Hello again. I'm back with another chapter to the Fire in the Sky, and, do to suggestion, a bit of reader response. For various reasons, it has taken me several months to finish this, mostly due to the fact that I just got over a serious bout of writer's block. It also took me roughly three weeks to find out what the name of the Weyrleader of Ista was (G'dened). I also took a good deal of time to refine the previous chapters, (prior to this post the typos and mistakes in all of the previous chapters should now be fixed).
On a further note, at post, and not counting the introduction and questions, this chapter had 5000+ words, a personal record for me and a reflection of the amount of effort I put into making this chapter. Most of the previous chapters only had about 3000 to 3500.
For anyone wondering where this story will end, I have decided that there are only two chapters left to go. I won't spoil anything, so I'll leave it at that. Also, I have decided to do a sequel once this is done. Although I may wait after summer is over to start. I won't get into details there either.
And now for the responses to questions that have been asked recently. For starters, this is Not, I repeat, NOT, Battlestar Galactica/Pern Xover. I am guessing that the place that came from is the excessive use of the word "frack," also used in the BSG Series. I used the term here in place of a certain four-letter word that would have gotten this story stuck in the M Category where none would have seen it. Other than for similar circumstances in both BSG and my story(i.e. massive Space battles between Capital Ships; A fleet on the run), all similarities end there.
dragon shadows: At where the story is, for any of my OCs impressing, my bet is on the fact you may have to wait for said sequel, the way the story is going right now. To be truthful, I have thought about it, but it's way up in the air. as for your second question: Lageth just lost twenty of his brothers and sisters in an titanic explosion. How would you feel?
Cat in a box: A Space Crafthall? I haven't thought of that. Maybe Anne has. I don't think I'm going to make any canonical changes yet.
Mayhem21: A language rift was one of the things I had thought about for a while. To be on the safe side, I have only presened it with only relatively minor shifts comparatively in opposing dialects, as you will later see in this chapter.
Allyrian: Sci-Fi and technobabble have always been my specialties.
blackpanzer: I've put it off way too long, you'll soon see what Stiletto Starfighters can do in relation to dragons.
Green Charmer: I felt like putting a gun to my head and shooting myself when I first started reading the Rowan books. The similarities between the T'Hranii an the aliens in those books were obvious. Bu the T'Hranii are not those aliens, they are very much my own creation.
Cathrl: Skye is seventeen years old going on eighteen. Falcanar is almost fifty. The personnel and officers in the CIC (aka the Bridge) all do as they are ordered. The personnel on the Sargasso are more used to working with other Naval officers and/or personnel, not Air Force officers like Skye. Skye is technically a senior officer, heading an entire starfighter battalion. About his rank, He is a Colonel, an officer's rank, at the same time holding the title of "Wing Commander,"(no pun to other well-known Sci-fi show intended) being said commander of said fighter battalion, and is sometimes referred to loosely by those who closely know him as "Commander." I used "Captain" once by mistake in the second chapter, and the update I mentioned earlier should nix it, if it hasn't already. I apologize for any confusion I may have caused.
The Sithspawn: By "fallout", I'm guessing you mean "radioactive fallout." If my understanding of physics is accurate, antimatter explosions produce no secondary radiation, only straight kinetic energy in the form of heat and light. about how the personnel on the Monolith reacting to an extremely enraged and po'ed dragon, you're about to find out.
Bigfoot II: I know, honestly, I didn't think Hawkins would pull it off either.
And enough of me blabbering, let's get on with the story!
NOTE: The Dragonriders of Pern is copywrited to Anee Mccaffrey, all OCs are mine however.
DESCENT
They felt pain, anger, a sense of fear; they felt wronged somehow, as if someone or something had deliberately harmed them.
The remaining two Hive Minds felt the sudden, crippling loss of their brother Hive Mind, which, under the most bizarre of circumstances, had been snatched beyond. But in its final dying act, it at least slew the ones who had killed it. The bastards did not deserve a reunion with their planet.
