“Colonel Finn.” He turned around in the doorway and yelled at the unseen monitors. “Colonel Finn—get me out of here!”
No one answered. No door opened. The elf sat there staring at him in the closest thing to distress he had yet showed.
“Colonel! Colonel, damn you!”
More of silence. The elf rose to his feet and stood there staring at him in seeming perplexity, as if he suspected he witnessed some human madness.
“They left us a present,” deFranco said. His voice shook and he tried to stop it. “They left us a damn present, elf. And they locked us in.”
The elf stared at him; and deFranco went out into the hall, bent and gathered up the deadly black cylinder—held it up. “It’s one of yours, elf.”
The elf stood there in the doorway. His eyes looking down were the eyes of a carved saint; and looking up they showed color against his white skin. A long nailless hand touched the doorframe as the elf contemplated him and human treachery.
“Is this their way?”
“It’s not mine.” He closed his hand tightly on the cylinder, in its deadliness like and unlike every weapon he had ever handled. “It’s damn well not mine.”
“You can’t get out.”
The shock had robbed him of wits. For a moment he was not thinking. And then he walked down the hall to the main door and tried it. “Locked,” he called back to the elf, who had joined him in his possession of the hall. The two of them together. DeFranco walked back again, trying doors as he went. He felt strangely numb. The hall became surreal, his elvish companion belonging like him, elsewhere. “Dammit, what have you got in their minds?”
“They’ve agreed,” the elf said. “They’ve agreed, deFranco.”
“They’re out of their minds.”
“One door still closes, doesn’t it? You can protect your life.”
“You still bent on suicide?”
“You’ll be safe.”
“Damn them!”
The elf gathered his arms about him as if he too felt the chill. “The colonel gave us a time. Is it past?”
“Not bloody yet.”
“Come sit with me. Sit and talk. My friend.”
“IS IT TIME?” asks the elf, as deFranco looks at his watch again. And deFranco looks up.
“Five minutes. Almost.” DeFranco’s voice is hoarse.
The elf has a bit of paper in hand. He offers it. A pen lies on the table between them. Along with the grenade. “I’ve written your peace. I’ve put my name below it. Put yours.”
“I’m nobody. I can’t sign a treaty, for God’s sake.” DeFranco’s face is white. His lips tremble. “What did you write?”
“Peace,” said the elf. “I just wrote peace. Does there have to be more?”
DeFranco takes it. Looks at it. And suddenly he picks up the pen and signs it too, a furious scribble. And lays the pen down. “There,” he says. “There, they’ll have my name on it.” And after a moment: “If I could do the other—O God, I’m scared. I’m scared.”
“You don’t have to go to my city,” says the elf, softly. His voice wavers like deFranco’s. “DeFranco—here, here they record everything. Go with me. Now. The record will last. We have our peace, you and I, we make it together, here, now. The last dying. Don’t leave me. And we can end this war.”
DeFranco sits a moment. Takes the grenade from the middle of the table, extends his hand with it across the center. He looks nowhere but at the elf. “Pin’s yours,” he says. “Go on. You pull it, I’ll hold it steady.”
The elf reaches out his hand, takes the pin and pulls it, quickly.
DeFranco lays the grenade down on the table between them, and his mouth moves in silent counting. But then he looks up at the elf and the elf looks at him. DeFranco manages a smile. “You got the count on this thing?”
The screen breaks up.
THE STAFFER REACHED out her hand and cut the monitor, and Agnes Finn stared past the occupants of the office for a time. Tears came seldom to her eyes. They were there now, and she chose not to look at the board of inquiry who had gathered there.
“There’s a mandatory inquiry,” the man from the reg command said. “We’ll take testimony from the major this afternoon.”
“Responsibility’s mine,” Finn said.
It was agreed on the staff. It was pre-arranged, the interview, the formalities.
Someone had to take the direct hit. It might have been a SurTac. She would have ordered that too, if things had gone differently. High command might cover her. Records might be wiped. A tape might be classified. The major general who had handed her the mess and turned his back had done it all through subordinates. And he was clear.
