better than to put them at risk. He gunned the sled away, perched behind the console like a small, ash-covered statue.

Sean and the other riders did work until they dropped. Each dragon then curled protectively about his rider as they slept. No one had time to notice that there were few dragonets about.

Then, all too soon, Joel was there again, exhorting them from the air, and they rejoined the Herculean efforts of the people around them.

Suddenly, the klaxon sounded a piercing triple blast. All activity ceased for the message that followed.

“She’s going to blow!” Patrice’s almost triumphant shout echoed throughout the Landing.

Every head turned toward Garben, its peak outlined by the eerie luminosity from its crater.

“Launch the Parrakeet!” Ongola’s stentorian voice broke the awed, stunned silence.

The engines of the shuttle were drowned by the rumbling earth and an ear-splitting roar of tremendous power as the volcano erupted. The attentive stance of observers broke as people scrambled to complete tasks at hand, shouting to one another above the noise. Later, those who watched the peak fracture and the red-hot molten lava begin to ooze from the break said that everything appeared to happen in slow motion.

They saw the fissures in the crater outlined by orange-red, saw the pieces blowing out of the lip, even saw some of the projectiles lifting out of the volcano and could track their dizzying trajectory. Others averred that it all happened too fast to be sure of details.

Bright red tongues of lava rolled ominously up and over the blasted lip of Garben, one flow traveling at an astonishing rate directly toward the westernmost buildings of Landing.

In that dawn hour, the wind had dropped, saving much of the eastern section of Landing from the worst of the shower of smaller rocks and hot ash. The larger, devastating projectiles that Patrice had feared did not appear. But the lava was sufficiently frightening a menace.

The Parrakeet, laden with irreplaceable equipment, pierced the western gloom, her engine blasts visible, if not audible, as she drove northwest and out of danger.

At the sound of the klaxon, the dolphins began to tow heavily laden small boats out of Monaco Bay, a flotilla of vessels not ordinarily suitable for any prolonged sea travel. The dolphins had assured humans that they would get their charges safely to the sheltered harbor beyond the first Kahrain peninsula. Maid and Mayflower, which were not fully loaded, left the harbor to wait outside the estimated fallout zone until they could return for the last of their cargoes. Jim, on board the Southern Cross, shepherded barges and luggers along the coast on their long journey to Seminole, from where they would make the final run north.

Sleds and skimmers streamed between Landing and Paradise River Hold as the nearest safe assembly point. Traffic there was chaotic, as vital supplies were kept available and loads were shunted to designated areas of the beach. Landing was being cleared of all that could be reused in the new northern hold.

Thick sulfur-smelling ash began to cover Landing’s buildings. Some of the lighter roofs collapsed under the load, and observers could hear the plastic groaning and shifting. The air was almost unbreathable with traces of chlorine. Everyone used the breathing masks without complaint.

By midafternoon, a haggard Joel Lilienkamp dropped his battered sled on the lee side of the tower beside Ongola’s. He waited a moment to gather enough Strength to thumb open the comm unit.

“We’ve cleared all we can,” he said in gasps, his voice raspy from the acrid airborne fumes. “The donks are parked in the Catherine Caves until we can strip ’em down for shipment. You can leave now, too.”

“We’re coming,” Ongola replied.

Moments later he appeared, slowly angling a heavy comm package on a gray unit past the door. Jake came next, similarly encumbered. Paul followed, guiding two more components.

“Need a hand?” Joel asked automatically, though the way he slumped at the console made it hard to believe that he had any more energy to spare.

“One more trip,” Ongola said when they had positioned the equipment in his sled. “Is your power pack up to a load?” he asked Joel.

“Yup. My last fresh unit.”

As Ongola and Jake went back into the tower, Paul went to the flagstaff and, with a bleak expression on his face, solemnly lowered the singed tatters of the colony’s flag. He made a ball of it, which he stuffed underneath the seat he took on the sled. He gave the supply master one long look. “Want me to drive, Joel?”

“I got you here, I’ll take you out!”

Paul dared not look back at the ruins of Landing, but as Joel veered east and then north in a wide sweep, the admiral saw that he was not the only one with tears coursing down his cheeks.

A stiff nor’easterly wind kept the Kahrain cove clear of ash and the acrid taint of Garben’s eruption. The gray pall spread over the eastern horizon as the volcano continued to spew lava and quantities of ash. Patrice and a skeleton team remained to monitor the event after Landing was abandoned.

“We hunt this morning,” Sean said to the other riders.

They had found a quiet cove up the beach from the main evacuation camp. None of the dragons sprawled in the warm sun had a very good color, and privately Sean worried that their maturing strengths had been overtaxed. He decided stoutly that there was nothing wrong that a good meal would not restore. He looked around for fire-lizards and swore under his breath. “Damn them! We need all we’ve got. Four queens and ten bronzes can’t possibly catch enough packtail to feed eighteen dragons! Surely they’ve seen volcanoes erupt before.”

“Not on top of them,” Alianne Zulueta replied. “I couldn’t reassure mine. They just left!”

“Red meat would be better than fish—more iron,” David Catarel suggested, his eyes on his pale bronze Polenth. “There’s sheep here.”

“Hold it,” Marco Galliani said firmly, raising both hands in restraint. “My father’s shipping them on to Roma as soon as sleds are free. Prime breeding stock.”

“So are dragons.” Sean rose, an odd grin on his face. “Peter, Dave, Jerry, come with me. Sorka, you run interference—if there is any.”

“Hey, wait a minute, Sean,” Marco began, dual loyalties in conflict.

Sean grinned slyly, laying a finger along his nose. “What the eye doesn’t see, Marco, the heart won’t grieve.”

“It’s for your dragon, man,” Dave muttered as he passed him.

An hour later, several dragons disappeared in a westerly direction, skimming the treetops. The other riders were so conspicuous in their efforts to keep the crew struggling to organize the chaos on the beach that no one would have noticed that the riders were not all present at any one time. By noon, seventeen brightly hued, sated dragons lolled on the strand. One sat patiently on the headland while fire-dragonets dove into the sea, fishing for packtail.

Caesar and Stefano Galliani, taking a poll count as their sheep were loaded, discovered that the tally was short by some thirty-six animals, including one of the best rams. Caesar called on the dragonriders to search the area and herd the missing sheep back to the shore.

“Useless things, always wandering off,” Sean agreed, nodding sympathetically at the frustrated and puzzled Gallianis. “We’ll give a look.”

When Sean reported back an hour later, he suggested to Caesar that the sheep must have dropped into” some of the many potholes in the’ area. Reluctantly the Gallianis took off with the depleted flock. The big transport sleds had schedules to keep, and shipment could not be postponed.

As the last of the sleds departed, Emily came over to Sean. “Are your dragons fit for duty?”

“Anything you say!” Sean agreed so amiably that Emily shot him a long look. “The fire-lizards worked hard all morning to feed the dragons.” He gestured toward the cove where Duluth was accepting a packtail from a bronze.

“Fire lizards?” Emily was momentarily baffled by “lizards,” then remembered that Sean tended to use his own name for the little creatures. “Oh, yes, then your fairs have returned?”

“Not all of them,” Sean said ruefully, and then added quickly, “but enough of the queens and bronzes to be useful.”

“The eruption scared them all, didn’t it?”

Sean gave a snort. “The eruption scared all of us!”

“Not out of our wits, it would seem,” Emily said with a crooked smile. “At least nobody acted as foolish as sheep, did they?” Sean pretended neither innocence nor understanding; he returned her look until she broke eye contact. “If your dragons have lost the taste for fish, hunt wherries. That eruption whittled down our herds quite enough, thank you.” Sean inclined his head, still noncommittal. “There’s so much to be done, and done quickly.” Consulting the thick sheets on her clipboard, she paused to rub her forehead. “If only your dragons were fully functional . . .” Then she shot him a penitent smile. “Sorry, Sean, that’s an egregious comment.”

“I, too, wish we were, Governor,” Sean replied without prejudice. “But we’re not sure how it’s done. Not even what to tell them to do.” He blotted the sweat from his forehead and neck, a sweat not entirely provoked by the hot sun.

“A point well made and a matter we must look into, but not here and now. Look, Sean, Joel Lilienkamp’s worried about the supplies still at Landing. We’re shifting loads out of here as fast as we can.” She swept her arm over the mounds of color-coded crates and foam-covered pallets. “The orange stuff has to be protected from Threadfall, so it has to go north as fast as possible to be stored in the Fort Hold. We still have to try to save what’s left at Landing before the ash covers it.”