The humans, damn them, damn them all to beyond. They were the most horrific, viral excuses for life The T'Hranii race had ever encountered. They had to be exterminated at all costs, before they destroyed this galaxy, before they had a chance to spread their diseased version of existence. This group of humans, they were now the worst of them all.
The Hive Minds determined that the space battle was completely lost; a small number of the humans had slipped aboard the freighter/battleship and were in the process of manning it. The guiding hand from them to the freighter/battleship would be enough to send the remaining two Hive Minds to the beyond themselves, unless they retreated immediately.
And as the remaining two minds began to contemplate their next course of action, they then realized that at this point, they had no recourse.
They had placed all of their resources in this gambit, failure meant death. And that was exactly what they had done, failed. They had failed to avenge their slain sisters and brothers, their brother Hive Mind that had just passed. They had failed even in the task of killing a few errant humans.
But then hey realized something, something that was unthinkable, even in the most dire of conditions. Something that would not only wipe out the humans on the world below, but the ones that were certainly nearby, waiting. Not to mention that freighter/battleship that had caused it so much grief.
The course of action was Suicide.
But not suicide exactly, more like 'mutually assured destruction'. It was certainly simple enough. A simple, fully charged shot with their main energy weapon, point-blank while in the atmosphere, directly at the planet, and slay, as the Minds had previously put it earlier, 'slay two birds with one stone. Or energy burst. The resulting blast at the very least would completely strip the planet of its crust; if not completely destroy it outright.
And the remaining Hive Minds decided that the seething pool of plasma and ionized gases that was now the last stand of their brother would be an appropriate place to end it all.
They recalled their previously launched fighters, the battle in space in complete favor of the humans, all save for one. They trusted the remaining two of their tiny drone fighters, the ones that had been deployed against the boarding party of humans now on the freighter/battleship, with a separate mission, one that would take them far from the star system called Rukbat.
The Hive Minds, now ensconced back in their battlecruiser, set course for the surface of the world below, to the grave site of their slain brother.
To pay one final respect.
2nd Fleet, 1131 hours, aboard the Monolith
Lieutenant Trey Parker had begun to prepare for the worst as the half dozen Crosseye attack craft sped towards their motley fleet of fighters and boarding shuttles. Had their Marine charges been just a few moments slower in popping the giant Nanodoor that was all that separated them from hell and reasonable safety- well, he wasn't going to go there.
They had ditched their 'board and cover' plan when the six Crosseyes showed up. That plan became outdated pretty damned quick for a high-risk mission that this was turning out to be, Parker thought. Nor would this go well if they all died before they could complete their mission in the recovery and capture of the Monolith. Recovery, Trey thought, was one thing. Capture was another altogether. The strangely short Intel report on the Monolith failed to indicate the presence of any dormant security systems that would activate, in the event of intrusion.
An intrusion like the one I'm part of, Parker then thought as he guided his Stiletto through the hole.
The Shracs went through first into the hole in the side of the Monolith, vanishing into the unlit darkness, only to be followed in by five of the six members of the Sphinx squadron, then by his own squadron-
Five out of six?
Sure enough, the glory-whore Mathias Hawkins could never back down from any challenge, no matter how high the odds were stacked against him. Him, solo, in a fricking land raiding bomber, which was never even designed to engage a sentry drone, against six of the most agile motherfracking Crosseye fighters Parker had ever seen.
He could get himself killed for all he cared now, Trey thought. One less bullet for someone to waste when the time comes for all of us.
And then he defied the Odds, the whole pie-box stack of them, by taking out four of the Crosseye bastards, no less. What a Goddamn showoff, Trey thought as he and his fellow Image Squadron fliers touched down with the marine contingent.
He noted that from within the vast chamber that was the interior of this part of the ship, the Marine hacker had enough sense to engage the airlock field. It flickered dimly in the darkness over the hole through which they had just passed. And then Trey noticed something else in the gloom. Their surroundings around the floor were surrounded by movement, from strange objects or groups of objects.
What the hell is this, some kind of engine room? Engines had moving parts, some of them at least. What kind of cargo was this hellhole ship hauling?
