Dragonseye (14 page)

“Went right through me like a bonesaw,” a big lad said and shivered convulsively.

“She was squealing the instant she lost her balance and actually before she snapped the bone. She
knew
she would hurt even as she fell. Now, you don’t have quite the same immediacy in Threadfall, since you’ll be high on adrenaline, but you’ll know. So, this brings up a point that we make constantly in all training procedures,
always, ALWAYS,
have a point to go to in your head. During Fall, it had better be the Weyr since everyone here,” and now the sweep of his hand included those Iantine recognized as nonriders, “will be ready to help.
Don’t
make the mistake of coming in too low. Going
between
will have stopped Thread burrowing farther into your dragon . . .” A muted chorus of disgust and fearfulness greeted that concept. “. . . so you can make as orderly a landing as injuries permit. What you don’t need is a bad landing, which could compound the original Thread score. Start encouraging your dragon as soon as you know he’s been hit. Of course, you may be hit, too, and I appreciate that, but you’re riders and you can certainly control your own pain while seeing to your dragon’s.
He’s
the important one of you, remember. Without him you don’t function as a rider.

“Now, the drill is,” and once again he swept his glance around his students, “slather!” He picked up the wide brush from the pail at his feet and began to ply it on Ormonth’s wing: water, to judge the way it dripped. The blue regarded the operation with lightly whirling eyes. “Slather, slather, slather,” and T’dam emphasized each repetition with a long brush stroke. “You can’t put too much numbweed on a dragon’s injuries to suit him or her,” and he grinned at the female green riders, “and the injury will be numb in exactly three seconds . . . at least the outer area. It does take time to penetrate through the epidermis to what passes for the germinative layer in a dragon’s hide. So you may have to convince your dragon that he’s not as badly hurt as he or she feels he or she is. Your injured dragon needs all the reassurance you can give him or her . . . No matter how bad you think the injury looks, don’t think that at the dragon. Tell him or her what a great brave dragon they are and that the numbweed is working and the pain will go away.

“Now, if a bone has been penetrated . . .”

“Why, you’ve got P’tero to the life,” said an awed voice softly in Iantine’s ear, and he shot a glance at the tall lad standing behind him: M’leng, green Sith’s rider, and P’tero’s special friend. Iantine had seen the two riders, always together, in the kitchen cavern. “Oooh, is there any chance I could have that corner?” And he tapped the portion that contained P’tero and Ormonth.

M’leng was a handsome young man, with almond-shaped green eyes in an angular face. The light breeze in the Bowl ruffled tight dark brown curls on his head.

“Since I owe P’tero my life, let me make a larger sketch for you . . .”

“Oh, would you?” And a smile animated M’leng’s rather solemn face. “Can we settle a price? I’ve marks enough to do better than Chalkin did you.” He reached for his belt pouch.

Iantine tried to demur, pleading he owed P’tero.

“ ‘Ter was only doing his duty for once,” M’leng said with a touch of asperity. “But I really would like a proper portrait of him. You know, what with Threadfall coming and all, I’d want to have something—” M’leng broke off, swallowed, and then reinforced his pleading.

“I’ve to do a commission for the Weyrleaders,” Iantine said.

“Is that the only one?” M’leng seemed surprised. “I’d’ve thought everyone in the Weyr would be after you . . .”

Iantine grinned. “Tisha hasn’t released me from her care yet.”

“Oh, her,” and M’leng dismissed the headwoman, with a wave of his hand. “She’s so fussy at times. But there’s nothing wrong with your hand or your eye . . . and that little pose of P’tero, leaning against Ormonth, why, it’s him!”

Iantine felt his spirits rise at the compliment, because the sketch of the blue rider was good—better than the false ones he had done at Bitra Hold. He still cringed, remembering how he allowed himself to compromise his standards by contriving such obsequious portrayals. He hoped he would never be in such a position again. M’leng’s comment was balm to his psyche.

“I can do better . . .”

“But I like the pose. Can’t you just
do
it? I mean,” and M’leng looked everywhere but at Iantine, “I’d rather P’tero didn’t know . . . I mean . . .”

“Is it to be a surprise for him?”

“No, it’s to be for
me!”
And M’leng jabbed his breastbone with his thumb, his manner defiant. “So I’ll
have
it . . .”

At such intransigence, Iantine was at a loss, and hastily agreed before M’leng became more emotional. M’leng’s eyes filled and he set his mouth in a stubborn line.

“I will, of course, but a sitting would help. . .”

“Oh, I can arrange that, so he still doesn’t know. You’re always sketching,” and that came out almost as an accusation. Iantine, thanks to the lecture he had been overhearing, was considerably more aware of the dangers dragons, and their riders, would shortly face. If M’leng was comforted by having a portrait of his friend, that was the least he could do.

