CHAPTER IV

Telgar Weyr and the College

IT WAS THE WEYRWOMAN, Zulaya, who noticed Debera’s increasing nervousness.

“Go on back to Morath, m’dear. You’re exhausted and you’ll need your sleep.”

“Thank you . . . ah . . .”

“We make no use of titles in the Weyr,” Zulaya added. “Just go. I’ve given you permission, if that’s what you were so politely waiting for.”

Debera murmured her thanks and rose, wanting to slip out as inconspicuously as possible. She’d felt so awkward and unsocial, even when everyone, even the Lord and Lady Holder, had been so incredibly kind and easy. She thought they would expect her to give an explanation of her unusual behavior, but they’d supported her instantly. Really, it was as if her real life had started the moment she and Morath had locked eyes,

It had, she decided as she made her way along the side of the cavern wall, head down so she needn’t make eye contact with anyone. She saw only smiles from folks as she passed them, smiles and courtesy. And certainly none of the lascivious behavior that her father had often said was prevalent in the Weyr.

Of course, he’d told her a lot of things. And not told her others. Like the fact that an official announcement of Search, with her name on it, had been delivered to the hold so that she’d know when to come, to be available for the Hatching. No, she’d had to find that, stuffed in the cupboard where bits and pieces that could be reused were kept. No one at Balan Hold, especially her father and stepmother, Gisa, would have thrown out a whole sheet of paper that had a clean side that could be recycled. How she hated that word! Cycle, recycle. Use, reuse. The concept dominated every aspect of Balan Hold. And they were not “poor” in material possessions: not the way some holders were. But “poor” Balan Hold had been in spirit ever since her mother died.

She’d been looking for something else entirely when she found the sheet. Not that she knew the day’s date, but it was obvious that the announcement must have come sometime before, the paper being soiled and the creases well set. Maybe even weeks. She had been ready to accept Ganmar as an alternative to continued living in her father’s house. She knew that she’d have to work as hard, if not harder, setting up a new hold, chiseling it out of rock above the mine, but it would have been hers—and Ganmar’s—and something she could design to her own wishes. Not that she’d been inclined to believe any of the blithe and extravagant promises Ganmar or Boris had made her. All they wanted was a strong body with lots of hard work in it.

But she had seen many dragons in the sky the day before, most of them carrying passengers. Balan Hold was not that far from Telgar Weyr—not even by surface travel. So, the moment she’d read the message, she made her plans right then, without any wavering. She’d been Searched. She had the right to be there. No matter how life in the Weyr might be, it couldn’t be worse than what she now endured. And if she could be a dragonrider . . .

She had tucked the paper into her hip pocket and slammed the drawer shut. She was alone in the kitchen, and sun streamed in, almost as if adding light to her resolve. She didn’t even go back to the room she shared with her three half sisters. Grabbing her jacket, she made for the paddock where the riding horses were kept. There was no one about in the yard: all were at work. Assignments had been given out over breakfast, and everyone had to show their father completed chores or there’d be no lunch break until they were.

She didn’t even dare collect a saddle or bridle from the barn, because her eldest brothers were restacking hay—they’d done a sloppy job of it the first time around. She just grabbed up a leather thong. Since she’d had the most to do with the hold horses, she’d have little trouble managing any of them with just a lip rein.

Bilwil would be the fastest. She had probably three hours before the midday meal, when her absence would be noticed. By then she’d be well up the track to the Weyr.

With one look over her shoulder to see if she was being observed, Debera walked quickly—as if she were on an errand—to the paddock. Bilwil was not far from the fence that she climbed—the gate would be too near the vegetable garden where two half sisters were weeding. They loved nothing better than to report her “idling ways” to either their mother or her father. Two brothers were in the barn, the next pair out with her father in the forestry, and her stepmother in the dairy hold making cheese. Debera had been grinding wheat for flour when the cotter pin snapped. That’s what she’d been trying to find in the drawer, a nail or something to replace the cotter pin so she could continue her task. So Gisa wouldn’t miss her for a while to sound an alarm. For until flour had been made there’d be no bread, and Gisa wouldn’t want to turn that heavy stone, not pregnant as she was.