“That ash burns, Governor. Burns as easily through dragon wings as—” Sean broke off, staring fixedly toward the western beach, one hand coming up in a futile gesture of warning. Emily twisted around to see what had prompted his concern.

The dragon’s trumpet of alarm was faint and thin on the hot air. The driver of the sled on collision course with the creature seemed unaware that he was descending onto another flyer. Then, just before the sled would have hit, dragon and rider disappeared.

“Instinct is marvelous!” Emily exclaimed, her face lit with both relief at the last-minute evasion and joy that a dragon had displayed that innate ability. She looked back to Sean and her expression changed. “What’s the matter, Sean?” She glanced quickly up at the sky, a sky empty of both dragonpair and the sled, which was lost in the many coming and going on the Kahrain cove. “Oh no!” Her hand went to her throat, which seemed to close as she felt the wreathing of fear in her guts. “No. Oh no! Shouldn’t they be visible again now? Shouldn’t they, Sean? Isn’t it supposed to be an instantaneous displacement?”

Distressed, she reached out to clasp his arm, giving him a little shake to attract his attention. He looked down at her, and the anguished expression in his eyes gave her an answer that altered fear to grief. She turned her head slowly from side to side, trying to deny the truth to herself.

Just as one of the cargo supervisors came striding up to her, a sheaf of plasfilm in his hand and an urgent expression on his face, the most appalling keen rose into the air. The dissonant noise was so piercing that half the people on the beach stopped to cover their ears. In the same moment as the unbearable sound mounted steadily, the air was full of fire-dragonets, each adding its own shrill voice to swell the sound of lament.

The other dragons rose, riderless, to fly past the point where one of their number and his human partner had lost their lives. In a complex pattern that would have thrilled watchers on any other occasion, the fire-dragonets flew around their larger cousins, emitting their weird counterpoint to the deeper, throbbing, mournful cry of the dragons.

“I’ll find out how that could have happened. The driver of that sled—” Emily stopped as she saw the terrible expression on Sean’s face.

“That won’t bring back Marco Galliani and Duluth, will it?” He whipped his hand sideways in a sharp, dismissive cut. “Tomorrow we will fly wherever you need us for whatever we can save for you.”

For a long moment Emily stood looking after him until the image of the sorrowing young man was indelibly imprinted in her mind. In the sky, as if escorting him back to the dragonriders’ camp, the graceful beasts wheeled, dipped, and glided westward to their beach.

Whatever pain Emily felt, it could be nothing, she realized, to the sense of loss that would be experienced by the dragonriders. She scrubbed at her face, at a chin that trembled, determinedly swallowed the lump in her throat, and irritably gestured for the cargo supervisor to approach her.

“Find out who drove that sled and bring him or her to my tent at noon. Now, what’s on your mind?”

“Marco and Duluth disappeared, just the way the fire-lizards do,” Sean said, his voice oddly gentle.

“But they didn’t come back,” Nora cried out in protest. She started to weep afresh, burying her face in Peter Semling’s shoulder.

The shock of the unexpected deaths had been traumatic. The dragons’ lament had subsided over the afternoon. By evening, their partners had coaxed them to curl up in the sand and sleep. The dragons seen to, the young people hunched about a small fire, dispirited and apathetic.

“We have to find out what went wrong,” Sean was saying, “so that it can never happen again.”

“Sean, we don’t even know what Marco and Duluth were doing!” Dave Cataral cried.

“Duluth was exhibiting an instinctive reaction to danger,” a new voice said. Pol Nietro, Bay beside him, paused in the light thrown by the fire. “An instinct he was bred to exercise. May we offer condolences from all those connected with the dragon program. We—Bay and I—why, all of you are like family to us.” Pol awkwardly dabbed at his eyes and sniffed.

“Please join us,” Sorka said with quiet dignity. She rose and drew Bay and Pol into the firelight. Two more packing crates were hauled into the circle.

“We have tried to figure out what went wrong,” Pol continued after he and Bay had settled down wearily.

“Neither looked where he was going,” Sean said with a heavy sigh. “I was watching. Marco and Duluth took off from the beach and were rising just as the sled driver made an approach turn. He wouldn’t have seen Marco and Duluth coming up under him. Dragons aren’t fitted with proximity warning devices.” Sean raised both hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I have it from very good authority that the sled driver had turned his alarm off because the constant noise in so much traffic was getting on his nerves.”

Pol leaned toward him. “Then it is more important than ever that you riders teach your dragons discipline.” A ripple of angry denial made him hold up his hands. “That is not meant to sound censorious, my dear friends. Truly I mean to be constructive. But obviously now is the moment to take the next step in training the dragons—training them to make proper use of the instinct that ought to have saved both Marco and Duluth today.”

The comment raised murmurs, some angry, some alarmed. Sean held up his hand for silence, his tired face lit by the jumping tongues of flame. Next to him, Sorka was keenly aware of the muscles tightening along his jawline and the stricken look in his eyes.

“I believe we’ve been thinking along the same lines, Pol,” he said in a taut voice that told the biologist just how much strain the young dragonrider was under. “I think that Marco and Duluth panicked. If only they’d just come back to the place they’d left, the farking sled was gone!” His anguish was palpable. He took a deep breath and continued in a level, almost emotionless tone. “All of us have fire-lizards. That’s one of the reasons Kit Ping chose us as candidates. We’ve all sent them with messages, telling them where to go, what to do, or who to look for. We should be able to instruct the dragons to do the same thing. We know now, the hard way, that they can teleport, just as the fire-lizards do. We have to guide that instinct. We have to discipline it, as Pol suggested, so panic doesn’t get us the way it got Marco.”

“Why did Marco panic?” Tarrie Chernoff asked plaintively. “I’d give anything to know,” Sean said, the edge of anguish returning to his voice. “One thing I do know. From now on, no rider takes off without checking what’s in his immediate airspace. We must fly defensively, trying to spot possible dangers. Caution,” he said, stabbing his index finger into his temple, “should be engraved on our eyeballs.” He spoke rapidly, his tone crisp. “We know that the fire-lizards do go wherever it is they, go, between one place and another, so let’s stop taking that talent of theirs for granted and watch exactly what they do. Let’s scrutinize their comings and goings. Let’s send them to specific places, places they haven’t been before, to see if they can follow our mental directions. Our dragons hear us telepathically. They understand exactly what we’re saying—not like the fire-lizards—so if we get used to giving precise messages to the fire-lizards, the dragons ought to be able to operate on the same sort of mental directions. When we understand as much of fire-lizard behavior as we can, then we will attempt to direct our dragons.”

The other riders murmured among themselves, Sean watching them with narrowed darting glances.

“Wouldn’t that risk our dragonets?” Tarrie asked, stroking the little gold that had nestled in the crook of her arm.

“Better the dragonets than the dragons!” Peter Semling said firmly.

Sean gave a derisive snort. “The fire-lizards’re very good at taking care of themselves. Don’t misunderstand me—” He held up a hand against Tarrie’s immediate protest. “I appreciate them. They’ve been great little fighters. Jays, we’d never have fed the hatchlings without their help, but—” He paused to look around the circle. “—they have got a well-developed survival mechanism or they wouldn’t have lasted through the first pass of that Oort cloud. Whenever that was. As Peter said, it’s a lot safer to experiment with the fire-lizards than another dragonpair.”

“You’ve made some very good points there, Sean,” Pol said, beginning to take heart himself, “though I trust you mean to use the gold and bronze fire-dragonets. They have always seemed more reliable to Bay and myself.”

“I had. Especially since the blues and greens all scarpered off after the eruption.”

“I’m game to try,” Dave Catarel said, throwing his shoulders back and straightening up, sending a challenging look to the others. “We’ve got to try something. Cautiously!” He shot Sean a quick glance.

A slow smile broke across Sean’s face as he reached across the fire to grasp Dave’s hand.

“I’m willing, too,” Peter Semling said. Nora tentatively agreed.

“It sounds eminently sensible to me,” Otto said, nodding vigorously and looking at him. “It is, after all, what the dragons were bred to do, escape from the danger of Threadfall as the mechanical sleds cannot.”

“Thanks, Otto,” Sean said. “We all need to think positively.”

“And cautiously,” Otto amended, raising one finger in warning.

