The Chronicles of Pern: First Fall (17 page)

“Y
OU WERE OVER
there again, weren’t you?” Sorka said to Torene in an amused undertone as the young queen rider sauntered past the Weyrwoman on her way to the day hearth. The lower cavern was deserted at this hour: well past midday and not yet time to prepare the evening meal.

Torene grinned over her shoulder at Sorka as she continued to the hearth. She served herself some soup from the big pot, broke off a wedge of bread, and came back to the table where Sorka was also having a late lunch. She swung one of her elegantly leather-clad long legs over the low chair back and sat down, neatly putting her meal in front of her, all in one graceful movement

“How’d you guess?”

Sorka had to grin at the girl’s insouciance. Torene hovered on the edge of impudence but never quite offended. Of course that would have given both Sorka and Sean reasons to reprimand her, but she seemed instinctively to know the limits. Sorka would have been particularly loath to bring her up sharp because she, who had been a reserved child in the restricted society she had been born into on Earth, admired Torene’s candid charismatic manner and her irrepressible gaiety. Sean found those traits less easy to deal with, but then, he was obsessed with the responsibilities of the Weyr and the nurture and care of the dragons, and he had never been very lighthearted to begin with.

Sean generally knew everything that went on in the Weyr, sooner or later. He certainly knew that there was great interest in the east coast crater that was touted as the next official base for dragonriders. But Sorka didn’t think he was aware of how often hopeful riders went to survey these likely premises.

Establishing another Weyr was no longer an idle notion but an urgent need. Fort’s accommodations were terribly overcrowded, even when they sent wings to live temporarily in the less-than-comfortable cavern systems at Telgar; and due to the stress and the greater risk of accidents, they had begun sending mating and clutching queens to the nearly tropical Big Island. Sorka gave a little shudder, remembering last year’s disaster and how close they had come to losing three queens in an aerial battle that left all three wounded. The bronzes and browns who had finally separated them had not come away unscathed either.

The entire Weyr had learned a terrible lesson: one queen in heat could precipitate the condition in those also near their season. No queen would share bronze and brown followers with another. Tarrie Chernoff still woke up with nightmares in which Porth was going
between
and she couldn’t follow. Evenath, the first queen that Faranth had produced, had lost an eye as well as the use of one wing, and Catherine’s Siglath had so much wing fabric destroyed that neither could fly in the queens’ wing again. There were still queens enough to do the low flying with flamethrowers, joined as they usually were by any green rider in the first or third trimesters of pregnancy, when constant dropping into the cold of
between
might cause miscarriage. Jays, there were more than enough dragons and riders to form
three
Weyrs—and give everyone decent space. They needn’t all cram in like holders.

Sean delayed, Sorka felt, because he could not yet bring himself to delegate final authority to anyone else. His was the responsibility; his would be any blame. He was intensely proud and immensely caring of the fighting force he commanded: the force that, indeed, he had
created.

No one denied that. Every rider knew that dragon welfare came first with Sean, and he constantly strove to maximize their effectiveness while reducing personal injury. Initially, when the dragons and riders moved up to Fort Weyr, he had spent endless hours with those who had had pilot experience during the Nathi Wars and with the admiral and both captains. He had found what he could of military history and strategy tapes to figure out the most successful way to combat Threadfall: a combination of cavalry and dogfighting techniques. Then he had refined formations to apply them to the different ways Thread would fall.

As the numbers of available fighting dragons increased, he had decided on the appropriate and handiest number for smaller units: wings of thirty-three dragons, each with a Wingleader and two Wingseconds so that, even if the Wingleader and his dragon had to drop out because of injuries, there would be a secondary rider prepared to take charge. This was especially necessary, he felt, when the numbers of the smaller dragons, the blues and greens, increased. The Wingleader should know each dragon in his wing well enough to see signs of strain and send the pair back to the Weyr to rest. Some blue and green riders, determined to prove that their partners were every bit as good as the larger dragons, took risks and rode their lighter, less sturdy beasts beyond their endurance.

“Even a dragon has limits,” Sean repeated and repeated during weyrling training. “Respect them! And yours! We don’t need heroes in every Fall. We need
dragonriders
every Fall.”

