Dragonsdawn (2 page)

Mar Dook, head agronomist, was a small man whose Earth Asiatic ancestry was evident in features, skin tone, and physiology: he was wiry, lean, and slightly bowed in the shoulders, but his black eyes gleamed with eager intelligence and the excitement of the challenge.

“The schedule has long been decided, my dear colleagues. We’re in the first wave down. The probes do not contradict any of the information we already have. The dirt and vegetation samples match. There’s the same sort of red and green algae reported along the shoreline. Marine life has been sighted by the sea probe. One of the low probes has caught a comforting variety of insects, which the EEC also found. The aerial fax that came up with that flyer reported—what did the team call them?—wherries.”

“Why ‘wherries’?” Phas Radamanth asked. He scrolled through the report searching for that particular annotation. “Ah,” he said when he found it. “Because they resemble airborne barges—squat, fat and full.” He allowed himself a little smile for the whimsy of that long-dead term.

“Yeah, but I don’t see mention of any other predators,” Kwan Marceau said, his rather high forehead creased, as usual, with a frown.

“There’s sure to be something that eats them,” Phas replied confidently.

“Or they eat each other,” Mar Dook suggested. He received a stern frown from Kwan. Suddenly Mar Dook pointed excitedly to a new fax coming up on one screen. “Ah, look! The scuttlebug got a reptiloid. Rather a large specimen, ten centimeters thick and seven meters long. There’s your wherry eater, Kwan.”

“Another scuttle has just run through a puddle of excretal matter, semiliquid, which contains intestinal parasites and bacteria,” Pol Nietro said, hurriedly tagging the report for later reference. “There do seem to be plenty of wormlike soil dwellers, too. Rather a significant variety, if you ask me. Worms like nematodes, insectoids, mites that really wouldn’t be out of place in a Terran compost heap. Ted, here’s something for you: plants like our mycorrhizas—tree fungi. Speaking of that, I wonder where the EEC team found that luminous mycelium.”

Ted Tubberman, one of the colony botanists, gave a contemptuous snort. He was a big man, not carrying any extra flesh after nearly fifteen years in deep sleep, who tended to be overbearing. “Luminous organisms are usually found in deep caves, Nietro, as they use their light to attract their victims, generally insects. The mycelium reported by that team was in a cave system on that large island south of the northern continent. This planet seems to have a considerable number of cave systems. Why weren’t any scuttles scheduled for subterranean investigations?” he asked in an aggrieved tone.

“There were only so many available, Ted,” Mar Dook said placatingly.

“Ah, look! Now, this is what I’ve been waiting for,” Kwan said, his usually solemn face lighting up as he bent until his nose almost touched the small screen before him. “There are reef systems. And yes, a balanced if fragile marine ecology along the ring islands. I’m much encouraged. Possibly those polka dots they saw are from a meteorite storm.”

Ted dismissed that instantly. “No. No impact, and the formation of new growth does not parallel that sort of phenomenon. I intend looking into that problem the first moment I can.”

“What we have to do first,” Mar Dook said, his tone gently reproving, “is select the appropriate sites, plow, test, and, where necessary, introduce the symbiotic bacteria and fungi, even beetles, needed for pastureland.”

“But we still don’t know
which
landing site will be chosen.” Ted’s face was flushed with irritation.

“The three that are now being surveyed are much of a muchness,” Mar Dook replied with a tolerant smile. He found Tubberman’s petulant restlessness tedious. “All three give us ample scope for experimental and control fields. Our basic tasks will be the same no matter where we land. The essential point is not to miss this first vital growing season.”

“The brood animals must be revived as soon as possible,” Pol Nietro said. The head zoologist was as eager as everyone else to plunge into the practical work ahead. “And reliance on the alfalfa trays for fodder is not going to adjust their digestions to a new environment. We must begin as we mean to go on, and let Pern supply our needs.”

There was a murmur of assent to his statement.

“The only new factor in these reports,” Phas Radamanth, the xenobiologist, said encouragingly, without turning his eyes from his screens, “is the density of vegetation. We may have to clear more than we thought in the forty-five south eleven site. See here—” He gestured to the disparate images. “Where the EEC pic showed sparse ground cover, we now have heavy vegetation, some of it of respectable size.”