Stirred from their apathy, the riders began murmuring to one another.

“Do you remember, Sorka,” Bay said, leaning toward her urgently, “when I sent Mariah to you the day we were called to Calusa?”

“She brought me your message.”

“She did indeed, but all I told her was to find the redhead by the caves.” Bay paused significantly. “Of course, Mariah has known you all her life and there aren’t that many redheads in Landing, or on the planet.” Bay knew she was babbling, which was something she rarely did, but then she rarely broke down in tears, either, and when she had heard the dreadful news, she had cried for nearly an hour, despite Pol’s comforting. As Pol had said, it had been like losing family. Without a terminal to consult for possible solutions, they had spent two frantic hours searching for the crate in which they had packed all their written notes of the dragon program, wanting to have some positive suggestion with which to comfort the young people. “But Mariah did find you with no trouble that day, and you were at our house in minutes. So it can’t have taken her very long to do it.”

“No, it didn’t,” Sorka said thoughtfully. She looked around the circle of fire-lit faces. “Think of how many times we told the dragonets to get us fish for the hatchlings.”

“Fish are fish,” Peter Semling remarked, absently prodding the sand with a branch.

“Yes, but the dragonets knew which ones the dragons like best,” Kathy Duff said. “And it takes them no time at all from the moment we issue the command. They just wink out and a couple of breaths later they’re back with a packtail.”

“A couple of breaths,” Sean repeated, looking out to the darkness, his stare fixed. “It took more than a couple of breaths for any of our dragons to realize that . . . Marco and Duluth were not coming back. Can we infer from that that it also only takes a couple of breaths for dragons to teleport?”

“Cautiously . . .” Otto held up his finger again.

“Right,” Sean went on briskly, “this is what we do tomorrow morning at first light.” He reached over and took Peter’s stick, and drew a ragged coastline in the sand. “The governor wants us to ferry stuff out of Landing. Dave, Kathy, Tarrie, you’ve all got gold fire-lizards. You make the first run. When you get to the tower, send your fire-lizards back here to me and Sorka. Bay, do you and Pol have to be anywhere else tomorrow?”

Bay gave a derisory sniff. “The pair of us are useless until we get our systems going again at Fort Hold. And we have to wait for transport. We’d be delighted to help you, any way we can!”

“We’ll time the fire-lizards. Only, we’ve got to have handsets to do it on the mark.”

“Let me scrounge those,” Pol offered.

Sean grinned with real humor. “I was hoping you’d volunteer. Lilienkamp wouldn’t deny you, would he?”

Pol shook his head emphatically, feeling much better than he had all afternoon, vainly searching for mislaid documentation during the nadir of his grieving.

“Well then, Bay and I will leave you now,” Pol said, rising and giving her a helpful hand to her feet. “To scrounge handsets. How many? Ten? We’ll meet you here at dawn, then, with handsets.” He made a bow to the others, noting that only Bay understood his whimsy. “Yes, at dawn, we’ll begin our scientific observations.”

“Let’s all get some sleep, riders,” Sean said. He began to scoop sand over the dying flames.

With a handset to his ear, Pol dropped his finger as Bay, Sean, and Sorka set the mark on their wrist timers. Keeping index fingers hovering over the stop pin, they all looked up toward the eastern sky, Bay squinting against the sunglare from the smooth sea.

“Now!” Four voices spoke and four fingers moved as a dragonet erupted into the air over their heads, chirping ecstatically.

“Eight seconds again,” Pol exclaimed happily.

“Come, Kundi,” Sorka said, holding up her arm as a landing spot. Dave Catarel’s bronze cheeped, cocking his head as if considering her invitation, but he veered away as Duke, Sorka’s bronze, warned him off. “Don’t be ugly, Duke.”

“Eight seconds,” Sean said admiringly. “That’s all it takes them to travel fifty-odd klicks.”

“I wonder,” Pol mused, tapping his stylus on the clipboard with its encouraging column of figures. “The figure doesn’t vary no matter who we send which direction. How long would it take them to go to say, Seminole or Fort Hold in the north?” He looked with bright inquiry at the others.

Sean began to shake his head dubiously, but Sorka was more enthusiastic.

“My brother, Brian, is working at the fort. Duke knows him as well as he knows me. And I’ve seen plenty of fax of the place. He’d go to Brian.” As if understanding that he was being discussed, Duke circled in to land on Sorka’s shoulder. She laughed. “See, he’s game!”

“He may come when he’s called,” Sean said, “but will he -go where he’s sent? Landing’s one thing—they all know it well.”

“We can only try and see,” Pol remarked firmly. “And this is a good hour to reach Brian at Fort Hold.” He punched the comm unit. “What a boon that the tower’s functional. Ah, yes, Pol Nietro speaking. I need an urgent word with Brian Hanrahan . . . I said urgent! This is Pol Nietro. Get him for me! Idiots,” he murmured in an aside. “Is this call important?”

Brian was found and was surprised to hear from his sister. “Look, what’s this all about? You don’t just scream priority around here. I can assure you that Mother’s taking good care of Mick. She dotes on him.”

His slightly aggrieved voice was clear to the others, and Sorka was taken aback by his uncooperative response. Sean took the handset from her.

“Brian, Sean here. Marco Galliani and his dragon Duluth died yesterday in an unfortunate accident. We’re trying to prevent a recurrence. We’re only asking for a few minutes of your time. And this is a priority.”

“Marco and Duluth?” Brian’s tone was chastened. “Jays, we hadn’t heard anything. I’m sorry. What can I do?”

“Are you outside? Someplace where you can be easily spotted from the air?”

“Yes, I am. Why?”

“Then tell Sorka exactly where you are. I’m handing you over to her.”

“Hell and damnation, Sorka, I’m sorry I dumped on you. So I’m outside. Have you seen the recent fax? Well, I’m approximately twenty meters from the new ramp. At the vet caves. They finally carved us some more headroom, and there’s a huge pile of rock about a meter from me and nearly as high. What do I do now?”

“Just stand there. I’m sending Duke to you. When I say ‘mark,’ set your timer.”

“Come on, now, sis,” he began in patent disbelief, “you’re in Kahrain Cove, aren’t you?”

“Brian! For once in your life, don’t argue with me.”

“All right. I’m ready to mark the time.” He still sounded aggrieved.

Sorka held her arm high, ready to pitch Duke into the air. “Go to Brian, Duke. He’s at the new place! Here!” She screwed her eyes shut and concentrated on an image of Brian standing on the site he had described. “Go, Duke.”

With a startled squawk, Duke launched himself into the air and vanished.

“Mark!” Sorka cried.

“Hey, I can hear you loud and clear, sister. You don’t need to roar. I don’t know what good this is going to do. You can’t imagine for one minute that a fire-dragonet could possibly—Jays!” Brian’s voice in her ear faded into astonishment. “I don’t bloody believe it. Shit. I forgot to mark time.”

“That’s all right,” Sorka said, nodding her head with delight, “we used your ‘jays’ to mark!”

Pol was jumping up and down, holding his wrist chrono and shouting, “Eight seconds! Eight seconds!”

He grabbed Bay by the waist and danced around her. Sean lifted Sorka from her feet and kissed her soundly while Mariah and Blazer led an augmented fair of fluting fire-dragonets in a dizzy aerial display.

“Eight seconds to the fort, only eight seconds,” Pol gasped, reeling to a standstill, Bay clinging to him.

“That doesn’t make much sense, does it?” Bay said, panting, one hand on her heaving chest. “The same time to go fifty klicks or nearly three thousand.”

“Hey, Sorka,” came Brian’s plaintive voice. She put the handset to her ear again, mopping the sweat off her forehead against her sleeve. “I really gotta go, only what am I supposed to do with Duke now you’ve got him here?”

“Tell him to come back to me. And give us the mark when he disappears.”

“Sure, right. On the mark, now . . . Duke, find Sorka! Sorka! Find—he’s gone. Shit! Mark!”

On the beach at Kahrain Cove, four fingers pressed sweep hands, four pairs of eyes turned westward to the hot afternoon skies, and four voices counted the seconds.

“Six . . . seven . . . eight . . . He did it!”

Their elation had new confidence as Duke, cheeping happily, settled back to Sorka’s shoulder and rubbed a cold muzzle against her cheek.

“Well, this has been most satisfying and productive,” Bay said, beaming broadly.