The fortunately rare deaths, either rider or dragon, or both, had a sobering effect on even the most audacious. Injuries, so often due to carelessness, always dropped off after a death or a bad accident. Those that happened during weyrling training were the ones that Sorka hated the most—because they would haunt Sean through his dreams and turn him into an implacable martinet during his waking hours. Sorka would, however, take him to task when he became too autocratic. She made herself always approachable by any rider and never assumed a judgmental attitude.

“You upset morale throughout the Weyr,” she’d tell him firmly.

“I’m trying to improve
discipline
throughout the Weyr,” he’d shout back at her. “So we won’t
have
more deaths. I can’t stand the deaths! Especially the dragons! They are so special, and we need every one of them.”

That was true enough, especially now that more people were moving out of Fort Hold and setting up on their own wherever they could find appropriate cave systems. Boll and Ruatha Holds were thriving. Tarvi Telgar had moved his mining and engineering group into an immense system in the mountains above lodes he was currently working. Naturally he called his hold Telgar. After five years of searching for the “right” name, Zi Ongola had finally called his “Tillek,” in memory of the man who had brought a gaggle of pleasure yachts along the entire coastline of the southern continent and, despite storm and other difficulties, led them north to Fort’s docks. As the newly dubbed Tillek was on shores full of fine fishing, the name was all the more appropriate.

“How’d I
guess
?” Sorka now repeated to Torene. “Not a guess. You have that indefinable look of someone very pleased with herself. And, if you listen a moment, you’ll probably hear all the dragons talking about it. I know Faranth is asking questions.”

Torene did listen a moment, her eyes going briefly out of focus before she made a grimace of resignation. “There’s a distinct disadvantage about being able to hear all the dragons, especially if you want to be discreet.” Then, eyes widening in concern, she glanced anxiously about the low-ceilinged rooms.

“Sean’s not here,” Sorka said with a chuckle. “He and two wings went south to hunt early this morning.” She sighed. “I really look forward to having that tithe system they keep talking about in full operation.” She went on more briskly. “By the time they’re due back, there will be other things for dragons to talk about. Or the ones here’ll all be asleep. It’s a nice sunny day.”

“Sorka . . .” Torene cocked her head as she leaned toward Sorka, the expression in her large dark eyes anxiously earnest. “Can’t
you
persuade Sean that we desperately need a second
permanent
Weyr? It’s not just for the space it’ll give us to spread out. It’s needed to—” And Torene closed her lips on whatever point she’d been about to make.

Sorka gave a little laugh and finished for her. “It’s needed to give someone else a chance to run a full Weyr.” Seeing Torene’s stricken face, she patted her arm. “I know my weyrmate, dear. His faults—”

“But that’s it, Sorka, he doesn’t
have
any. He’s always
right.”
Torene said that without any malice but with some despair. “He is the best possible Weyrleader we could ever have, but . . .”

“There are other very capable riders who would also make good Weyrleaders.”

“Yes, and that isn’t all.” Torene leaned ever closer. “I heard that the Ierne Island bunch are going to come north, too. They want to settle on the east coast. I mean, we’ve boasted so often that distance is nothing to a dragon”—Torene’s grin was pure amusement—”that they say we can protect them on the east coast just as easily as here in the west.”

Sorka gave a genuine burst of laughter. “Hoist on our own petards, as my father used to say.”

Torene blinked in bewilderment. “What does that mean?”

It was slightly unfair, Sorka thought, for a girl to have such long eyelashes as well as a beautiful face, an elegant—Sean said “sexy”—figure, and personality and brains, as well. Even her short hair, close-cropped to be more comfortable under the skull-fitting helmets they wore, formed exquisite curls that framed her high-cheeked and distinctive countenance.

“It means getting caught in one’s own trap, actually, but in this case the ‘trap’ is the boasts we dragonriders keep making.”

“Oh!” The girl giggled. “Well, we have, but if we don’t move in right
smart,
those Ierne Islanders will take the better cave system and we’ll be left with second best,” she added indignantly.

“You’re a true dragonrider, girl,” Sorka said. “Nothing but the best for us.”

