The Dragonriders of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  He’s coming, Mnementh informed her. Lessa sensed that the dragon was just landing on the ledge. She touched Ramoth and found that the queen, too, had been bothered by formless, frightening dreams. The dragon roused briefly and then fell back into deeper sleep.

  Disturbed by her vague fears, Lessa rose and dressed, forgoing a bath for the first time since she had arrived at the Weyr.

  She called down the shaft for breakfast, then plaited her hair with deft fingers as she waited.

  The tray appeared on the shaft platform just as F’lar entered. He kept looking back over his shoulder at Ramoth.

  “What’s gotten into her?”

  “Echoing my nightmare. I woke in a cold sweat.”

  “You were sleeping quietly enough when I left to assign patrols. You know, at the rate those dragonets are growing, they’re already capable of limited flight. All they do is eat and sleep, and that’s . . .”

  “. . . what makes a dragon grow,” Lessa finished for him and sipped thoughtfully at her steaming hot klah. “You are going to be extra-careful about their drill procedures, aren’t you?”

  “You mean to prevent an inadvertent flight between times? I certainly am,” he assured her. “I don’t want bored dragonriders irresponsibly popping in and out.” He gave her a long, stern look.

  “Well, it wasn’t my fault no one taught me to fly early enough,” she replied in the sweet tone she used when she was being especially malicious. “If I’d been drilled from the day of Impression to the day of my first flight, I’d never have discovered that trick.”

  “True enough,” he said solemnly.

  “You know, F’lar, if I discovered it, someone else must have, and someone else may. If they haven’t already.”

  F’lar drank, making a face as the klah scalded his tongue. “I don’t know how to find out discreetly. We would be foolish to think we were the first. It is, after all, an inherent ability in dragons, or you would never have been able to do it.”

  She frowned, took a quick breath, and then let it go, shrugging.

  “Go on,” he encouraged her.

  “Well, isn’t it possible that our conviction about the imminence of the Threads could stem from one of us coming back when the Threads are actually falling? I mean . . .”

  “My dear girl, we have both analyzed every stray thought and action—even your dream this morning upset you, although it was no doubt due to all the wine you drank last night—until we wouldn’t know an honest presentiment if it walked up and slapped us in the face.”

  “I can’t dismiss the thought that this between times ability is of crucial value,” she said emphatically.

  “That, my dear Weyrwoman, is an honest presentiment.”

  “But why?”

  “Not why,” he corrected her cryptically. “When.” An idea stirred vaguely in the back of his mind. He tried to nudge it out where he could mull it over. Mnementh announced that F’nor was entering the weyr.

  “What’s the matter with you?” F’lar demanded of his half brother, for F’nor was choking and sputtering, his face red with the paroxysm.

  “Dust . . .” he coughed, slapping at his sleeves and chest with his riding gloves. “Plenty of dust, but no Threads,” he said, describing a wide arc with one arm as he fluttered his fingers suggestively. He brushed his tight wher-hide pants, scowling as a fine black dust drifted off.

  F’lar felt every muscle in his body tense as he watched the dust float to the floor.

  “Where did you get so dusty?” he demanded.

  F’nor regarded him with mild surprise. “Weather patrol in Tillek. Entire north has been plagued with dust storms lately. But what I came in for . . .” He broke off, alarmed by F’lar’s taut immobility. “What’s the matter with dust?” he asked in a baffled voice.

  F’lar pivoted on his heel and raced for the stairs to the Record Room. Lessa was right behind him, F’nor belatedly trailing after.

  “Tillek, you said?” F’lar barked at his wingsecond. He was clearing the table of stacks for the four charts he then laid out. “How long have these storms been going on? Why didn’t you report them?”

  “Report dust storms? You wanted to know about warm air masses.”

  “How long have these storms been going on?” F’lar’s voice crackled.

  “Close to a week.”

  “How close?”

  “Six days ago the first storm was noticed in upper Tillek. They have been reported in Bitra, Upper Telgar, Crom, and the High Reaches,” F’nor reported tersely.

  He glanced hopefully at Lessa but saw she, too, was staring at the four unusual charts. He tried to see why the horizontal and vertical strips had been superimposed on Pern’s land mass, but the reason was beyond him.