“Report it to Emily, will you, Bay?” Sean asked, tucking his hand under Sorka’s elbows. “We’d better go do our share of the donk work today.”

“So the Galliani boy’s death proved to be a catalyst?” Paul Benden asked Emily as they conferred that evening by comm unit.

“Pol and Bay are much encouraged,” Emily replied, still unaccountably saddened by the tragedy. She was tired, she knew, and while she spoke to Paul, hoping for the consolation of any sort of good news from the northern continent, half her mind was still on things that had to be organized.

“Telgar’s group has made a tremendous effort, Em. The quarters are magnificent. You wouldn’t know you were twenty or thirty feet in solid rock. Cobber and Ozzie have penetrated several hundred feet down on seven tunnels. There’s even an eyrie for Ongola’s communications equipment, cut high up in the cliff face. This place is big enough to house the entire population of Landing.”

“Not everyone wants to live in a hole in the ground, Paul.” Emily spoke for herself.

“There are quite a few ground-level caverns, immediate access,” he replied soothingly. “You wait. You’ll see. And when are you coming over? I’ve got to put in an appearance at the next Fall or they’ll fire me.”

“Don’t you wish it!”

“Emily.” Paul’s flippant tone turned serious. “Let Ezra take over from you. He and Jim can liaise on shipments. Others can handle transportation and sled and skimmer maintenance. Pierre should be here to supervise the catering arrangements. He’s got the biggest kitchen unit on Pern.”

“That would be a welcome change from the largest single barbecue pit! It’s the dragons that I worry about, Paul.”

“I think they have to sort it out themselves, Emily. From what you reported, I believe they will.”

“Thank you, Paul,” she replied fervently, heartened by the absolute confidence in his voice. “I’ll reserve a seat on the evening sled tomorrow.”

After the excitement of sending Duke north, directing fire-dragonets back and forth between Kahrain and Landing was anticlimactic, but it helped to pass the tedium of the long journey. On the way back, Sean had the dragonriders practice flying in both close and loose formations and, more importantly, learning how to identify and benefit from the helpful airstreams.

Their campfire that night was bigger, and Pol and Bay slipped into its light to discuss observations about the fire-dragonets and how to apply them to the dragons. There had been no real need for Sean to promote caution as a byword: Marco and Duluth were still very much in everyone’s mind. To counter any morbidity, Sean suggested that they get more formation practice the next day, practice that would stand them in good stead during Threadfall.

“If you know where you are in relation to other wing riders, you’ll always know where to come back to,” he said, stressing the last word.

“Your dragons are so young,” Pol went on, seeing the favorable reaction, “in terms of their species. The fire-dragonets do not appear to suffer from degeneration. In other words, they don’t age as we do physiologically.”

“You mean, they could go on living after we die?” Tarrie asked, amazed. She glanced around toward Porth, a darker bulk against the shadowy vegetation.

“From what we’ve discerned, yes, Tarrie,” Pol replied.

“Our major organs degenerate,” Bay went on, “although modern technology can effect either repair or replacement, permitting us long, and useful, life spans.”

“So they’re not likely to get sick or to ail?” Tarrie brightened at that prospect.

“That’s what we think,” Pol answered, but he held up a warning finger. “But then we haven’t seen any elderly dragonets.”

Sean gave a snort, which Sorka softened with a laugh. “We’ve really only our generation to judge by,” she said. “At that, we only get to treat our own, who trust us, and that’s usually for scoring or scorching, or an occasional hide lesion. I find it comforting to know that dragons should be as long-lived.”

“So long as we don’t make mistakes,” Otto Hegelman said gloomily.

“So, we don’t make mistakes!” Sean’s tone was decisive. “And so that we don’t make mistakes, tomorrow let’s split up into three sections. Six, six . . . and five. We need three leaders.”

Although Sean had left the choice open, he was nominated at once. Dave and Sorka were selected after a minimum of discussion.

Later, when Sean and Sorka had made themselves comfortable on the sand between Faranth and Carenath, she gave him a long hug and kissed his cheek.

“What’s that for?”

“Giving us all hope. But Sean, I’m worried.”

“Oh?” Sean stroked her hair away from his mouth and inched his left shoulder into a new hollow.

“I think we oughtn’t to wait too long before we try to teleport.”

“My thoughts entirely, and I’m grateful to Pol and Bay for their comments on dragon longevity. Cheered me up, too.”

“So, as long as we keep our wits, we’ll keep our dragons.” She snuggled against him.

“I wish you’d kept your hair long, Sorka,” he muttered, pushing another curl out of his mouth. “I didn’t eat so much of it then.”

“Short hair’s easier under a riding helmet,” she replied in a sleepy sort of mumble. Then they both slept.

Although they could see the diminution of the parcels and plastic-cocooned equipment at Landing, cargo did not move out of Kahrain Cove as quickly. That second evening, when Sean was helping his wing riders unload, he caught sight of one of the cargo supervisors seated at a makeshift desk peering at the small screen of a portable unit.

“We’ll finish off transferring from Landing by tomorrow, Desi,” Sean assured the man.

“That’s great, Sean, great,” Desi said curtly, with a dismissive wave.

“What the hell’s the matter, Desi?” Sean asked.

The edge in his voice caused Desi to look up in surprise. “What’s the matter? I’ve got a beachful of stuff to shift and no transport.” Desi’s face was so contorted with anxiety that Sean’s rancor dissolved.

“I thought the big sleds were coming back.”

“Only when they’re recharged and serviced. I wish they’d mentioned that earlier.” Desi’s voice rose in a quaver of frustration. “All my schedules . . . gone. What’m I to do, Sean? We’ll be under Threadfall again here soon and all that stuff—” He flourished a sweat-grimed rag at the bulk of orange cartons. “—is irreplaceable. If only—” He broke off, but Sean had a good idea what the man had almost said. “You’ve done great, Sean, great. I really appreciate it. How much did you say is still to be shipped forward?”

“We’ll have cleared it tomorrow.”

“Look, then, the day after . . .” Desi rubbed at his face again, trying to hide his flush of embarrassment. “Well, I heard from Paul. He wants you riders to start making your way to Seminole, and cross to the north from there. And . . .” Desi screwed up his face again.

“You’d like us to take some of the orange out of danger?” Sean felt resentment welling up again. “Well, I suppose that’s better than being good for nothing at all.” He strode off before his temper got the better of him.

Faranth and Sorka come, Carenath said in a subdued tone. Sean altered his course to their point of arrival. He could not fool Sorka, but he could work off some of his fury during the unloading.

“All right, what happened?” Sorka said, pulling him to the seaward side of her golden queen, where they were shielded from the other riders, who were still sorting packages into the color-coded areas.

Sean set his fist violently into the palm of his other hand several times before he could put words to the humiliation.

“We’re considered nothing but bloody pack animals, donks with wings!” he said finally. He did remember to keep his voice down, though he was seething.

Faranth turned her head around her shoulder, regarding the two riders, hints of red beginning to gleam through the blue of her eyes. Carenath shoved his head over her back. Beyond them, Sean heard the other dragons muttering. The next thing he knew, he and Sorka were surrounded by dragons, and their riders were weaving into the central point.

“Now, see what you’ve done,” Sorka said with a sigh.

“What’s the matter, Sean?” Dave asked, squeezing past Polenth.

Sean took a deep breath, burying anger and resentment. If he could not control himself, he could not control others. There were flares of the yellow of alarm in the dragons who looked down at him. He had to quiet them, himself, and the other riders. Sorka was right. He had done something he had better quickly undo.

“We seem to be the only available aerial transportation unit,” he said, managing a sort of a smile. “Desi says all the big sleds are grounded until they’ve been serviced.”

“Hey, Sean,” Peter Semling protested, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the masses of materials on the beach. “We can’t shift all that!”

“No way.” Sean made a decisive cut with his hands. “That’s not been laid on us; When we’ve cleared Landing, Paul wants us to fly across to Seminole and make the final crossing north from there. That’s okay.” He gave a genuinely rueful smile. “But Desi would like us to take some of the irreplaceable stuff with us.”

“So long as everyone understands we’re not in the freight business,” Peter said in an aggrieved tone that echoed Sean’s sentiments.

“That’s not an issue, Pete,” Sean said firmly. “We’re coming along as dragonriders, coming along fine. But Desi’s caught between a rock and a hard place and he needs us.”

“I just wish we were needed for what we’re supposed to do,” Tarrie remarked.