Hawkins, his damaged, shot-up bomber, was the very last craft to enter the hold, setting down as the other craft popped their hatches. The Shracs blew their side doors as squads of marines in combat gear rushed out, autorifles at the ready. The hatches on the fighter craft and bombers swung up, and the pilots pulled themselves out, several of them armed with the autorifles that were in all of the survival kits in the cockpits.
The pilots of the Sphinx squadron and Lt. Parker rushed to the trashed and totaled bomber of their wingleader, which now looked as if it had taken a capital ship missile up an exhaust port.
As Parker took a closer look at the wreck, he was suddenly baffled as to how the thing even touched down so gently on the deck. Most of the heavy ceramic armor had sloughed off in the engagement. In some places the skin was shot clear through by plasma fire. Only one of the three engines was still functioning, the second resembling Delphian Swiss, and the third was missing altogether, ripped clean out of its mount in the engagement, the fuel injectors dangling free and dripping fuel. The cockpit canopy was shattered on one side, a neat hole punched through it cleanly. The dreaded blue smoke, signature of crispitoed circuit boards, filled the interior, filtering out of the jagged cracks and holes.
Together, they somehow wrenched the wrenched the canopy open, suddenly releasing a small cloud of smoke from shorted circuits. Hawkins' limp form was unbuckled from his seat, then hauled onto the floor by a particularly buffed Sphinx Squadron pilot.
"He's alive, but barely," the pilot that hauled him out said as he checked Hawkins' pulse and breathing. "He'll live."
"Gee, ya think? He's suicidal," Parker said. Then he suddenly re-realized he was surrounded by subtle movement in the black. "Hey someone give me a spot-" He pointed through the semidarkness to a nearby marine hunched at a Comm. Console in a Shrac. "Hey you, lemme see your spotbeam."
"Sure," the marine grunted, apparently not used to taking orders from anyone but his squad officer. He unclamped the beam on his vest and tossed it out the door to Parker, who nimbly caught it. "Any luck getting a line out to the Sargasso?" He asked.
"No, shielding round this bucket's scrambling our stuff." The Marine replied.
Parker shrugged. So much for a 'hey, we're still alive', he thought. He took the marine's spotbeam, set it to its maximum brightness, aimed it straight up, and clicked it on.
The light only reached about thirty meters, but what Parker saw startled him.
In the chamber, hundreds upon hundreds of enormous, egg-shaped spheroids hung in massive belts from the ceiling far above, in enormous loops that seemed to indicate that every loop was one long strand of spheroids. Each of the 'eggs' were dull gunmetal gray, with silver, rail-like structures running end to end. Their surface was notched and grooved in a crosshatch pattern, making them all look like giant globular breadbaskets.
Parker instantly knew what they were, albeit hard to believe. Plasma Shells.
They were gigantic plasma shells, fired semiautomatically by the Monolith's deck guns. Parker had never seen shells of that kind of caliber, or even that big. Each of the enormous shells was almost as big as his Stiletto, and even in the half-grav they had to weigh over a ton apiece.
A cargo bay full of artillery shells? This wasn't a cargo bay. It was the fracking munitions magazine.
"Cheerist, those are big bullets," one of the marines stated.
"And someone had the money to mass produce them?" Another Marine. Apparently they had noticed the shells too, as well as everyone else still in the bay. Parker noticed that the interior airlock had been opened, letting the marine parties advance to the central control area.
Vegans don't use money, you blinding idiot," Yet another wisecracker.
"Where's Major Crowell?" Parker asked. The nearer marine turned and replied. "Crowell's leading Alpha team to the Bridge on this heap." He glanced at his wristchrono. "Beta should be in the engine room by now-"
It hit all of them at that moment.
A massive, deafening, yet seemingly mournful roar from seemingly from nowhere filled the entire chamber, reverberating off the walls and floor. The sound seemed to pierce into Parker's very soul, ringing of pain and sadness. Pilots and Marine commandos scrambled for weapons, the spotlights of the Shracs blinked on, peering into the darkness.
"Fracking hell, what was that?" Someone shouted.