“There should be at least that, after two-hundred-odd years,” Ted Tubberman said irritably. “I never was happy about the barrenness. Smacked of a depauperate ecology. Hey, most of those circular features are overgrown. Felicia, run up the EEC pics that correspond.” He bent his big frame to peer over her shoulder at the double screen below the probe broadcast. “See, those circles are barely discernible now. The team was right about botanical succession. And that isn’t a grassoid. If that’s mutant vegetation . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head and jutting his chin out. He had loudly and frequently insisted that the success of Pern as a colony would depend on botanical health.

“I, too, am happier to see succession, but according to the EEC reports, it’s—” Mar Dook began.

“Shove the EEC reports. They didn’t tell us the half of what we really need to know,” Ted exclaimed. “Survey, they called it. Quick dip at the trot. No depth to it at all. The most superficial survey I’ve ever read.”

“I quite agree,” said the calm voice of Emily Boll, who had entered while the botanist was ranting. “The initial EEC report does seem to have been less than complete now that we can compare it to our new home. But the most crucial, salient points were covered for us. We know what we needed to know, and the FSP was quite happy to turn the planet over to us because it certainly doesn’t have anything to interest them. And it’s not a planet that the syndicates would fight over. Which is why
we
were allowed to have it. I think we have to be grateful to that team, not critical.” Her smile swept everyone in the crowded room. “The important elements—atmosphere, water, arable soil, ores, minerals, bacteria, insects, marine life—are all present, and Pern is eminently suitable for human habitation. The gaps, the in-depth investigations that report did not contain, are what we shall spend a lifetime filling in. A challenge for each and every one of us, and our children!” Her low-pitched voice rang in the crowded room. “Let’s not worry at this very late date about what we weren’t told. We’ll find the answers soon enough. Let’s concentrate now on the great work we have to begin in just two days’ time. We’re ready for any surprises Pern might have for us. Now, Mar Dook, have you seen anything in the updates to suggest we must alter the schedule?”

“Nothing,” Mar Dook replied, warily glancing at Ted Tubberman, who was frowning at Emily Boll. “But those soil and vegetation matter samples would occupy us usefully.”

“I’m sure they would.” Emily grinned broadly at him. “We’ll be busy enough—ah, here’s the information you need. And what a bumper crop to digest.”

“We still don’t know
where
we’re landing,” Ted complained.

“The admiral is discussing that right now, Ted,” Emily replied equably. “We’ll, be among the first to know.”

Agronomists were to be in the first shuttleloads to reach the surface, for it was vital to the colony’s future to break land for crops as soon as possible. Even while the engineers were setting up the landing grids, agronomists would be plowing fields, and Ted Tubberman and his group would be setting up sheds and seeding the precious soil brought from Earth. Pat Hempenstall would set up a control shed using indigenous dirt, to see if Earth or colonial variants would thrive unassisted in an alien soil. Sufficient packaged organisms had also been brought to introduce symbiotic bacteria.

“I will be very glad,” Pol Nietro murmured, “if the reports confirm those insectoids, winged and subterranean, reported by the EEC team. If they should prove sufficient to do the work of dung beetles and flies on our Terran-style detritus, agronomy will be off to a good start. We’ve got to get nutrients back into the soil and introduce the rumen bacteria, protozoans, and yeasts for our cows, sheep, goats, and horses so they’ll thrive.”

“If not, Pol,” Emily replied, “we can ask Kitti to work a bit of her micro-magic and rearrange innards that can deal with what Pern has to offer.” She smiled with great deference at the tiny lady seated in the center of the little cluster.

“Soil samples coming up,” Ju Adjai said into the pause. “And here’s vegetable mash for you, Ted. Get your teeth in that.”

Tubberman launched himself to the position next to Felicia, his big fingers nimble and accurate over the keyboard.

In moments the rattling of keys, punctuated by assorted mutters and other monosyllables of concentration, filled the room. Emily and Kit Ping exchanged glances tinged with amused condescension for the vagaries of their younger colleagues. Kit Ping then turned her eyes back to the main screen and continued her contemplation of the world they were rapidly approaching.