“Once we’ve fulfilled our commitment here,” Sean said, “we concentrate on that, and that alone. I mean to see us all teleporting by the time we reach Seminole.”

“To places we’ve never seen?” asked the practical Otto.

“No, to the places we’ve just been. Look on our flight to Seminole as a chance to see the most important stakes in the south,” Sean replied in a bracing tone. He was surprised to find himself believing it. “We’ll need such reference points to teleport when we’re fighting Thread.” Sorka’s face was glowing with pride as he managed not only to turn around his own anger but to restate the dignity of their future. Above their heads, the yellow was fading from dragon eyes. “I can smell food. I’m hungry. Let’s go eat. We’ve earned it.”

“We’re going to have to hunt the dragons before we go skiting across the continent,” Peter said, jerking his chin toward the animal enclosures.

Sean shook his head, smiling as he remembered Emily’s oblique warning. “Can’t go to that well twice, Pete. Tomorrow, we’ll hunt the critters that got through the roundup in the Landing area.” He began to push through the ring of dragons. “Food tomorrow, Carenath,” he said, affectionately clouting the bronze as he passed him.

Fish? Carenath queried in a tone that carried dismay.

“Meat. Red meat,” Sean said. He laughed when some of the dragons bugled gratefully. “But this time we won’t kidnap it for you.” Then he put an arm around Sorka and started up the beach to the cooking fires.

The next day, as the three wings of dragonriders crossed the Jordan River, they spread out in three different directions, bypassing the ash-covered settlement and heading south and east at low levels.

Faranth says that she has found running meat, Carenath reported to his rider. Have we?

Sean had his binoculars trained on a little valley. They were north of the path of the two Threadfalls that had dropped on that area, so there was vegetation to attract grazers.

“Tell her we’ve hit pay dirt, too.”

Not meat? Carenath asked wistfully.

Sean grinned, and slapped his dragon’s shoulder. “Yes, meat, by another name. And all you can eat this time,” he added as the small mixed herd of sheep and cattle stampeded to escape the danger above them. He signaled to the rest of his wing in the exaggerated arm gestures that they had been rehearsing. Since the dragons could communicate with one another, the riders had chosen not to use handsets. But Sean had retained those Pol had scrounged. Although too valuable to risk dropping from a height, the handsets were too useful to be surrendered. “Land me on that ridge, Carenath. There’s enough room there for the others.”

Porth says they’ve enough for all of us, Carenath reported as he touched down gracefully and dipped his shoulder for Sean to dismount.

“Tell Porth we’re grateful, but you’d better hurry to catch that lot,” Sean advised. The herd was making all possible speed down the valley. He had to shield his face from the gravel and omnipresent ash thrown up by Carenath’s abrupt departure. Bright streaks followed the bronze. “Welcome back,” Sean said derisively as he distinguished blues and greens among the small colorful fire-lizard bodies following Blazer as she led the way.

The rest of his wing soon joined him. Even Nora Sejby managed a creditable landing on Tenneth; she was improving all the time. He worried more about Catherine Radelin-Doyle: she had not giggled with Singlath since the tragedy. Nyassa, Otto, and Jerry Mercer completed his wing. Once their dragons followed the hunt, Sean turned his glasses on Carenath in time to see the bronze swoop and grab a steer neatly without slowing his forward motion.

“Nice catch, Carenath!” Sean passed the binoculars to Nyassa to check on Milath.

“Seemed to me there was quite alot of cattle in that bunch,” Jerry said, pulling off his helmet and ruffling his sweat-damp hair. “What’ll happen to them?”

Sean shrugged. “The best stock went north. These’ll survive, or they won’t.”

“Sean, look who’s come to dinner!” Nyassa pointed northward at the unmistakable outline of five wherries. “Go to it!” she added as she caught a glimpse of fire-dragonets launching an attack on the intruders. “Wait your turn!”

“I brought some lunch,” Catherine said, twisting out of her backpack. “We might as well take a meal break, too.”

Sean called a halt to the hunt when each dragon had consumed two animals. Carenath complained that he had eaten only one big one, so he needed two of the smaller kind. Sean replied that Carenath’s belly would be so full that he would be unable to fly, and they still had work to do. The dragons grumbled, Carenath ingenuously remarking that Faranth wanted another meal, too, but Sean was adamant, and the dragons obeyed.

Sean re-formed the wing once they were aloft.

“All right, Carenath,” he said, thinking ahead with relief to the last loads at Landing. “Let’s get back to the tower as fast as we can and get this over with!”

He raised his arm and dropped it.

The next instant he and Carenath were enveloped in a blackness that was so absolute that Sean was certain his heart had stopped.

I will not panic! he thought fiercely, pushing the memory of Marco and Duluth to the back of his mind. His heart raced, and he was aware of the stunning cold of the black nothingness.

I am here!

Where are we, Carenath? But Sean already knew. They were between. He focused intense thoughts on their destination, remembering the curious ash-filtered light around Landing, the shape of the meteorology tower, the flatness of the grid beyond it, and the bundles awaiting them there.

We are at the tower, Carenath said, somewhat surprised. And in that instant, they were. Sean cried aloud with relief.

Then he went wide-eyed with sudden terror. “Jays! What have I done?” he shrieked. “Where are the others, Carenath? Speak to them!”

They’re coming, Carenath replied with the utmost calm and confidence, hovering above the tower.

Before Sean’s unbelieving eyes, his wing suddenly materialized behind him, still in formation.

“Land, Carenath, please, before I fall off you,” Sean said in a whisper made weak by the unutterable relief he felt.

As the others circled in to land, Sean remained seated on Carenath, reviewing everything, hail in wonder, half in remembered terror at the unthinkable risk that had just been unaccountably survived.

“Keeeeyoooo!” Nyassa’s yodel of triumph brought him up short. She was swinging her riding helmet above her head as Milath landed beside Carenath. Catherine and Singlath came in on the other side, Jerry Mercer and Manooth beyond them, and Otto and Shoth beside Tenneth and Nora.

“Hip, hip, hooray!” Jerry led the cheer while Sean stared at them, not knowing what to say.

It was easy, you know. You thought me where to go, and I went. You did tell me to go as fast as possible. Carenath’s tone was mildly reproving.

“If that is all there is to it, what took us so long?” Otto asked.

“Anyone got a spare pair of pants?” Nora asked plaintively. “I was so scared I wet myself. But we did it!”

Catherine giggled. The sound brought Sean to his senses, and he allowed himself to smile.

“We were ready to try!” he said, shrugging nonchalantly as he unbuckled his riding straps. Then he realized that he, too, would need to find a clean pair of pants.

Chapter 19

“I SAID WE’LL maintain silence about Emily’s condition,” Paul said sternly, glaring at Ongola, Ezra Keroon, and the scowling Joel Lilienkamp. He did not want Lilienkamp taking book on whether or not Emily Boll would recover from her multiple fractures. He moderated his expression as his eyes rested on the bent head of Fulmar Stone, who kept pulling with agitated fingers at a wad of grease-stained rag. “As far as Fort Hold is concerned, she’s resting comfortably. That is the truth, according to the doctor, and all the support systems monitoring her condition. For outside inquiries, she’s busy—shunt the call to Ezra.”

Abruptly Paul pushed himself to his feet and began to pace his new office, the first apartment on the level above the Great Hall. Its windows gave an unimpeded view of the ordered rows of cargo and supplies that filled that end of the valley. Eventually all those goods would be stored in the vast subterranean caverns of Fort Hold. So much had to be done, and he sorely missed Emily’s supportive presence.

He caught himself fingering the prosthetic fingers and jammed both hands into his pockets. His position had required him to contain his distress in order to avoid alarming people already under considerable tension. But before his close and trusted friends, he could give vent to the anxieties that they all shared.

The disastrous failure of the big sled’s gyros and its subsequent crash had been visible to the inhabitants of Fort Hold, but few had known that the governor had been a passenger that night. They could be honest about the severity of the pilot’s injuries, for he would recover easily from two broken arms and numerous lacerations. None of the other passengers had been severely hurt, and those who rescued the injured had not recognized Emily, her face bloodied by the head wound. At least until she was convalescing, Paul would not allow the facts to be common knowledge. Following so closely after the exodus from Landing, that crash, with the loss of some irreplaceable medical supplies as well as the sled itself, had to be minimized to sustain morale.