  F’lar was making hurried notations, pushing first one map and then another away from him.

  “Too involved to think straight, to see clearly, to understand,” the Weyrleader snarled to himself, throwing down the stylus angrily.

  “You did say only warm air masses,” F’nor heard himself saying humbly, aware that he had somehow failed his Weyrleader.

  F’lar shook his head impatiently.

  “Not your fault, F’nor. Mine. I should have asked. I knew it was good luck that the weather held so cold.” He put both hands on F’nor’s shoulders, looking directly into his eyes. “The Threads have been falling,” he announced gravely. “Falling into cold air, freezing into bits to drift on the wind”—F’lar imitated F’nor’s finger-fluttering—“as specks of black dust.”

  “ ‘Crack dust, blackdust,’ ” Lessa quoted. “In ‘The Ballad of Moreta’s Ride,’ the chorus is all about black dust.”

  “I don’t need to be reminded of Moreta right now,” F’lar growled, bending to the maps. “She could talk to any dragon in the Weyrs.”

  “But I can do that!” Lessa protested.

  Slowly, as if he didn’t quite credit his ears, F’lar turned back to Lessa. “What did you just say?”

  “I said I can talk to any dragon in the Weyr.”

  Still staring at her, blinking in utter astonishment, F’lar sank down to the table top.

  “How long,” he managed to say, “have you had this particular skill?”

  Something in his tone, in his manner, caused Lessa to flush and stammer like an erring weyrling.

  “I . . . I always could. Beginning with the watch-wher at Ruatha.” She gestured indecisively in Ruatha’s westerly direction. “And I talked to Mnemeuth at Ruatha. And . . . when I got here, I could . . .” Her voice faltered at the accusing look in F’lar’s cold, hard eyes. Accusing and, worse, contemptuous.

  “I thought you had agreed to help me, to believe in me.”

  “I’m truly sorry, F’lar. It never occurred to me it was of any use to anyone, but . . .”

  F’lar exploded onto both feet, his eyes blazing with aggravation.

  “The one thing I could not figure out was how to direct the wings and keep in contact with the Weyr during an attack, how I was going to get reinforcements and firestone in time. And you . . . you have been sitting there, spitefully hiding the . . .”

  “I am NOT spiteful,” she screamed at him. “I said I was sorry. I am. But you’ve a nasty, smug habit of keeping your own counsel. How was I to know you didn’t have the same trick? You’re F’lar, the Weyrleader, you can do anything. Only you’re just as bad as R’gul because you never tell me half the things I ought to know . . .”

  F’lar reached out and shook her until her angry voice was stopped.

  “Enough. We can’t waste time arguing like children.” Then his eyes widened, his jaw dropped. “Waste time? That’s it.”

  “Go between times?” Lessa gasped.

  “Between times!”

  F’nor was totally confused. “What are you two talking about?”

  “The Threads started falling at dawn in Nerat,” F’lar said, his eyes bright, his manner decisive.

  F’nor could feel his guts congealing with apprehension.
At dawn in Nerat? Why, the rainforests would be demolished. He could feel a surge of adrenalin charging through his body at the thought of danger.

  “So we’re going back there, between times, and be there when the Threads started falling, two hours ago. F’nor, the dragons can go not only where we direct them but when.”

  “Where? When?” F’nor repeated, bewildered. “That could be dangerous.”

  “Yes, but today it will save Nerat. Now, Lessa,” and F’lar gave her another shake, compounded of pride and affection, “order out all the dragons, young, old, any that can fly. Tell them to load themselves down with firestone sacks. I don’t know if you can talk across time . . .”

  “My dream this morning . . .”

  “Perhaps. But right now rouse the Weyr.” He pivoted to F’nor. “If Threads are falling . . . were falling . . . at Nerat at dawn, they’ll be falling on Keroon and Ista right now, because they are in that time pattern. Take two wings to Keroon. Arouse the plains. Get them to start the firepits blazing. Take some weyrlings with you and send them on to Igen and Ista. Those Holds are not in as immediate danger as Keroon. I’ll reinforce you as soon as I can. And . . . keep Canth in touch with Lessa.”