“This very night,” M’leng continued, single-minded in his objective, “I’ll see we sit close to where you usually do. I’ll get him to wear his good tunic so you can paint him at his very best.”

“But suppose—” Iantine began, wondering how he could keep P’tero from knowing he was being done.

“You do the portrait,” M’leng said, patting Iantine’s ann to still his objections. “I’ll take care of P’tero,” and he added under his breath, “as long as I have him.”

That little afterthought made the breath stop in Iantine’s throat. Was M’leng so sure that P’tero would die?

“I’ll do my best, M’leng, you may be sure of that!”

“Oh, I am,” M’leng said, tossing his head up so that the curls fell back from his face. He gave Iantine a wry smile. “I’ve been watching how you work, you see.” He extended a hand soft with the oils riders used to tend their dragons. Iantine took it and was astonished at the strength in the green rider’s grip. “Waine said a good miniature—which is what I want,” and he patted his breast pocket to show the intended site of the painting, “by a journeyman is priced at four marks. Is that correct?”

Iantine nodded, unable to speak for the lump in his throat. Surely M’leng was dramatizing matters. Or was he? In the background, Iantine could hear T’dam advising his listeners on the types and severity of injuries and the immediate aid to be given to each variety.

What a bizarre, and cruel, lecture to give to the weyrlings! And yet, the thought stopped him, was it not kinder to be truthful now and ease the shock of what could possibly happen?

“This evening?” M’leng said firmly.

“This very evening, M’leng,” Iantine said, nodding his head.

When the green rider had left him, it took the journeyman some long moments before he could return to his sketching.

Well, this was one thing he could do as a gift to the Weyr for all the kindnesses to him—he could leave behind a graphic gallery of everyone currently living in Telgar Weyr.

CHAPTER VII

Fort Hold

C
LASSES WERE ALSO
being held that same day in Fort Hold. In the College assembly room, Corey, as Head Medic, was conducting a seminar for healers from all over Pern, who had been flown in for a three-day clinic. This included a first-aid session dealing with both human and dragon injuries. She was assisted by the Fort Weyr medic, N’ran, who had originally studied animal medicine before he inadvertently Impressed brown Galath. Galath was, on this occasion, outside, enjoying the sun, while a green dragon, who was small enough to fit in the Hall, was being used for demonstration purposes much as Ormonth was at Telgar Weyr.

“Now we have been able to duplicate the records of Doctors Tomlinson, Marchane, and Lao, which include some fading photos of actual injuries. Lunch is fortunately sufficiently in the future,” she said with a quirky smile. Then her expression turned sober. “The verbal descriptions are worse, but it’s necessary to impress on all those who have to deal with ground injuries how incredibly fast,” she ticked off one finger, “how horrendous Thread is,” another and then with a sigh, “and how quickly we must act to . . .” Her pause was longer now. “. . . to limit suffering.”

Murmurs answered her, and she could see that some of the audience had paled. Others looked defiant.

“From what I, and my staff,” and she indicated those in the front seats, “have determined, there is little option. The alternative of getting into cold
between
as the dragons can is not available to us . . . Yes?”

“Why not? If that’s an alternative . . .”

“For them, not us,” she said firmly. “Because all the records emphasize the speed with which Thread . . . consumes organic material. Too swiftly to call a dragon, even if any were available in your locale. A whole cow goes in less than two minutes.”

“Why, that’s not even time to . . .” a man began, and his voice trailed off.

“Precisely,” Corey said. “If a limb is scored, there’s the chance it could be amputated before the organism spread over the body . . .”

“Shards! You can’t just—” another man began.

“If survival means loss of just a limb, it can be done.”

“But only if you’re right there . . .”

Corey recognized him as a practitioner in a large hold in Nerat.

“And many of us will be right there,” Corey said firmly, “with the groundcrews, sharing their dangers . . . and hopefully saving as many as we can.” She managed a wry smile. “Any body of water handy is useful since Thread drowns. Quickly, according to reports. Depending on the site of the injury, water can impede the ingestion long enough for an amputation to be performed. Even a trough is sufficient.” She glanced down at her notes. “Thread needs oxygen as well as organic material. It drowns in three seconds.”

“What if it’s burrowed into flesh?”

“Three seconds. Flesh does not have the free oxygen necessary for Thread life. Ice, too, can retard progress, but that isn’t always available, either.

“Let us assume that we have, somehow, halted the organism’s progress but we have a bad scoring and/or an amputation. Numbweed, numbweed, numbweed! And bless this planet for inventing something it didn’t know we’d need so badly. In the case of an amputation, of course, proceed with standard practices, including cautery. That at least would eliminate any final vestige of Thread. There will be significant trauma so fellis is recommended . . . If the patient is still conscious.”