“Oh, I don’t mean it that way, Sorka, and you know it. But the old crater is perfect for a second proper Weyr,” Torene said, leaning forward again in her enthusiasm, ignoring her cooling soup. “Even better than this one in some ways, because it’s a double crater system, one nearly circular, the other oblong, with a deep lake, and enough space to keep herdbeasts, instead of having to go south to catch dinner when our provisions run short. Best of all, there’s one immense vaulted cavern that would be big enough for a half-dozen queens to clutch in . . .”

“One at a time is quite enough.”

The enthusiasm in Torene’s eyes dimmed slightly at the memory before she rushed on. “And we wouldn’t have to do much to it at all since it’s got some sand in it, and a hypocaust system could be installed in one of the side niches. Furthermore, my mother says that the stonecutters have about had it. If we don’t get to use them soon, we might have to chisel out individual weyrs with our bare hands.” Torene gave a sharp nod of her head at that unwelcome option.

“Those cutters’ve done more than they were designed to do,” Sorka said, remembering her father saying much the same thing when he’d used them nine years earlier at Ruatha Hold.

“Well, I want to design our Weyr with them . . .”

“Our Weyr?” Sorka raised a quizzical eyebrow at the young rider.

Torene closed her eyes and made a rattling sound of dismay with her tongue, covering her face with her hands. Then she uncovered her face and grinned impishly at Sorka. “You can’t blame me for dreaming. Someone’s going to be Weyrwoman, and you told me yourself that Alaranth’s the biggest gold yet.”

“And have you planned who’s to be Weyrleader?” Sorka asked gently.

Torene blushed furiously. She had the uncomfortable feeling sometimes that it was wrong of Alaranth to be a full hand taller in the shoulder than her dam, Faranth, although Sorka had always appeared delighted by the improvement. The young queen was nearly mature enough to make her first mating flight. But Torene discounted her own physical attractiveness whenever someone complimented her, and she played no favorites among the male riders who were constantly in her company. The only exception was Michael, the bronze-rider son of Sorka and Sean. He never seemed interested in her at all, though he seemed interested in every other attractive woman. Well, maybe she just wasn’t attractive to him. She certainly wouldn’t have objected to his company—might even have welcomed it—but she was too level-headed to feel more than surprise and, perhaps, a little chagrin at his disinterest.

Mihall, as he was generally called, was as dedicated a dragonrider as his father. Sometimes more so. Since coming to maturity three years ago, Mihall’s bronze Brianth had sired sufficient clutches that Sean had grounded the randy bronze during queen mating flights. One of Sorka’s duties was to keep very precise records of which clutch was sired by which bronze or brown, so that any queens resulting from that pairing would not be rematched with their own sires. Mihall had shrugged and remarked that that was fine by him; there were plenty of greens who liked Brianth enough to twine necks with him anytime.

“Who’s to be Weyrleader?” Torene repeated, dragging her thoughts back to the conversation. “No, I wouldn’t plan that far, Sorka, because Sean would make such an important appointment, wouldn’t he?”

“Probably,” Sorka replied discreetly. Sean, she knew, had a notion on the best way to decide that. “Surely you’ve some preference as to which dragon mates with Alaranth?” she asked gently.

Torene flushed but answered quickly enough. “That depends on who’s fast enough to catch Alaranth, doesn’t it?” She grinned, avoiding Sorka’s subtle probing. Torene wasn’t being arrogant in suggesting that the bigger males were going to have to fly very well indeed to mate with her Alaranth. That young queen would lead them a long and very dizzy chase. Torene added a giggle to her grin. “I only hope
I’m
strong enough to last. Don’t try to figure out who I really fancy. You might be surprised.” Her mobile face turned solemn. “Seriously, though, Sorka, dragonriders have got to move quickly to secure that twin-cratered place as our own.”

“I agree with you, Torene, except that there’s no way in except to fly, and that could prove awkward for a number of reasons.”

“Ah . . .” Torene held up one finger in triumph. “I know where to put an access tunnel.” From a thigh pocket, she extracted a limp, well-used plasfilm, an echo survey of the double crater, with top, side, and ground-level elevations: probably from one of the original probes. It hadn’t occurred to Sorka that there might be other copies of those survey reports. Now she realized that as mining engineers, Torene’s parents, the Ostrovskys, would likely have had personal copies of all the preliminary surveys.