  F’lar clapped his brother on the shoulder and sent him off. The brown rider was too used to taking orders to argue.

  “Mnementh says R’gul is duty officer and R’gul wants to know . . .” Lessa began.

  “C’mon, girl,” F’lar said, his eyes brilliant with excitement. He grabbed up his maps and propelled her up the stairs.

  They arrived in the weyr just as R’gul entered with T’sum. R’gul was muttering about this unusual summons.

  “Hath told me to report,” he complained. “Fine thing when your own dragon . . .”

  “R’gul, T’sum, mount your wings. Arm them with all the firestone they can carry, and assemble above Star Stone. I’ll join you in a few minutes. We go to Nerat at dawn.”

  “Nerat? I’m watch officer, not patrol . . .”

  “This is no patrol,” F’lar cut him off.

  “But, sir,” T’sum interrupted, his eyes wide, “Nerat’s dawn was two hours ago, the same as ours.”

  “And that is when we are going to, brown riders. The dragons, we have discovered, can go between places temporally as well as geographically. At dawn Threads fell at Nerat. We’re going back, between time, to sear them from the sky.”

  F’lar paid no attention to R’gul’s stammered demand for explanation. T’sum, however, grabbed up firestone sacks and raced back to the ledge and his waiting Munth.

  “Go on, you old fool,” Lessa told R’gul irascibly. “The Threads are here. You were wrong. Now be a dragonman! Or go between and stay there!”

  Ramoth, awakened by the alarms, poked at R’gul with her man-sized head, and the ex-Weyrleader came out of his momentary shock. Without a word he followed T’sum down the passageway.

  F’lar had thrown on his heavy wher-hide tunic and shoved on his riding boots.

  “Lessa, be sure to send messages to all the Holds. Now, this attack will stop about four hours from now. So the farthest west it can reach will be Ista. But I want every Hold and craft warned.”

  She nodded, her eyes intent on his face lest she miss a word.

  “Fortunately, the Star is just beginning its Pass, so we won’t have to worry about another attack for a few days. I’ll figure out the next one when I get back.

  “Now, get Manora to organize her women. We’ll need pails of ointment. The dragons are going to be laced, and that hurts. Most important, if something goes wrong, you’ll have to wait till a bronze is at least a year old to fly Ramoth . . .”

  “No one’s flying Ramoth but Mnementh,” she cried, her eyes sparkling fiercely.

  F’lar crushed her against him, his mouth bruising hers as if all her sweetness and strength must come with him. He released her so abruptly that she staggered back against Ramoth’s lowered head. She clung for a moment to her dragon, as much for support as for reassurance.

  That is, if Mnementh can catch me, Ramoth amended smugly.

  Wheel and turn

  Or bleed and burn.

  Fly between,

  Blue and green.

  Soar, dive down,

  Bronze and brown

  Dragonmen must fly

  When Threads are in the sky.

  As F’lar raced down the passageway to the ledge, firesacks bumping against his thighs, he was suddenly grateful for the tedious sweeping patrols over every Hold and hollow of Pern. He could see Nerat clearly in his mind’s eye. He could see the many-petaled vineflowers which were the distinguished feature of the rainforest at this time of the year. Their ivory blossoms would be glowing in the first beams of sunlight like dragon eyes among the tall, wide-leaved plants.

  Mnementh, his eyes flashing with excitement, hovered skittishly over the ledge. F’lar vaulted to the bronze neck.

  The Weyr was seething with wings of all colors, noisy with shouts and countercommands. The atmosphere was electric, but F’lar could sense no panic in that ordered confusion. Dragon and human bodies oozed out of openings around the Bowl walls. Women scurried across the floor from one Lower Cavern to another. The children playing by the lake were sent to gather wood for a fire. The weyrlings, supervised by old C’gan, were forming outside their barracks. F’lar looked up to the Peak and approved the tight formation of the wings assembled there in close flying order. Another wing formed up as he watched. He recognized brown Canth, F’nor on his neck, just as the entire wing vanished.

  He ordered Mnementh aloft. The wind was cold and carried a hint of moisture. A late snow? This was the time for it, if ever.