She glanced down at her notes. “Tomlinson and Marchane also indicate that the mortality rate, due to heart failure or stroke, is high in Thread injuries. Lao, who practiced until the end of the First Pass, notes that often patients, who had received slight scores, successfully treated, died from the pathological trauma of being scored. In preparing our groups for this problem, do stress that Threadscore can be successfully treated.”

“If we can move fast enough,” a man said facetiously.

“That’s why it’s important for a medic to accompany as many groundcrew teams as possible. And why first-aid procedures must be taught to every hold and hall within your practice. There are only so many of us, but we can teach many what to do and cut down on fatalities.

“And,” Corey went on, “we must emphasize that all nonessential personnel are to
stay
safely indoors until groundcrews report the area safe.

“Now, we will go on to dragon injuries since these, too, will occur and those of us on the spot may need to assist the dragon and rider. They will have the one advantage we can’t provide—the chance to go
between
and freeze the attacking organism. But the score will be just as painful.

“The larger proportion of draconic injuries are to the wing surfaces . . . If you please, Balzith,” and she turned to the patient green dragon, who obediently extended her wing as the medic conducted that section of her lecture.

When they had adjourned for lunch, prior to discussing other problems—such as hygiene and sanitation within small and medium holds where the amenities were not as efficient as in the larger population centers—Corey was approached by Joanson of South Boll and Frenkal of Tillek Hold, both senior medics.

“Corey, what is your position on . . . mercy?” asked Joanson in a very thoughtful tone.

She regarded the tall man for a long moment. “What it has always been, Joanson. We have, as you realize, quite a few persons in this audience who have not received full medical training. I cannot ask them to do what I would find very, very difficult to do: administer mercy.” She gave Joanson a long stare, then glanced at Frenkal, who seemed to enjoy the ethical spot she was in.

“We are sworn to preserve life. We are also sworn to maintain a decent quality of life for those under our care.” She felt her lips twitch, remembering that there were occasions when those two aims were in conflict. “We must, each of us, reflect on how we will face such a desperate situation: whether to cut short a final agony is necessary, even ethical. I don’t think there will be much time to consider morals, ethics, kind or cruel, at the time we are forced to take . . . action.” She paused, took a deep breath. “I do remember seeing the tapes the Infirmary used to have, showing very graphically an animal being eaten alive by Thread . . .” She noticed Joanson’s wince. “Yes, eaten alive because Thread caught the hind end of it. I think, if it was someone you knew, you’d opt for . . . the quickest possible end to
that.”

Since they were not the only two who approached her on that subject, she was almost glad when the lunch break ended and she could address the less vexatious matter of amputation. Everyone needed a refresher on that procedure, especially an emergency type of procedure when there might not be the time for all the preliminaries that made for a neat stump. She did have the new bonecutters—well, more axes than the traditional surgical tool—for distribution afterward. Kalvi had brought them with him.

“Best edge we’ve ever been able to make on a surgical tool, Corey,” he told her with some pride. “Had them tested at the abattoir. Cut through flesh and bone like going through cheese. Gotta keep ’em honed, though. And I’ve made cases for the blades so no one slices off a finger by mistake.”

Surgeons were not the only ones with a ghoulish sense of humor, Corey decided.

Meanwhile, in the Great Hall of Fort Hold, with Lord Paulin seated in the front row, Kalvi himself was demonstrating to those who would form the Fort groundcrews how to use and service the HNO
₃
cylinders, taking his audience from assembly of the parts and then a quick rundown of common problems likely to be encountered in the field. Every small holder within Fort’s authority was present: many had brought their elder children. All had come on foot, their own or a horse’s. Fort Weyr, like the other five, was beginning to restrict dragon rides.

Lord Paulin understood and approved.

“We’ve had it far too easy, using the dragons the way our ancestors would have used the sleds and airborne vehicles,” he was heard to say when one of his holders had complained that he had been denied his right to a dragonride. “We haven’t been breeding horses just to run races, you know. And the dragonriders have been far too accommodating. Do us all good to walk or ride. You have, of course, extended your beast holds to shelter all your livestock?”

There had been moaning over that necessity, too, with complaints that the engineers should really have spent more time trying to replicate the marvelous rock-cutting equipment with which their ancestors had wrested living quarters out of cliffsides.

Kalvi had come in for considerable harangue over that, which he shrugged off.

“We have a list of priorities: that’s not one. Nor could be. We still have two sleds in the North but no power to run ’em. Never did find out what they used,” he said. “No way of duplicating such power packs, either, or I’m sure our ancestors would have. Otherwise why did they engineer the dragons? Anyway, renewable resources make more sense than erudite or exotic imports.”