“The paper, Colonel.”
She looked at them, slid the simple piece of paper back across the desk. The board member collected it and put it into the folder. Carefully.
“It’s more than evidence,” she said. “That’s a treaty. The indigenes know it is.”
They left her office, less than comfortable in their official search for blame and where, officially, to put it.
She was already packed. Going back on the same ship with an elvish corpse, all the way to Pell and Downbelow. There would be a grave there onworld.
It had surprised no one when the broadcast tape got an elvish response. Hopes rose when it got the fighting stopped and brought an elvish delegation to the front; but there was a bit of confusion when the elves viewed both bodies and wanted deFranco’s. Only deFranco’s.
And they made him a stone grave there on the shell-pocked plain, a stone monument; and they wrote everything they knew about him. I was John Rand deFranco, a graven plaque said. I was born on a space station twenty light-years away. I left my mother and my brothers. The friends I had were soldiers and many of them died before me. I came to fight and I died for the peace, even when mine was the winning side. I died at the hand of Angan Anassidi, and he died at mine, for the peace; and we were friends at the end of our lives.
Elves—suilti was one name they called themselves—came to this place and laid gifts of silk ribbons and bunches of flowers—flowers, in all that desolation; and in their thousands they mourned and they wept in their own tearless, expressionless way.
For their enemy.
One of their own was on his way to humankind. For humankind to cry for. I was Angan Anassidi, his grave would say; and all the right things. Possibly no human would shed a tear. Except the veterans of Elfland, when they came home, if they got down to the world—they might, like Agnes Finn, in their own way and for their own dead, in front of alien shrine.
Anne McCaffrey
Anne McCaffrey has been writing science fiction for nearly half a century and published her first novel, Restoree, in 1967. She won acclaim for her third novel, The Ship Who Sang, an influential story of human-machine interface written well before the cyberpunk movement, but is renowned for her bestselling Pern novels, introduced in her Hugo Award–winning story “Weyr Search” and Nebula Award–winning story “Dragonrider” in 1968. The Pern books, which are the chronicle of an Earth colony that is linked symbiotically to a native race of sentient dragons, number more than a dozen, including the Dragonriders of Pern trilogy, The White Dragon, and The Dolphins of Pern. They are complemented by a trio of young adult novels—Dragonsong, Dragonsinger, and Dragondrums—set in the same world, as well as the graphic novel rendering Dragonflight. McCaffrey has been praised for her strong female characters, particularly in the Rowan sequence—The Rowan, Damia, The Tower and the Hive. She is also the author of To Ride Pegasus and Pegasus in Flight, a duo concerned with future psychic sleuths, and the Ireta books set on Dinosaur Planet. Her short fiction has been collected in Get Off the Unicorn, and she has edited the anthology Alchemy and Academe.
Anne McCaffrey
The Finger Points
At an Eye blood red.
Alert the Weyrs
To sear the Thread.
“YOU STILL DOUBT, R’gul?” F’lar asked, appea
ring slightly amused by the older bronze rider’s perversity.
R’gul, his handsome features stubbornly set, made no reply to the Weyrleader’s taunt. He ground his teeth together as if he could grind away F’lar’s authority over him.
“There have been no Threads in Pern’s skies for over four hundred Turns. There are no more!”
“There is always that possibility,” F’lar conceded amiably. There was not, however, the slightest trace of tolerance in his amber eyes. Nor the slightest hint of compromise in his manner.
He was more like F’lon, his sire, R’gul decided, than a son had any right to be. Always so sure of himself, always slightly contemptuous of what others did and thought. Arrogant, that’s what F’lar was. Impertinent, too, and underhanded in the matter of that young Weyrwoman. Why, R’gul had trained her up to be one of the finest Weyrwomen in many Turns. Before he’d finished her instruction, she knew all the teaching ballads and sagas letter perfect. And then the silly child had turned to F’lar. Didn’t have sense enough to appreciate the merits of an older, more experienced man. Undoubtedly she felt a first obligation to F’lar, he having discovered her at Ruath Hold during Search.