  R’gul’s wing and T’bor’s fanned out on his left, T’sum and D’nol on his right. He noted each dragon was well-laden with sacks. Then he gave Mnementh the visualization of the early spring rainforest in Nerat, just before dawn, the vineflowers gleaming, the sea breaking against the rocks of the High Shoal. . . .

  He felt the searing cold of between. And he felt a stab of doubt. Was he injudicious, sending them all possibly to their deaths between times in this effort to outtime the Threads at Nerat?

  Then they were all there, in the crepuscular light that promises day. The lush, fruity smells of the rainforest drifted up to them. Warm, too, and that was frightening. He looked up and slightly to the north. Pulsing with menace, the Red Star shone down.

  The men had realized what had happened, their voices raised in astonishment. Mnementh told F’lar that the dragons were mildly surprised at their riders’ fuss.

  “Listen to me, dragonriders,” F’lar called, his voice harsh and distorted in an effort to be heard by all. He waited till the men had moved as close as possible. He told Mnementh to pass the information on to each dragon. Then he explained what they had done and why. No one spoke, but there were many nervous looks exchanged across bright wings.

  Crisply he ordered the dragonriders to fan out in a staggered formation, keeping a distance of five wings’ spread up or down.

  The sun came up.

  Slanting across the sea, like an ever-thickening mist, Threads were falling, silent, beautiful, treacherous. Silvery gray were those space-traversing spores, spinning from hard frozen ovals into coarse filaments as they penetrated the warm atmospheric envelope of Pern. Less than mindless, they had been ejected from their barren planet toward Pern, a hideous rain that sought organic matter to nourish it into growth. One Thread, sinking into fertile soil, would burrow deep, propagating thousands in the warm earth, rendering it into a black-dusted wasteland. The southern continent of Pern had already been sucked dry. The true parasites of Pern were Threads.

  A stifled roar from the throats of eighty men and dragons broke the dawn air above Nerat’s green heights—as if the Threads might hear this challenge, F’lar mused.

  As one, dragons swiveled their wedge-shaped heads to their riders for firestone. Great jaws macerated the hunks. The fragments were swallowed and more firestone was demanded. Insi
de the beasts, acids churned and the poisonous phosphines were readied. When the dragons belched forth the gas, it would ignite in the air into ravening flame to sear the Threads from the sky. And burn them from the soil.

  Dragon instinct took over the moment the Threads began to fall above Nerat’s shores.

  As much admiration as F’lar had always held for his bronze companion, it achieved newer heights in the next hours. Beating the air in great strokes, Mnementh soared with flaming breath to meet the down-rushing menace. The fumes, swept back by the wind, choked F’lar until he thought to crouch low on the lea side of the bronze neck. The dragon squealed as a Thread flicked the tip of one wing. Instantly F’lar and he ducked into between, cold, calm, black. The frozen Thread cracked off. In the flicker of an eye, they were back to face the reality of Threads.

  Around him F’lar saw dragons winking in and out of between, flaming as they returned, diving, soaring. As the attack continued and they drifted across Nerat, F’lar began to recognize the pattern in the dragons’ instinctive evasion-attack movements. And in the Threads. For, contrary to what he had gathered from his study of the Records, the Threads fell in patches. Not as rain will, in steady unbroken sheets, but like flurries of snow, here, above, there, whipped to one side suddenly. Never fluidly, despite the continuity their name implied.

  You could see a patch above you. Flaming, your dragon would rise. You’d have the intense joy of seeing the clump shrivel from bottom to top. Sometimes, a patch would fall between riders. One dragon would signal he would follow and, spouting flame, would dive and sear.

  Gradually the dragonriders worked their way over the rainforests, so densely, so invitingly green. F’lar refused to dwell on what just one live Thread burrow would do to that lush land. He would send back a low-flying patrol to quarter every foot. One Thread, just one Thread, could put out the ivory eyes of every luminous vineflower.

  A dragon screamed somewhere to his left. Before he could identify the beast, it had ducked between. F’lar heard other cries of pain, from men as well as dragons. He shut his ears and concentrated, as dragons did, on the here-and-now. Would Mnementh remember those piercing cries later? F’lar wished he could forget them now.