“Pierre agrees,” Paul went on. He could feel the resistance from the others, the unspoken opinion that suppression would undermine his credibility. “Even insists on it. It’s what Emily would want.” In his pacing, Paul inadvertently glanced out the deep-set window and averted his eyes from the view of the scar that the sled had gouged two days ago. “Ezra, get someone to smooth that over, will you? I see it every time I look out the window.”

Ezra murmured a response and made a note.

“How long can we expect Emily’s state to be kept a secret?” Ongola asked, his face graven with new worry lines.

“As long as we have to, dammit, Ongola! We can at least spare people one more worry, especially when we haven’t got a positive prognosis.” Paul drew a deep breath. “The head wound wasn’t serious—no skull fracture—but it was a while before she was removed from the sled. The trauma wasn’t treated quickly enough, and we don’t have the sophisticated equipment to relieve the shock of multiple fracture. She must be given time and rest. Fulmar—” Paul swung to the engineer. “There will be a transport sled ready to go south today, won’t there? I can’t keep stalling Desi.”

“All that orange-coded stuff is irreplaceable,” Joel added, rearranging himself in the chair. “Not that we’ve got half the stuff moved inside here yet, but it’d be a sight more protectable in our front yard than on some frigging beach half a world away. Otherwise, you’re going to have to send Keroon back for it. And I’ll figure out a new schedule of priorities. You couldn’t make that two sleds to go, could you, Fulmar?”

Fulmar looked up at him with eyes so reddened by strain and grief that even the doughty storesman recoiled in dismay. He knew that Stone’s crews had been working impossible hours to service the big transport sleds. Joel would admit only to himself that more of the blame of that crash could be attributed to Stores than to maintenance. But what could he do with one emergency after another dumping on him?

“Whenever you can, Fulmar,” Joel said in a gentler tone. “Whenever they’re ready.” He walked out of the room without a backward glance.

“We’re doing our best, Admiral,” Fulmar said wearily, struggling to his feet. He looked at the rag in his hands, perplexed to see it in tatters, and then jammed it into his hip pocket.

“I know, man, I know.” Placing his arm across Fulmar’s hunched shoulders, Paul guided the man to the door, giving him a final appreciative squeeze. “In all that spare time you have, Fulmar, run up a list of servicing dates on the smaller craft. I’ve got to know how many I’ll have for this Fall.

“The accident was no one’s fault,” Paul said, returning to his desk and slumping down into his chair. “There’s Fulmar, blaming himself for not insisting on servicing earlier. For that matter, I shouldn’t have urged Emily to come north. The cargo was inadequately secured in the cabin. However, gentlemen, it is folly to read more into such an accident than bad timing and a lousy concatenation of circumstances. We evacuated Landing in reasonable order. A place had been prepared for us, and we’ve got to mobilize enough personnel and machines to fight Thread.” He no longer hoped for support from either dragonets or dragons.

“You did what?” Sorka cried, her skin blanching then flushing brightly in fury. Faranth, her eyes whirling orange in sympathy with her rider, lowered her head. Carenath bugled alarm.

Sean grabbed Sorka by the arms, obscurely irritated by her reaction. He managed to get the others to wait until Sorka’s wing had landed before broadcasting their feat.

“Look, it wasn’t something I planned, Sorka! Jays, it was the last thing in my head. I just told Carenath to get back to Landing as fast as possible. He did!”

It was really very simple, Carenath said modestly, I’ve told Faranth. She believes me. He swiveled his head to cast a reproachful look on Sorka.

“How . . . how . . . did, the others know?” Fear returned to shadow her eyes. She ignored the general carry-on about her as Sean’s wing cavorted with her riders, babbling the good news and going into specific detail at the top of their lungs.

He told them, Faranth replied, an edge to her tone.

“We’ve spent two hours figuring that out.” Sean smiled, hoping to coax a smile from Sorka. Putting his arms about her shoulders, he drew her back to the others. “I think,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “we were all scared shitless by Marco and Duluth dying like that. Now we know, firsthand, why Marco panicked. Sorka, it’s like nothing you’ve ever seen, and you can’t feel anything, even your dragon between your legs. Otto called it total sensory deprivation.”

It is between, Carenath said in an almost didactic tone. He and Faranth followed their riders back to the mass of netted bundles which would be their final load. The dragons of Sean’s wing were sitting on their haunches in a loose circle, occasionally shaking themselves to dislodge windblown ash. Faranth made a noise low in her throat, which made Sean grin. The golden queen was as skeptical as her rider.

“Can Faranth tell me how far away Dave’s wing is?” he asked Sorka.

They are in sight now, Carenath said just as Sorka replied, “Faranth says they’re in sight now.” She pointed northeast. “Polenth says that they hunted well. Meat!” Sorka gave a brief smile, and Sean decided that she was halfway to forgiving him.

There was of course renewed astonishment and rueful congratulations when Dave and his wing riders heard the news.

“Okay then,” Sean said, mounting a carton to address them all. “This is what we do, riders. We teleport to Kahrain Cove. We know its aerial aspect as well as we know Landing’s. So it’s the perfect test. Carenath insists that he told the other dragons where they were going, but I’d prefer that you riders tell your own dragons where to go. I think that has to be as much part of our preflight drill as strapping on and checking the immediate airspace.” He grinned at them.

“What’re we going to tell them?” Dave asked, jerking a thumb in a northerly direction.

“Emily’s gone to join the admiral. Pol and Bay were supposed to get the first sled back.” Sean paused, looking around again, and then gave Sorka a long look. She nodded slowly in approval. “I think we keep this to ourselves for the time being. We’ll spring the finished product on them, fighting-ready dragons! It’s one thing to send a fire-lizard north on the strength of fax, but I sure wouldn’t want to risk Carenath going someplace I’ve never been.” Sean took another deep breath, having gauged the favorable reaction. “Desi said we’re to make our way along the coast to Seminole. That’ll give us time to practice teleporting between where we are and where we’ve been. That way we’ll know exactly how to get back to any of the major stakes when we need to fight Thread over them.”

“Yeah, but the dragons don’t flame yet,” Peter Semling pointed out.

“There’s phosphine-bearing rock all along the coast. We’ve all watched the fire-lizards chew rock. That’s the easiest part of this whole thing,” Sean replied dismissively.

“It’s one thing to go from one place to another,” Jerry began slowly. “We’ve done it now. We go from here—” He stabbed his left index finger “—to there.” He held up his right finger. “And the dragons do the work. But dodging Thread, or a sled—” He broke off.

“Duluth caught Marco off-balance. He panicked.” Sean spoke quickly and confidently. “Frankly, Jerry, that place between scared me, and I’ll lay book the rest of us were scared. But now we know, we adapt. We’ll plan emergency evasive tactics.” Sean pulled the knife out of his boot cuff and hunkered down. “Most of us have flown sleds or skimmers in Threadfall, so we’ve seen how the junk drops . . . most of the time.” He drew a series of long diagonal stripes in the ash. “A rider sees he’s on a collision course with Thread . . . here—” He dug his point in. “—and thinks a beat forward.” He jumped the point ahead. “We’ll have to practice skipping like that. It’s going to take quick reflexes. We see fire-lizards using such tactics all the time—wink in, wink out—when they’re fighting Thread with ground crews. If they can, dragons can!”

The dragons bugled in answer to the challenge, and Sean grinned broadly.

“Right?” Sean’s question dared the riders.

“Right!” They all replied enthusiastically, and fists were brandished to show staunch determination.

“Well, then.” Sean stood up, bringing his hands together with an audible smack. Ash sifted off his shoulders. “Let’s load up and teleport ourselves back to Kahrain.”

“What if someone sees us, Sean?” Tarrie asked anxiously,

“What? The flying donks doing what they were designed to do?” he asked sarcastically.

“Obviously,” Paul told the worried pilots, “we’re not going to be able to protect as much land with such a depleted aerial coverage.”

“Damn it, Admiral,” Drake Bonneau said, twisting his face into a frown. “We were supposed to have enough power packs to last fifty years!”

“We did.” Joel Lilienkamp jumped to his feet once again. “Under normal usage. They have not had what anyone could possible term normal usage, or even normal maintenance. And don’t blame Fulmar Stone and his crew. I don’t think they’ve had a full night’s sleep in months. The best mechanics in the world can’t make sleds operate on half-charged or badly charged packs.” Glaring belligerently around him, he sat down hard, and the chair rocked on the stone floor.