Bilwil nickered softly when she approached him and grabbed his forelock. No one had bothered to groom him last night and his coat was rough with perspiration from yesterday’s timber hauling. Maybe she should take one of the others. But Bilwil had lowered his head to accept the twist of thong around his lower jaw. She could scarcely risk chasing a better-rested, less amenable mount about the paddock, so she inserted the rein, grabbed a handful of mane, and vaulted to his back. Would she be vaulting to the back of a dragon tomorrow? She lay as flat as she could across his neck, just in case someone looked out across the paddock, and kneed him forward, toward the forest.

Just before they reached the intertwined hedging that marked the far boundary, she took one more look back at the hold buildings, its windows chiseled out of the very rock, the uneven entrance to the main living quarters, the wider one into the animal holding. Not a soul in sight.

“C’mon, Bilwil, let’s get out of here,” she’d murmured, and kicked him sharply into a trot, heading him right at the fence, a point not far from one of the tracks through the forest.

It was a good thing Bilwil liked to jump anyhow, because she’d given him only enough room to gather himself up. But he was nimbly over and had planted his left front foot, swinging left on it in response to her pull on his mouth and to her right heel as he brought his other feet down. In moments they were among the trees and quickly reached the track. Bilwil tried once to pull to the left, to go back to the hold, but she kicked him sharply and he went right. They were far enough from the hold so that his hoofsteps wouldn’t be audible—not unless someone had their ear to the ground, which was unlikely. Noses would be to the grindstones where hers no longer was. The thought made her grin, though she was not yet safe from discovery.

As soon as the track widened she set Bilwil to a canter, enjoying the one activity in which she took any pleasure.

She stopped several times, to rest her own backside as well as Bilwil’s . . . and found late berries to eat. She really ought to have snatched up the last of the breakfast cheese or even an apple or two to tide her over on the way.

It wasn’t until Debera reached the final leg of the journey up to the Telgar Weyr that she was aware of pursuit, Or at least spied three horsemen on the road. They could well be visitors, coming for the Hatching, but it was prudent to suspect the worst. Her father could be one, and possibly Boris and Ganmar the other two. She had to get to the safety of the Weyr before they caught up to her. How had they made such good time in pursuit of her? Had someone seen her, after all, and run to alert Lavel?

A long tunnel had been carved in the thinnest wall of the Telgar Crater as access for surface traffic. It was lit with glow baskets. Bilwil was tired from the last long steep climb on top of yesterday’s work. She thought she heard male voices yelling at her and kicked Bilwil into a weary trot. No matter how she used her heels on his ribs, he wouldn’t extend his stride. Then she heard the humming—as if it emanated from the walls around her. She knew what that meant. She gave a cry of despair.

After all this, she’d be too late and there wouldn’t be a dragon left for her to Impress . . . even if she had been Searched. How could she possibly go back? She wouldn’t. She knew her rights. She’d been Searched. She could stay at the Weyr until the next clutch. Anything was preferable to going back to what she’d just left. The union with Ganmar would not have been any real improvement, although she had been determined to establish a proper relationship with the young miner. He looked impressible. Her own mother had told her that there were ways of handling a man so he didn’t even know he was being managed. But Milla had died before she could impart those ways to her daughter. And Gisa, who had probably given up all thought of a second union if she had been desperate enough to partner her father, was a natural victim who enjoyed being dominated.

More hoofsteps sounded in the tunnel and, desperate to reach her objective, Debera kicked Bilwil on. The gallant animal fell into a heavy canter that jarred every bone in her body, but they made it into the Bowl.

Debera could see that not only was the Hatching Ground full of people, but also new, staggering dragonets. But as she got close enough she saw there were still a few eggs. Her pursuers were catching up. She had no need to halt Bilwil at the entrance. He stopped moving forward the moment she stopped kicking him. She slid off and raced toward the Hatching Ground just as her father, Boris, and Ganmar caught up, yelling at her to stop, to come to her senses . . . She wrenched herself free of grasping hands . . . just in time to reach Morath. And finally came into her own.