Parker scrambled under a Stiletto, scavenged autorifle in hand, expecting anything. Others did the same, jumping into Shracs or scrambling under cover, daring not to expose themselves one bit to any potential threat. Parker, crouched against the wheelwell of one of the Shracs, was cautious enough to peek out from underneath to try to see what made the sound. He became braver, distinctly hearing the radio chatter of his fellow pilots and Marines in hist Comm mike as he inched his way up to the entry hatch on the side of the Shrac. And that was then when he saw the creature.
Or, more precisely its eyes, which seemed to be swirling and glowing a deep red. It seemed to sway in the darkness, no doubt clutched to one of the shells. He could just barely make out a silhouette of the creature, which suggested, even despite being up in the rafters, that it was very big. It was, had to be, some kind of demon, some kind of-
Parker simply snapped, panic and impulsiveness overriding his stone-hard composure. He hurled himself across open ground towards the open hatch of another Nearby Shrac scaring the hell out of the same marine who had loaned him a spot, jumping through, all the while scrambling for the Comm mike on his neck.
"Alpha Team, Beta Team, emergency at the insertion point, I repeat, there's an intruder in the-"Was all Parker could get out before the creature swept down from its perch high above.
Stunned pilots and shocked Marines scrambled for their autorifles and out of the way as the massive, bronze-hued creature swooped down from above and slammed into the deck, smashing a Stiletto flat and sweeping another out of the way and sending the Shrac holding Lieutenant Parker and the Marine smashing through the air, only to land on its side, starboard wing sheared off moments later in the low grav. Its tail (it did indeed have a tail) lashed out at two more Stilettos, destroying both as they crumpled together in a twisted and gnarled heap. The Marines and fighter pilots alike scrambled away from the chaos, back into the darkness.
Autrorifle fire rained out, reverberating off the walls as the shooter missed his target as it lifted off again, tracers flaring off into the darkness. Another rifle, then a whole cacophony as both remaining squads of Marines in the hold trained their sights. A concussive blast as a high-explosive fragger went off on the far side of the cargo hold, causing the ears of anyone nearby to ring deafeningly.
The creature seemed oblivious to the chaos it was creating as it landed again, swiping another Shrac aside and sending it into the bulkhead wall, where it promptly exploded upon impact, sending out incinerating hunks of flaming material every direction. One of the destroyed Stilettos suddenly exploded, showering the surrounding area in flaming debris while lighting up the entire chamber with eerie orange light. The creature finally seemed to notice the utter chaos around it, and after a pause, and an enormous roar, launched itself back into the darkness.
The remaining humans in the Bay, those still sane enough to take action, scrambled for the interior airlock, hell-bent on escaping the war zone as several of the Marines lay covering fire in random patterns into the darkness. And with environmental and fire suppression systems still offline, every molecule of oxygen was being consumed by the enormous inferno that was now spreading across the floor of the Bay, consuming the leaking aviation fuel. Hawkins, still unconscious, was carried sprawled on one of the Marines' backs, blissfully unaware of the Hell that had befallen them.
They had also all forgotten Parker and the Marine, who was still in the trashed Shrac.
2nd Fleet, 1140 Hours, aboard the C.T.S. Sargasso
Skye knew, from the moment he saws the dazed look in Captain Falcanar's Eyes, after hearing the possibility of a colony on Rukbat 3, that he was a traitor.
But perhaps not in the literal sense, he thought. There was something definitely else going on here.
Ever since the moment he saw Falcanar look shocked and bewildered, as if finding out that a lost colony eons old still existed in the far reaches of known space was the worst possible thing that could happen, Skye some how knew that much about him.
But other things too, mainly the way he had been on edge about his past during their last briefing, the way he looked so grim during the speech less than an hour before. And now the way he was sweating plasma shells. He was nervous, for gods' sake. Even after finding a godsdamned colony long thought lost.
So what did he do? What else would Colonel Skye do? He kept his cool, even flashed a brief smiled when Falcanar asked him about his Second-in-Command's judgment (which Skye always trusted, if course). And now he was looking at the current situation play out in the Sargasso's CIC Room around the main holotable, counting the seconds and wondering when he was going to get some good news.