“You do, however,” F’lar was saying, “admit that when the sun hits the Finger Rock at the moment of dawn, winter solstice has been reached?”
“Any fool knows that’s what Finger Rock is for,” R’gul grunted.
“Then why don’t you, you old fool, admit that the Eye Rock was placed on Star Stone to bracket the Red Star when it’s about to make a Pass?” burst out K’net, the youngest of the dragonriders.
R’gul flushed, half-starting out of his chair, ready to take the young sprout to task for such insolence.
“K’net,” F’lar’s voice cracked authoritatively, “do you really like flying the Igen Patrol so much you want another few weeks at it?”
K’net hurriedly seated himself, flushing at the reprimand and the threat.
“There is, you know, R’gul, incontrovertible evidence to support my conclusions,” F’lar went on with deceptive mildness. “‘The Finger points/At an Eye blood red…’”
“Don’t quote me verses I taught you as a weyrling,” R’gul exclaimed, heatedly.
“Then have faith in what you taught,” F’lar snapped back, his amber eyes flashing dangerously.
R’gul, stunned by the unexpected forcefulness, sank back into his chair.
“You cannot deny, R’gul,” F’lar continued quietly, “that no less than half an hour ago, the sun balanced on the Finger’s tip at dawn and the Red Star was squarely framed by the Eye Rock.”
The other dragonriders, bronze as well as brown, murmured and nodded their agreement to that phenomenon. There was also an undercurrent of resentment for R’gul’s continual contest of F’lar’s policies as the new Weyrleader. Even old S’lel, once R’gul’s avowed supporter, was following the majority.
“There have been no Threads in four hundred years. There are no Threads,” R’gul muttered.
“Then, my fellow dragonman,” F’lar said cheerfully, “all you have taught is falsehood. The dragons are, as the Lords of the Holds wish to believe, parasites on the economy of Pern, anachronisms. And so are we.
“Therefore, far be it from me to hold you here against the dictates of your conscience. You have my permission to leave the Weyr and take up residence where you will.”
R’GUL WAS TOO stunned by F’lar’s ultimatum to take offense at the ridicule. Leave the Weyr? Was the man mad? Where would he go? The Weyr had been his life. He had been bred up to it for generations. All his male ancestors had been dragonriders. Not all bronze, true, but a decent percentage. His own dam’s sire had been a Weyrleader just as he, R’gul, had been until F’lar’s Mnementh had flown the new queen and that young upstart had taken over as traditional Weyrleader.
But dragonmen never left the Weyr. Well, they did if they were negligent enough to lose their dragons, like that Lytol fellow who was now Warden at Ruath Hold. And how could he leave the Weyr with a dragon?
What did F’lar want of him? Was it not enough that the young one was Weyrleader now in R’gul’s stead? Wasn’t F’lar’s pride sufficiently swollen by having bluffed the lords of Pern into disbanding their army when they were all set to coerce the Weyr and dragonmen? Must F’lar dominate every dragonman, body and will, too? He stared a long moment, incredulous.
“I do not believe we are parasites,” F’lar said, breaking the silence with his soft, persuasive voice. “Nor anachronistic. There have been long Intervals before. The Red Star does not always pass close enough to drop Threads on Pern. Which is why our ingenious ancestors thought to position the Eye Rock and the Finger Rock as they did…to confirm when a Pass will be made. And another thing,” his face turned grave, “there have been other times when dragonkind has all but died out…and Pern with it because of skeptics like you.” F’lar smiled and relaxed indolently in his chair. “I prefer not to be recorded as a skeptic. How shall we record you, R’gul?”
The Council Chamber was tense. R’gul was aware of someone breathing harshly and realized it was himself. He looked at the adamant face of the young Weyrleader and knew that the threat was not empty. He would either concede to F’lar’s authority, completely, though concession rankled deeply. Or leave the Weyr.
And where could he go, unless to one of the other Weyrs, deserted for hundreds of Turns? And, R’gul’s thoughts were savage, wasn’t that indication enough of the cessation of the Threads? Five empty Weyrs? No, by the Egg of Faranth, he would practice some of F’lar’s own brand of deceit and bide his time. When all Pern turned on the arrogant fool, he, R’gul, would be there to salvage something from the ruins.
