Sorka gave the egg a long speculative look. She thought about whether or not it was a gold, and then decided, somewhat arbitrarily in her own mind, that no, it was not. It was a bronze. She did not tell Sean her conclusion. Sean tended to debate such issues, and that moment, surveying the first clutch of “dragons,” was not a moment to spoil. She sighed.
Dragonets had become as important to her as horses. She readily admitted that Sean could make his fair behave better than she could hers. He could and did discipline his for effective use during Threadfall. But she knew that she understood any of them—hers, his, or those impressed by anyone else on Pern—better than he did, especially when they were injured fighting Thread. Or maybe her sensitivity, developed over the last couple of months along with her pregnancy, tended toward maternal caring. The doctor had said she was in excellent health and had found nothing in her physical profile to suggest problems. She could continue riding as long as she felt comfortable in the saddle.
“You’ll know when you can’t ride anymore,” he had told her with a grin. “And you’ll have to curtail ground crew at five months. That’s no time for you to be swinging the weight of a flamethrower about for hours on end.”
Sorka had not yet found the proper moment to inform Sean of his impending fatherhood. She fretted about his reaction. They had saved enough work credits to make the Killarney holding a substantial one, but not with Thread falling. Sean had not even mentioned Killarney since the third Fall, but that did not mean he did not think about it. She saw the faraway look in his eyes from time to time.
She had thought he would mention Killarney when his father returned Cricket from his stud duties. But he had not. With everyone working double jobs just to keep essential services going, very few people had time to consider private concerns. Sean and Sorka spent what leisure moments they had keeping their horses fit, riding them out beyond the swath of destruction for an hour’s grazing.
The main door opened to admit one of the security engineers, and there was an instant reaction from the gallery of winged watchers. Sean chuckled softly. “They don’t need a security system in here,” he murmured to Sorka. “C’mon, love, we’ve got surgery in five minutes.”
With backward glances at the, circles of mottled eggs, the two apprentices reluctantly went back to work. As they crossed one of the alleys, they had a clear view of the donks slowly moving the shuttle Moth into takeoff position.
“D’you think they’ll make it?” Sorka asked Sean.
“They’ve been busy enough,” he replied sourly. Neither Nabhi Nabol nor Bart Lemos had made himself popular since the sudden rise to charterer rank. “Still, I wouldn’t be in their shoes for anything!”
She giggled. “Spacer Yvonne. You’ve never told me, Sean, did that help you on the drop?”
He gave her face a long and searching look, a light smile tugging his lips. Then he put his arm about her and hauled her into his side. “All I could think about was proving to you I wasn’t scared. But, by Jays, I was!” Then his expression changed and he halted, turning her roughly to him, both hands feeling across her stomach and pulling the bulky shipsuit taut across her body. He glared accusingly at her. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re pregnant?”
“Well, it’s only just been confirmed,” she said defiantly.
“Does everyone else know but me?” He was furious with her; for the first time in their years together, he was mad at her. His eyes were flashing and his hands rested hard across her thickening waistline.
“No one knows except the doctor, and he doesn’t have to ground me for another three months.” She pulled defensively at one hand to make him release her. “But there’s Killarney and I know you think about it . . .”
“Your mother knows?”
“When do I have a chance to see her? She’s minding half of Landing’s babies, as well as my latest brother. You’re the only other one who knows.”
“Sometimes you baffle me, Sorka,” Sean said, his anger abating. He shook his head. “Why wait to tell me? Killarney’s a long way off in our future now. We’re committed here. I thought you understood that.” He put both hands on her shoulders and gave her a stern shake. “I’ve wanted to be the father of your children. I want you to have only mine. I want it to be now, too, Sorka love, but I didn’t think I had the right to ask you to bring a child into the world the way it is.” His voice fell into the special tender tone he always used when they were making love.
“No, it’s the best time to have a child. Something for both of us to have,” she said. She did not add “in case,” but he knew what she was thinking and tightened his grip on her. His eyes compelled hers to look at him. The fury had been replaced by resolution.
“Immediately after surgery, we’re going before Cherry Duff. This is going to be a two-parent child, or my name’s not Sean Connell!”
Sorka burst out laughing and did not stop until they reached the surgery shed.
Ongola had ended up as arbiter on the reconditioning of the space shuttle Moth. Nabhi Nabol had been driving the refit crew demented, interrupting them at critical moments of repair, demanding to know if that circuit or this segment of hull had been checked. Despite the fact that he had a good working knowledge of the complexities of a shuttle, he delayed more than he assisted. The shuttle Mayfly, lying next to the Moth, had been sectioned off into offices for Ongola, Fulmar, and Nabhi, with a half-dozen comm lines so that Ongola could handle other commitments while on hand at the shuttle. His office was festooned with probe pics and survey maps, as well as with the various launch windows open to Nabhi. Nabhi would often come in and stand broodingly staring at the orbits, picking at his lower lip. Ongola ignored him.
The basic condition of the Moth had been surprisingly good: there had been practically no perishing of interior circuits or lines. But everything had to be double-checked. In that Ongola agreed with. Nabhi. It put quite a burden on Fulmar’s engineering team, but that was not where he disagreed with the autocratic Nabhi.
“I wouldn’t care what he asked me to do,” Fulmar told Ongola, “if he’d only ask politely. You’d think he was doing me a favor. Are you sure he’s as good a driver as he thinks he is?”
“He is good,” Ongola reluctantly admitted.
“I’d’ve preferred the mission in Bonneau’s hands,” Fulmar replied, shaking his head sadly. “But with that big stake, kids and all, I can’t fault his refusal. It’s just that—” He broke off, raising his big, work-stained hands in a helpless gesture.
“The mission has got to succeed, Fulmar,” Ongola said, giving the man an encouraging clout on the shoulder. “And you’re the best man to see that it does.”
In the thirteenth week after Threadfall, the pattern suddenly shifted. As the squadrons reached the projected site, which was mainly over unoccupied lands, only the top of the squadron saw the leading edge. It was well north of their position: the gray shimmering stain on the horizon was all too easily identified.
“Hell and damnation!” Theo Force cried, ramming a call through to Ongola at Landing. “The damned stuff’s shifted north, Zi. We’ll need reinforcements.”
“Give me the coordinates,” Ongola said, issuing crisp orders and gesturing, to Jake to get in touch with Dieter or Boris. “Go for it. We’ll scramble another squadron or two to help. I’ll alert Drake.”