As Emily sat down at her workspace, she wondered how under the suns the expedition had lucked out enough to include the most eminent geneticist in the Federated Sentient Planets—the only human who had ever been trained by the Eridanis. Emily had only seen pics of the altered humans who had made the first abortive mission to Eridani. She suppressed a shudder. Pern wouldn’t ever require that kind of abominable tinkering. Maybe that’s why Kit Ping was willing to come to the edge of the galaxy—to end what had already been a long and incredible life in a quiet backwater where she, too, could practice selective amnesia. There were many on the colony’s roll who had come to forget what they had seen and done.

“The grassoid on that eastern landing site is going to be hell to cut through,” Ted Tubberman said, scowling. “High boron content. It’ll dull cutting edges and foul gear.”

“It’d cushion the landing.” Pat Hempenstall said with a chuckle.

“Our landing craft have landed safely on far more inhospitable terrain than that,” Emily reminded the others.

“Felicia, run a comparison on the botanical succession around those crazy polka dots,” Ted Tubberman went on, staring at his own screens. “There’s something about that configuration that still bothers me. The phenomenon is all over the planet. And I’d be happier if we could get an opinion from that geologist whiz, Tarzan—” He paused.

“Tarvi Andiyar,” Felicia supplied, accustomed to Ted’s memory lapses.

“Well, memo him to meet me when he’s revived. Damn it, Mar, how can we function with only half the specialists awake?”

“We’re doing fine, Ted. Pern is coming up roses for us. Not a joggle off the report data.”

“That’s almost worrying,” Pol Nietro said blandly.

Tubberman snorted, Mar Dook shrugged, and Kitti Ping smiled.

Admiral Benden’s chrono tingled against his wrist, reminding him that it was time for his own meeting.

“Commander Ongola, take the conn.” Reluctantly, his eyes focusing on the main screen until the access panel of the exit closed, Paul left the bridge.

The corridors of the great colony ship were becoming more crowded by the hour, Paul noticed as he made his way to the wardroom. Newly revived people, clutching the handrails, were jerkily exercising stiff limbs and trying to focus body and mind on the suddenly hazardous task of remaining upright. The old
Yoko
would be packed tighter than reserve rations while colonists awaited their turns to reach the surface. But with the promise of the freedom of a whole new world as the reward of patience, the crowding could be endured.

Having paid close attention to the various probe reports, Paul had already decided which of the three recommended landing sites he would choose. Naturally he would accord his staff and the other two captains the courtesy of a hearing, but the obvious choice was the vast plateau below a group of strato volcanoes. The current weather there was clement, and the nearly level expanse was adequate to accommodate all six shuttles. The updates had only confirmed a tentative preference made seventeen years ago when he had first studied the EEC reports. He had never anticipated much difficulty with landing; it was a smooth and accident-free debarkation that caused him anxiety. There was no rescue backup hovering solicitously in the skies of Pern, nor disaster teams on its surface.

In organizing the debarkation, Paul had chosen as flight officer Fulmar Stone, a man who had served with him throughout the Cygnus campaign. For the past two weeks, Fulmar’s crews had been all over the
Yoko’s
three shuttle vehicles and the admiral’s gig, ensuring that there would be no malfunction after fifteen years in the cold storage of the flight deck. The
Yoko’s
twelve pilots, under Kenjo Fusaiyuki, had gone through rigorous simulator drills well spiced with the most bizarre landing emergencies. Most of the pilots had been combat fighters, and were fit and fully experienced at extricating themselves from tricky situations, but none had quite the record of Kenjo Fusaiyuki. Some of the less experienced shuttle pilots had complained about Kenjo’s methods; Paul Benden had courteously listened to the complaints—and ignored them.

Paul had been surprised and flattered when Kenjo had signed up with the expedition. Somehow, he had thought the man would have signed on to an exploratory unit where he could continue to fly as long as his reflexes lasted. Then Paul remembered that Kenjo was a cyborg, with a prosthetic left leg. After the war, the Exploration and Evaluation Corps had had their choice of experienced, whole personnel, and cyborgs had been shunted into administrative positions. Automatically, Paul made his left hand into a fist, his thumb rubbing against the knuckles of the three replacement fingers which had always worked as well as his natural ones. But there was still no feeling in the pseudoflesh. Consciously, he relaxed the hand, certain once again that he could hear a subtle plastic squeak in the joints and the wrist.