“So it really is a case of taking the greatest care of the sleds and skimmers we have left, or have no aerial vehicles at all in a year?” Drake asked plaintively.

No one answered him immediately.

“That’s it, Drake,” Paul finally replied. “Burn a swath around your homes and what vegetable crops you’ve managed to save, keep the home stake clear . . . and thank whatever agency you will that hydroponics are available.”

“Where’re those dragons? There were eighteen of them,” Chaila said.

“Seventeen,” Ongola corrected her. “Marco Galliani died at Kahrain, with the brown, Duluth.”

“Sorry, forgot that,” Chaila murmured. “But where are the others? I thought they were to take up when vehicles failed.”

“They’re en route from Kahrain,” Paul replied.

“Well?” Chaila prompted pointedly.

“The dragons are not yet a year old,” Paul said. “According to Wind Blossom”—he noted the subtly disapproving reaction to her name—“Pol, and Bay, the dragons will not be mature enough to be fully . . . operational . . . for another two or three months.”

“In two or three months,” someone called out bitterly, “there’ll have been between eighteen and twenty more uncontained Falls!”

Fulmar rose, turning to the back of the chamber. “We will have three completely reconditioned sleds back on line in three weeks.”

“I heard there were more creatures hatched,” Drake said. “Is that true, Admiral?”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“Are they any good?”

“Six more dragons,” Paul said, more heartily than he felt.

“Removing six more young people from our defensive strength!”

“Giving us six more potential self-maintaining, self-propagating fighters!” Paul rose to his feet. “Consider the project in the right perspective. We have got to have an aerial defense against Threads. We have bioengineered an indigenous life-form to supply that critical need. They will!” He laced his voice with conviction. “In a few generations—”

“Generations?” The cry elicited angry murmurs from an audience already unnerved by an unpalatable briefing.

“Dragon generations,” Paul said, raising his voice over the reactions. “The fertile females are mature enough to reproduce when they’re two and a half or three years. A dragon generation is three years. The queens will lay between ten to twenty eggs. We’ve ten golds from the first Hatching, three from this second one. In five, ten years, we’ll have an invincible aerial defense system to combat the intruder.”

“Yeah, Admiral, and in a hundred years there won’t be any space for humans left on the planet!” The suggestion was met with a ripple of nervous laughter, and Paul smiled, grateful to the anonymous wit.

“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.

Fire-breathing dragons, indeed! A ridiculous concept, straight out of folk tales. And yet . . .

Resolutely Paul began to scroll out the stark facts and figures of the colony’s dwindling supplies.

“Tarrie!” Peter Chernoff came rushing to greet his sister from the cavernous barn set on the east edge of the Seminole Stake headquarters. A tall young man, he was able to look down at the riders who were surrounding him. “Say, you guys, where have you all been?”

“We’ve been reporting in to Fort everyday,” Sean said, surprised.

“I made yesterday’s report and even spoke to brother Jake,” Tarrie added, her expression anxious. “What’s the matter, Petey?’

Reluctant to explain, Peter stamped his feet as he hedged and hawed. “Things are getting tougher. We’re not to fly anything anywhere that isn’t a priority number one top emergency.”

“So that’s why we saw so much Thread damage,” Otto said, shocked.

Peter nodded solemnly. “And there’s Fall at Fort Hold today, and they’ll have to sit it out.”

“Without any attempt . . .” Dave Catarel was appalled.

“Transporting Landing to the north put too big a strain on sled and power packs.” Peter peered down at them, judging their reaction. “And the governor was injured, you know. No one’s seen her in weeks.”

“Oh, no,” Sorka said, leaning into Sean for comfort. Nora Sejby began to weep softly.

Peter gave another of his solemn nods. “It’s pretty bad. Pretty bad.”

Suddenly everyone was demanding news of his or her own kin, and Peter did his best to answer when he could. “Look, guys, I don’t sit on the comm unit all the time. The word is out to sit tight and keep the home stake as clear as possible with ground crews. There’s plenty of HNO₃, and it’s easy to maintain tanks and wands.”

“But not the land,” Sean said, raising his voice authoritatively. The babble died abruptly, and his riders looked to him. “There’s Thread at Fort today, you said. When?”

“Right now!” Peter replied. “Well, it starts out over the bay—”

“And you have throwers here? Ten of ’em that we could use?” Sean asked eagerly.

“Use? Well, you’d have to ask Cos, and he’s not here right now. And what do you need ten throwers for?”

Grinning, Sean turned with a flourish of his hand to indicate the gold riders. “The girls need them to fight Thread! And we’ve got to work fast to be ready!”

“Whaddya mean?” Peter was dumbfounded. “The Fall’s started. You wouldn’t even make it out across the sea before it’s over. And you’re supposed to get in touch with Fort the moment you get here!”

“Peter, be a good lad, don’t argue. Show the girls where the throwers are kept and let me see the latest fax of Fort Hold. Or better, the Fort harbor I heard they built. Dragons are a lot faster than that fleet Jim Tillek’s shepherding. They haven’t passed the Delta West Head yet.”

Sean gave Peter no time to think or protest. He sent Otto to run off copies of the installation at the mouth of the Fort Hold River. Tarrie chivvied her brother into showing them where the flamethrowers were kept and helping the girls check out the tanks. In a flurry of golden wings, the queens landed at that storehouse and permitted Sean, Dave, and Shih to secure additional tanks to their backs. Sean shouted directions to Jerry and Peter Semling to check the cargo nets of firestone on the browns and bronzes. Peter Chernoff went from one rider to another, pleading with them to stop. What was he to do? How was he to explain all this? When would they bring all this equipment back? They could not leave Seminole defenseless.

Then all the frenzied preparations were completed, and the bronze and brown dragons had chewed as much firestone as they could swallow.

“Check straps!” Sean roared. He was developing quite a powerful bellow. Of course, he did not need to shout, as all the dragons were listening to Carenath, but it served to release adrenaline into his system, and it helped to encourage those who would soon follow him into danger.

“Checked!” was the prompt response.

“Do we know where we’re going?” Setting the example himself, he spread out the fluttering fax for one last long look at the seafront installation with its wharf and the metal unloading crane that looked like an awkward alien species hunched high over the metal beams that had once been part of a space ship.

“We know!”

“Check your airspace?” He turned his head to the left and the right of Carenath, who was vibrating in his eagerness to jump off.

“Checked!”

“Remember to skip! Let’s go!”

Rising up from Carenath’s neck as far as the riding straps would permit, Sean raised his arm high, rotated his hand, and then dropped it: the signal to spring.

Seventeen dragons launched themselves skyward, arrowing upward in the bright tropical sky in two V formations. Then, as a bewildered and incredulous Peter Chernoff watched, the Vs disappeared.

Mouth open, Peter stared for one more long moment. Then he turned on his heels, raced to the office, and launched himself at the comm unit. “Fort, this is Seminole. Fort, do you copy? Only you won’t.”

“Peter, is that you?” his brother Jake asked.

“Tarrie was here, but she left, with a flamethrower.”

“Get a hold of yourself, Pete. You’re not making any sense.”

“They all came. They took our flamethrowers and half the tanks and left. All of them. All at once.”

“Peter, calm down and make sense.”

“How can I make sense when I don’t believe what I saw anyhow!”

“Who was there? Tarrie and who else?”

“Them. The ones who ride dragons. They’ve gone to Fort. To fight Thread!”

Paul picked up the comm unit. Any occupation was preferable to sitting like a barnacle on a hull in a shuttered room while a voracious organism rained down outside.

“Admiral?” Excitement tingled through Ongola’s single word. “We’ve had word that the dragonriders are on their way here.”

“Sean and his group?” Paul wondered why that would excite Ongola. “When did they start?”

“Whenever they started, sir, they’re already here.” Paul wondered if disappointment had got the better of his imperturbable second-in-command, for he could swear the man was laughing. “The seaport asks should they join the aerial defense of the harbor? And, Admiral, sir, I’ve got it on visuals! Our dragons are fighting Thread! I’ll patch it in to your screen.”

Paul watched as the picture cleared and the focus lengthened to show him the unbelievable vision of tiny flying creatures, undeniably spouting flame from their mouths at the silver rain that fell in a dreadful curtain over the harbor. He had that one view before the picture was interrupted by a sheet of Thread. He waited no longer.