When the main lecture was concluded, everyone was told to reassemble after the noon meal for target practice. This was vastly more interesting than having to listen to Kalvi waffle on about how to adjust the wands of the HNO
₃
throwers to give a long, narrow tongue of fire or a broader, shorter flame. Or how to clear the nozzle of clogged matter.

“You’ve got almost as much variation in flame as a dragon has . . .” Kalvi said as he slung the tanks to his back, his voice slightly muffled by his safety gear. “You, there, the hard hat has a purpose. Put it on your head! Lower the face screen!”

The offender immediately complied, Kalvi scowling at him.

“The effective range of this equipment is six meters on the narrowest setting, two on the broader. You wouldn’t want it to get closer to you.” He was fiddling with his wand. “Damn thing’s stubborn . . .” He took out a screwdriver and made a slight adjustment.
“Always
. . .” he said loudly and firmly as he held the wand away from his body, “keep the nozzle of the wand pointed away from
you
and anyone in your immediate vicinity. We’re flaming Thread, not folks.
Never . . .
never . . . engage the flow of the two gases without looking in what direction the wand is pointing. You can also burn, scorch, sear things without meaning to.
Can’t you,
Laland?” he said, aiming his remark at one of his journeymen.

The man grinned and shifted his feet nervously, looking anywhere but at his Master.

“Now, signal the topside crews, will you, Paulin?” Kalvi said, setting himself firmly on both feet and aiming the wand up.

Paulin waved a red kerchief and suddenly a tangle of “something” catapulted off the cliff, startling everyone in the crowd behind Kalvi. Those with wands raised them defensively and others gasped as the tangle separated into long silver strands, some fine, some thick and falling at slightly different rates. As soon as they were within range, Kalvi activated his flamethrower.

There was a brief second when the fire seemed to pause on the ends of the launched strands before the flame raced along the material and consumed it so that only bits of smoking char reached the ground . . . and the rock that had been tied to the leading edge. There was a roar of approval and great applause.

“Not bad,” Paulin said, grinning as he noted the new alertness in the crowd.

“Well, we tried for the effect we just delivered,” Kalvi said, turning off both tanks. “Used a retardant on the rope, too. Had plenty of description of how Thread falls, and this is as near as we can get.

“Now,” and he turned back to his students, “it’s best to get Thread before it gets you or to the ground. We know there are two kinds: the ones that eat themselves dead—they’re not a problem, even if they are in the majority and messy. Records tell us that the second kind find something in what they digest that allows them to progress to the second step of their lifecycle: our ancestors could never do much with investigating this type. They only knew that it existed. We know it existed, too, because there are areas here in the North which are still sterile two-hundred-odd years since the last fall. If this type gets the nourishment it needs, above and beyond organic materials, then it can propagate, or divide or whatever it is Thread does. This is what we needed groundcrews for. This is the type we don’t want hanging around and burrowing out of sight. Our ancestors thought Thread had to have some trace minerals or elements in the dirt, but as they never figured out what, we’re not likely to now.” Kalvi heaved a sigh of regret. “So,” and with a wide sweep of his arm, “we incinerate all the buggers the dragonriders miss.”

He paused and looked up the cliffside where the catapult crews were waiting.

“OKAY UP THERE?” he yelled, hands bracketing his mouth. Immediately in response, red flags were waved at intervals along the cliff.

“All right, in groups of five, range yourself parallel to the red flags you now see. When we’re all in place—and out of range of anyone’s wand,” and Kalvi gave a wry grin, “I’ll give the signal and we’ll see how you manage.”

The results were somewhat erratic: some men seemed to get the hang of their equipment immediately, while others couldn’t even get the right mix on the gases to produce flame.

“Well, it happens,” Kalvi said in patient resignation. “Should make ’em climb the thread back up the cliff . . .” he added.

“Do ’em good.”

“Take too much time. THROW DOWN THE NETS,” Kalvi roared, and then grinned at Paulin. “Thought we’d have some trouble. We’ll get our mock Threads back up and in use.”

“How much did you bring?”

“Yards,” was all Kalvi said with another grin.

By the time the short winter afternoon was closing into darkness, all the holders had had a chance to “sear” Thread, despite hiccups and misses. The mock Thread supply ran out before they lost interest in the practice.

“Now I don’t want you to overdo it on your own,” Paulin said to those nearest him as they walked back to the hold. The practice area had been some distance up the North Road from Fort Hold, where there were neither beasts nor cotholds that could be affected. “HNO
₃
isn’t all that hard to manufacture, but the equipment is. Don’t wear it out before it’s needed.”