“A dragonman stays in his Weyr,” R’gul said with what dignity he could muster from the remains of his pride.
“And accepts the policies of the current Weyrleader?” The tone of F’lar’s voice made it less of a question and more of an order.
Relieved he would not have to perjure himself, R’gul gave a curt nod of his head. F’lar continued to stare at him until R’gul wondered if the man could read his thoughts as his dragon might. He managed to return the gaze calmly. His turn would come. He’d wait.
APPARENTLY ACCEPTING THE capitulation, F’lar stood up and crisply delegated patrol assignments for the day.
“T’bor, you’re weather-watch. Keep an eye on those tithe trains as you do. What’s the morning’s report?”
“Weather is fair at dawning…all across Telgar and Keroon…if all too cold,” T’bor said with a wry grin. “Tithing trains have good hard roads, though, so they ought to be here soon.” His eyes twinkled with anticipation of the feasting that would follow the supplies’ arrival; a mood shared by all, to judge by the expressions around the table.
F’lar nodded. “S’lan and D’nol, you are to continue an adroit Search for likely boys. They should be striplings, if possible, but do not pass over anyone suspected of talent. It’s all well and good to present, for Impression, boys reared up in the Weyr traditions.” F’lar gave a one-sided smile.
“But there are not enough in the lower caverns. We, too, have been behind in begetting. Anyway, dragons reach full growth faster than their riders. We must have more young men to Impress when Ramoth hatches. Take the southern holds, Ista, Nerat, Fort, and south Boll, where maturity comes earlier. You can use the guise of inspecting holds for greenery to talk to the boys. And, take along firestone. Run a few flaming passes on those heights that haven’t been scoured in uh…dragon’s years. A flaming beast impresses the young and rouses envy.”
F’lar deliberately looked at R’gul to see the ex-Weyrleader’s reaction to the order. R’gul had been dead set against going outside the Weyr for more candidates. In the first place, R’gul had argued that there were eighteen youngsters in the Lower Caverns, some quite young, to be sure, but R’gul could not admit that Ramoth would lay more than the dozen Nemorth had always dropped. In the second place, R’gul persisted in wanting to avoid an
y action that might antagonize the Lords.
R’gul made no overt protest and F’lar went on.
“K’net, back to the mines. I want the dispositions of each firestone dump checked and quantities available. R’gul, continue drilling recognition points with the weyrlings. They must be positive about their references. They may be sent out quickly and with no time to ask questions, if they’re used as messengers and suppliers.
“F’nor, T’sum,” and F’lar turned to his own brown riders, “you’re clean-up squad today.” He allowed himself a grin at their dismay. “Try Ista Weyr. Clear the Hatching Cavern and enough weyrs for a double wing. And, F’nor, don’t leave a single record behind. They’re worth preserving.
“That will be all, dragonmen. Good flying.” And with that, F’lar rose and strode from the Council Room up to the queen’s weyr.
RAMOTH STILL SLEPT, her hide gleaming with health, its color deepening to a shade of gold closer to bronze, indicating her pregnancy. As he passed her, the tip of her long tail twitched slightly.
All the dragons were restless these days, F’lar reflected. Yet when he asked Mnementh, the bronze dragon could give no reason. He woke, he went back to sleep. That was all. F’lar couldn’t ask a leading question for that would defeat his purpose. He had to remain discontented with the vague fact that the restlessness was some kind of instinctive reaction.
Lessa was not in the sleeping room nor was she still bathing. F’lar snorted. That girl was going to scrub her hide off with this constant bathing. She’d had to live grimy to protect herself in Ruath Hold but bathing twice a day? He was beginning to wonder if this might be a subtle, Lessa-variety insult to him personally. F’lar sighed. That girl. Would she never turn to him of her own accord? Would he ever touch that elusive inner core of Lessa? She had more warmth for his half brother, F’nor, and K’net, the youngest of the bronze riders, than she had for F’lar who shared her bed.
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