Afterward Paul wondered that he had not broken his neck, going down stone steps three at a time. He ran full pelt across the Great Hall and down the metal stairway leading to the garage where the sleds and skimmers were stored. Fulmar and one mechanic were bent over a gyro, and stared in surprise at him.

“You there, get the doors open. Fulmar, you’d better come with me. They may need help.” He all but fell into the nearest sled, fumbling with the comm unit. “Ongola, tell Emily and Pol and Bay that their protégés have made it. Record this, by all that’s holy, get as much of this on film as you can.”

Paul had the sled motor turning over before Fulmar had shut the canopy. He slipped the sled under the door before it was fully open, a maneuver he would have reamed anyone else for attempting, and then, turning on the power, he made an arrow ascent straight up out of the valley. Emerging from the shelter of the cliffs of Fort, he could see the ominous line of Thread.

“Admiral, have you gone mad?” Fulmar asked.

“Use the screen, high magnification. Hell, you don’t need it, Fulmar, you can see it with your bare eyeballs!” Paul pointed wildly. “See. Flame. See the bursts. I count fourteen, fifteen emissions. The dragons are fighting Thread!”

It was frightening, Sean thought. It was wonderful! It was the finest moment in his life, and he was scared stiff. They had all emerged right on target, just above the harbor, dragon-lengths ahead of the Fall.

Carenath started flaming instantly, and then skipped as they were about to plow through a second tangle of the stuff.

Are the others all right? Sean anxiously asked Carenath as they slipped back into real space.

Flaming well and skipping properly, Carenath assured him with calm dignity, veering slightly to flame again, turning his head from side to side, searing his way through Thread.

Sean glance around and saw the rest of his wing following in the step formation they had adopted from Kenjo’s sled tactics. That gave them the widest possible range of destruction. Even as Sean looked, he saw Jerry and Manooth wink out and back in again, neatly escaping. Then he and Carenath skipped.

A thousand feet below them, he caught a glimpse of Sorka’s wing of five and, following that formation, Tarrie leading the remaining queens.

More! Carenath said imperiously, arrowing upward in a trough between Thread. He turned his head backward, mouth wide open. Sean fumbled for a lump of firestone. This will have to be practiced, he thought. Carenath skipped them out.

Shoth has a wing-score, Carenath announced. He will continue to fly!

He’ll learn to fly the better for it! Sean retorted.

Then the straps strained at the belt as Carenath seemed to stand on his tail to avoid a stream of Thread which he then followed with flame.

Back in formation! Sean ordered. The last thing they needed was to sear one another. He saw that the others had held their positions as Carenath resumed his.

After that first exhilarating cross of the Threadfall, they all got down to business until flame and evasion became instinctive. Carenath went between several times to lose Thread that had wrapped about his wings. Sean locked his jaw against his dragon’s pain each time Carenath was scored. By then all the bronzes and browns had received minor injuries. Still they had fought on. The queens constantly encouraged them. Then Faranth reported the arrival of a sled; reported again that ground crews were out in the harbor area, destroying the shells that had made it to the surface. The queen riders had used up the tanks they had taken from Seminole. Sorka was going to get more from the harbor hold.

Faranth asks how long will we fight? Carenath asked.

As long as we have firestone to fight with! Sean replied grimly. He had just taken a faceful of char, and his cheeks stung. In the back of his mind he noted that full face masks would be useful.

Manooth says they have no more firestone! Carenath announced suddenly after a nearly mindless length of fighting time. Shall they see if there is more at Fort Hold?

Sean had not realized how far inland their battle had taken them. They were indeed over the imposing ramparts of Fort Hold. He stared in a moment of bewilderment, suddenly very much aware of how he ached from cold and strain. His body felt bruised from the riding straps, his face smarted, and his fingers, toes, and knees were numb.

Tell them to land at Fort! he said. Thread has moved up into the mountains. We can do no more today!

Good! Carenath replied with such enthusiasm that Sean forgot his sore cheeks and grinned. He slapped affectionately at his dragon’s shoulder as the formation executed a right turn, spiraling down to land.

“Emily!” Pierre burst into his wife’s room. “Emily, you’ll never believe it!”

“Believe what?” she said in the tired voice that seemed all she could muster since the accident. She turned her head on the cushioned back of the support chair and smiled wanly at him.

“They’ve come! I heard, but I had to see it to believe it myself. The dragons and their riders have all reached Fort. They reached it in triumph! They’ve actually fought Thread, just as you dreamed they would, as Kit Ping designed them to do!” He caught the hand she lifted, the one part of her that had not been broken in the crash. “All seventeen brave fine young people. And they cut a real swath in the Fall, Paul says.” He found himself smiling broadly, tears in his eyes as he saw color flushing across her cheeks, the lift of her chest, and the flash of interest in her eyes. She raised her head, and he rattled on. “Paul watched them flame Thread from the skies. They didn’t stay for the entire Fall, of course, part of it was over the sea anyhow, and the rest will fall in the mountains where it can’t do much harm.

“Paul said it was the most magnificent thing he’s ever seen. Better than the relief at Cygnus. They have a record of it, too, so you can see it later.” Pierre bent to kiss her hand. He had tears in his eyes for Emily, and for the valiant young people who had ridden against so terrible a menace in the skies of their wondrous and frightening new world. “Paul’s gone down to greet them. A triumphant arrival. My word, but it puts heart in all of us. Everyone is yelling and cheering, and Pol and Bay were weeping, which is something quite unscientific for that pair. I suppose they feel that the dragonriders are their creations. I suppose they’re right, don’t you agree?”

Emily struggled in the support chair, her fingers clutching at him. “Help me to the window, Pierre? I must see them. I must see them for myself!”

Most of the inhabitants of Fort Hold turned out to greet them, waving impromptu bannersof bright cloth and shouting tumultuously as the dragons backwinged to land on the open field, where here and there ground crews had gotten rid of what Thread had escaped the dragons’ fire. The crowd surged forward, mobbing the individual riders, everyone eager to touch a dragon, ignoring at first the riders’ strident appeals for something to ease Thread-pierced wings and scored hide.

Gratefully Sean saw a skimmer hovering, and heard the loud-spoken orders to give the dragons room, and let the medics in.

The hubbub subsided a decibel or two. The crowds parted, allowing the medical teams access, giving the dragonriders space to dismount, and whispering sympathetically when the cheering had died down enough so that the dragons could be heard whimpering in pain. Some of those gathered around Carenath eagerly helped Sean doctor him.

Is everyone here to see us? Carenath asked shyly. The bronze turned his left wing so that Sean could reach a particularly wide score and sighed in audible relief as anesthetic cream was slathered on.

“I don’t know how we got so lucky,” Sean muttered to himself when he was certain that all Carenath’s injuries had been attended to. He looked around him, checking to see that all the other dragons had been treated. Sorka gave him a thumbs-up signal and grinned at him, her face smeared with blood and soot. He returned her sign with both fists. “Sheer fluke we got out of that with just sears and scores. We didn’t even know what we were doing. Blind luck!” His mind roiled with ways to avoid any sort of scoring and ideas for drills to improve how much Thread a single breath could char. Their fight had been, after all, only the first, brief skirmish in a long, long war.

“Hey, Sean, you need some, too,” one of the medics said pulling off his helmet to anoint his cheeks. “Got to get you looking spruce. The admiral’s waiting!”

As if her words were a cue, a murmurous silence fell over the plain. The riders converged together and moved forward to the foot of the ramp where Paul Benden, in full uniform of a fleet admiral, with Ongola and Ezra Keroon similarly attired flanking him, awaited the seventeen young heroes.

In step, the dragonriders walked forward, past people grinning foolishly in their pride. Sean recognized many faces: Pol and Bay looking about to burst with pride; Telgar, tears streaming down his cheeks, Ozzie and Cobber on either side of him; Cherry Duff upheld by two sons, her black eyes gleaming with joy. He caught sight of the Hanrahans, Mairi holding up his small son to see the pageantry. There was no sign of Governor Emily Boll, and Sean felt his heart contract. What Peter Chernoff had said was true, then. This moment would not be the same without her.

They reached, the ramp, and somehow the queen riders had dropped a step behind the others and Sean stood in the center. When they halted, he took a step forward and saluted. It seemed the correct thing to do. Admiral Benden, tears in his eyes, proudly returned the salute.

“Admiral Benden, sir,” said Sean, rider of bronze Carenath, “may I present the Dragonriders of Pern?”