But with the current possible realization that Falcanar may not be letting on everything about himself, Skye would just have to let it play out. And pray for a miracle, he thought.
"With the Firecross gone, we're down to six ships," Falcanar spoke up. "Your boys, Colonel Skye, should be in the atmosphere of the planet by now."
Down to six ships. Minus one Sirius class Escort Destroyer, minus one hundred and forty personnel. Or maybe not.
Skye motioned back to the Comm. operator. "Ensign, radio the Luger Wingleader, Ask him if he confirmed escape pod launches from the Firecross before it was destroyed."
"Escape pods?" Falcanar looked up.
"The Firecross had a complement of thirty Mark III escape pods", Skye started. "It's logical to assume one or more launched before the Firecross was destroyed. If there were launches, then they probably touched down on the surface."
Falcanar's sweating more than plasma shells now, he's sweating torpedoes, Skye thought. I mention eecape pods and he starts looking like he was just handed a death sentence. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen very, very soon.
"You're going to radio your Bloodtail Squadron to search for pods?"
"I can't, by now they're in the atmosphere of the third planet. From this distance we couldn't get a signal to them if we tried. We'd have to wait until they finished their search for the Crosseye battlecruiser. But if there are pods, that's a few crewmen who didn't die today."
Won't matter too much anyway. A lot more are about to die.
"Sir," the Comm. operator called to Falcanar. "The Luger Wingleader reported that there were at least three escape pods launched from the Firecross during the attack," Skye briefly wondered if Falcanar was really in on whatever was about to go down, or was simply party to it. "He requests orders to proceed."
Or else we're all going to die out here.
Skye walked over to the Comm. Station, positioning himself next to the operator. "Inform Lieutenant Traska and his men to continue RTB. What about the Away Team on the Monolith?"
"Still no word from them. Won't be either, not until they reactivate the Communications Array aboard it."
We'll never hear from the away parties. At least most of the people in this room won't.
Skye glanced back at Falcanar, who still stood stoically by the central holotable. He noted that Falcanar seemed to be whispering to himself. He's not whispering you idiot. He's praying, Skye realized.
Confirmation.
Shit was about to go down. Big time.
And then Skye turned back to the Comm. Operator whom he had already judged. "Excuse me, could you do me one last favor?" He asked the man.
"What is it?" The operator had to be the most sincere and innocent-faced man in the entire room. He was the one who Skye judged when exactly everything went down. He was also to one Skye respected the most, for keeping such a damned good poker face on his pretty head.
Because he had been listening to his Real boss's orders the entire time on his headset, on low volume.
The thing about Skye: His senses at least five times better than anyone else his age, especially his hearing. Regardless of how subtle or muffled the sound may be. His reflexes were at least three times as fast as that of a normal human. If someone drew a gun on Skye, there was already a bullet passing through their own head. And he was stronger and faster as well, breaking sprint and weightlifting records long thought to be set in diamond-coated granite.
"I would like you to do me a favor," Skye started. I would like you to say hello to Judas the Great Traitor when you get to the 9th level of Hell you mutinous bastard," Skye spoke with perfect calmness.
All the Comm. Operator could do was raise an eyebrow in mock surprise, but before he could react, before even Colonel Skye himself could react, it sounded across the Sargasso cranked up to an ear-splitting volume and spoken by a familiar voice:
"Okay boys, sorry for the delays, BUT LET'S DO THIS!"
F'nor and Canth glided through the air over Ista Island, taking in, or trying to, all of the damage below.
Much, if not all of, the entire southern coast of Ista had been decimated. Trees and anything else more than a fraction of a dragonlength above the ground had been knocked over, uprooted, and flattened for kilometers inland, plus-hurricane force winds ripping inward from sea. Buildings closest to the sea were simply gone; those further inland had been ripped from their foundations like child's toys and blown about.