Now, as she made her way back to the weyrling barracks, she was as tired as she had ever been in her life, and far happier! As she rattled the door in her nervousness to open it, T’dam poked his head out of the boys’ barracks next door.

“Back, are you? Well, she hasn’t moved so much as a muscle. And I don’t think you will, either, will you?”

She shook her head, too tired to speak. She opened one side of a door wide enough to accommodate wing-trailing dragonets and slipped inside, turning to close it after her, but T’dam came in as well, reaching up to turn the glowbasket open. It was well he did because Debera would have knocked into the first of the dragonet beds.

These were basically simple wooden platforms, raised half a meter above the ground, ample for dragons until they were old enough to be transferred to a permanent weyr apartment. The rider’s bed was a trundle affair to one side of the dragon’s, with storage space underneath and a deep chest at the foot.

She skirted the bed, relieved she had not awakened the occupant, and got to Morath’s, the next one in. And hers. There were several items of clothing on the chest.

“Tisha sent in some other things since you weren’t able to bring any changes with you,” T’dam said. “And a nightdress, I believe. Open the glow above the bed and then I’ll shut this one.”

When she had done so, he closed the larger one and the door behind him. As soon as he had, she examined Morath, curled tightly on her platform, wings over her eyes. Was that how dragonets slept? Wondering at the good fortune that had happened to her this day, Debera watched the sleeping dragonet as dearly as any mother observed a newborn, much wanted child. Morath’s belly still bulged with uneven lumps from all the meat she had eaten. T’dam had laughed when Debera worried that the dragonet would make herself sick with such greed.

“They repeat the process six or seven times a day the first month,” he’d warned her. “You’ll end up thinking you’ve spent all your life chopping gobbets until she settles to the usual three meals a day. But don’t worry. By the end of her first year she’ll be eating only twice a week—and catch her own at that.”

Debera smiled, remembering that conversation and thinking that T’dam had no idea what a relief it would be to have such an easy job, the doing of which would be a labor of love and so gratefully received. She held her hand over her beloved Morath, wanting to caress this so-beloved creature but not wishing to disturb her—especially when Debera was all but asleep herself. She lingered, though, despite weariness, just watching Morath’s ribs rise and fall in sleeping rhythm. Then she could no longer resist fatigue.

She was the lone human in the weyrling barn . . . no, barracks. Well, the others had their families to celebrate with. Who’d’ve thought that Debera of Balan Hold would be sleeping with dragons this night? She certainly hadn’t. She slipped out of the fine dress now, smoothing the soft fabric of the green gown one last time as she folded it. It had felt so good on her body and was such a becoming color: quite the loveliest thing she had ever worn. Gisa had got all her mother’s dresses, which ought by custom to have come to her. Debera shrugged into the nightgown, aware of the subtle bouquet of the herbs in which it had been stored. She’d once had time to gather the fragrant flowers and leaves for sachets with her mother.

She pulled back the thick woolen blanket, fingering its softness, and not regretting in the slightest the over-washed and thin ones she had shared with her stepsisters. The pillow was thick under her cheek, too, as she put her head down, and soft and redolent of yet more fragrances. That was all she had time to think.

Back at the College, Sheledon, Bethany, and Sydra arrived a-dragonback, full of the ardent reception they’d had at Telgar Weyr.

“I don’t know why we didn’t think of Teaching Ballads before now,” Sydra said, slightly hoarse from all the singing she’d done the night before.

“Too bad we hadn’t the selections ready for the other two Impressions,” Sheledon said, for he invariably saw disadvantages everywhere. “Are there any more upcoming?”

“Well, there’re Year’s End celebrations . . .” Bethany said.

“We tend to stay here for them,” Sheledon replied, not wanting to miss the feasts that Chrislee generally provided for those holidays. The senior teachers at the College invariably were included on the Fort guest list and never missed such opportunities, even if they had the option of returning to their native hearths for the three-day celebration.

“Maybe this once,” Sydra began, looking at Sheledon, “we should go home and spread the word.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clisser shook his head. “Lightning . . .”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Which is total?” Sheledon asked.

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

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

He gave her a burning look.

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

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

“And they were?”

“Of course they were.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I shall miss the convenience,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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