But that was not the worst of it all. It had happened late in the night here in Ista, the first rays of sunlight only just now revealing the true nature of the catastrophe. Those that had not been fortunate enough to have died instantly, either from searing heat, projectile force or crushed under their houses, were very likely still down there, pulling themselves from the wreckage, if they hadn't already died.
And now they were en route to what was left of Ista Weyr. The weyr had been lucky, it had survived relatively intact. But both surface structures and underground passages and weyr had collapsed in places. And the lowermost portions had been breached by the ocean and were now flooding.
First all of the mess that happened on the Yoko. His brother, Weyrleader F'lar, injured, along with his dragon Mnementh, who had a broken wing. Masterharper Sebell, out cold, possibly comatose. One Lord Holder paralyzed. All of them injured in the same blast that lit up the skies above Pern in a brilliant showing of multicolored light.
And now this. First an explosion, then Ista flattened from wind and heat and waves, then earthquakes, which were now themselves spreading across Pern, as if their very planet was being attacked, which, in a sense, was true.
The earthquakes had started right after the "incident," along the vast southern coasts of the Southern Continent. They spread out from the shores, violent, region-wide tremors, spreading far inland. Probably even as far as the Southern Mountain Ranges.
It was as if it was all accelerating out of control, faster than anyone or anything could put a stop to.
A message in the night from Weyrwoman Lessa had informed him of what had happened aboard the Yoko, as well as the destruction caused to the Yoko by the "Vessel" He and his dragon Canth were on their way to Xanadu Weyrhold in the Southern Continent to speak to his Nephew F'lessan about using his telescope to view the Vessels when they had felt the sudden loss of an entire wing of dragons, F'nor and Canth were hit so hard it nearly paralyzed Canth with grief. Shortly after F'nor managed to calm his dragon, they received word of the devastation wreaked at Ista. And after another jump between here they were, seeing firsthand the ruins of the island, and what had one been one of the nicest places on the Northern Continent.
You are worried F'nor. That is something that you rarely are.
I have reason to be worried, F'nor replied to his dragon, Canth. Our world is in danger, from an enemy I have yet to even see. It, they, have caused so much damage already. They have destroyed our homes, slain innocents...
You will find a way to stop this new threat; I have confidence in you, in us. Even Thread fears dragons.
I don't think whoever or whatever this is fears us, or anyone for that matter. Nor do I think they are mindless like Thread. This, and he gestured at the carnage below their wings, was premeditated, by a foe that can think. I am certain of it.
Canth seemed to ponder something for a moment before speaking again. You are right F'nor, and that makes them a far greater threat to Pern than thread. They can match our own thought, or even out-think us. Anyone for that matter, that they may deem a threat to themselves. And that is why we, Human and Dragonkind, must stop them.
F'nor was taken aback what his dragon had said. Canth had never said anything that in-depth. It was as if he had changed him somehow, as if he found resolve.
But that didn't matter, because he believed Canth. They would find a way to stop these "Vessels," or "Reddish ships" whatever they are.
F'nor, we are approaching the Weyr now, Canth said.
Ista Weyr, by some roll of good fortune, had miraculously survived, narrowly escaping being ravaged by whatever had ripped across the Island. Mostly due to its outer volcanic shell and seawall on the seaward side of the Weyr, it had fared much better than the surrounding areas.
And as F'nor and Canth descended towards the Weyr bowl, they could see that most, if not all of, the dragonriders were gone. Countless empty weyrs lay empty and vacant. The few dragons they could see were apparently getting ready for a Fall. F'nor remembered that a fall was expected that day to pass over Ista.
Most of the other dragonriders are out on the island, helping the survivors. Liteth comes.
A brown dragon had just come out of between in the Weyr Bowl, gliding in and landing. His rider quickly dismounted and hopped off, landing at a run and jogging over to where F'nor and Canth had just themselves touched down. As F'nor dismounted himself, the brownrider removed his flying goggles and introduced himself.
I am Wingleader T'reas, and my brown Liteth. Weyrleader G'dened told me you were coming."
"Where is G'dened now?" F'nor asked. He had expected the Weyrleader to greet him in person.
"The Weyrleader is out over the southern coast, preparing for threadfall. He sent me to greet you and brief you on the status of the Island right now."
"I flew over part of it, I already know."
"Then you should also know that all of the dragons not needed for this fall were dispatched to help with search and rescue. Not to mention that we have Wings from Igen and Fort also coming to help-"
F'nor they're' hurting, they're being attacked!
And then F'nor, his Canth, and every dragon and rider in Ista and every other Weyr on Pern were hit with another massive wave of grief as only known when multiple dragons die at once.
Scraping…
That was right, scraping…
The sound of scraping, no, digging.
Was he underground? No, he was under his house, or what was left of it. Was he dead? In between finally? No, that wasn't possible, he could still think, something you had a hard time doing in between, or so he heard. He could also still feel, specifically the pain in his legs and the pressure of the weight above him. All you felt while between was mind-numbing cold. Or so he heard.
And then Terellan felt movement, the ruins above him were moving. And he also heard sound, no, voices, as if off in the distance.
They were shouting, he was certain of that. And they were shouting at each other, there was more than one voice. He didn't recognize him mother or father's voice or even Maranan's. He wondered if they were alright. They must have been worried sick about him.
The ruined roof of his house above him was moving again. And now he felt the pain and pressure in them relieved, though his left foot continued to throb. He could move a little now, and he could now make out the voices as speech, but for some strange reason, couldn't recognize the words.
Were they there to save him? Had they brought his mom and dad and brother? Were they helping? So many questions flooded through his mind.
As the pressure receded all at once from above him, Terellan, for a brief instant, couldn't move. He must have been entombed for longer than he had previously thought. Strong arms wrapped around him, lifting him up and carrying him away…
"Hey Captain Diet, this kid over … he's alive!"
"He's sure messed up though!"
"Lay him down … and we'll … him. Leroy, get a Med Kit over here!"
"He is? … …forty CC's of … "
"Oh ... he's going into shock…"
"I said get this kid …"
"Least' he didn't end up like … … over there."
"… …shut the … up Leroy before I shoot you myself…!"
That was all Terellan heard as he drifted off into the darkness…
Weyrleader G'dened thought, This has been a bad day, but it is about to get worse.
For a while, right after Ista Island was turned upside down, he had been torn between his duty to fight Thread, and his duty to protect the people of Pern. But he had to fight the Threadfall. Or more people on Ista would die. Half the Weyr mobilized to help with the rescue efforts on the island, the other half, nearly two hundred strong, went between to fight the dreaded spores that were to fall on the Island and as the Fall marched across it.
They had formed up off the southern coast, in anticipation of the approaching fall, assembling into formation. Twelve Wings, as many dragons to go around evenly as possible. But it wasn't the much lower than normal numbers that concerned him. It was the fact that something out there, the site where their friends had died, something unlike anything on Pern lurked. The site was still marked, as shown by the utter lack of clouds on an otherwise cloudy day, and by how the waters still seethed and boiled with strange energies.
They continued to approach the area, expecting to see Thread falling from above. They expected to fight thread that day, and honor their lost brothers.
Instead what they got was quite different.
It had just been sitting there, floating over the waters of southern Ista, more or less where the Fall had begun. G'dened recognized it in an instant: the Second Vessel.
And it was utterly huge. It had to be at least several hundred dragonlengths in length. It had a long, tapered appearance like a cone, tapering to a point from a semi-bulbous body. Its six "wings" seemed to glint with rage and anger, although the Weyrleader's rational mind told him it was sunlight. Its blood-colored skin seemed artificial and mottled, as if great chunks of bulkhead had been attached in odd places. It was covered with the same protrusions he had seen in the old images AIVAS had shown, of "gun emplacements" and "weapon batteries."
And suddenly those "guns" began to turn towards the approaching wings. And then everything went mad.
As the flashes began and dragons died in agony, G'dened saw a half-dozen grayish blurs streak from the Sun towards the Vessel, the last things he ever saw.
Sorry, a little bit of editing in progress here.
Also, I'm not dead. :D